Problem:¶
Seismic data is collected using reflection seismology, or seismic reflection. The method requires a controlled seismic source of energy, such as compressed air or a seismic vibrator, and sensors record the reflection from rock interfaces within the subsurface. The recorded data is then processed to create a 3D view of earth’s interior. Reflection seismology is similar to X-ray, sonar and echolocation.
A seismic image is produced from imaging the reflection coming from rock boundaries. The seismic image shows the boundaries between different rock types. In theory, the strength of reflection is directly proportional to the difference in the physical properties on either sides of the interface. While seismic images show rock boundaries, they don't say much about the rock themselves; some rocks are easy to identify while some are difficult.
There are several areas of the world where there are vast quantities of salt in the subsurface. One of the challenges of seismic imaging is to identify the part of subsurface which is salt. Salt has characteristics that makes it both simple and hard to identify. Salt density is usually 2.14 g/cc which is lower than most surrounding rocks. The seismic velocity of salt is 4.5 km/sec, which is usually faster than its surrounding rocks. This difference creates a sharp reflection at the salt-sediment interface. Usually salt is an amorphous rock without much internal structure. This means that there is typically not much reflectivity inside the salt, unless there are sediments trapped inside it. The unusually high seismic velocity of salt can create problems with seismic imaging.
Data¶
The data is a set of images chosen at various locations chosen at random in the subsurface. The images are 101 x 101 pixels and each pixel is classified as either salt or sediment. In addition to the seismic images, the depth of the imaged location is provided for each image. The goal of the competition is to segment regions that contain salt.
Source:¶
https://www.kaggle.com/c/tgs-salt-identification-challenge
Note:¶
Accept the terms and download data from the above link
Aim:¶
In this, you are asked to segment salt deposits beneath the Earth’s surface. Given a set of seismic images that are 101 x 101 pixels each and each pixel we need to classify as either salt or sediment. Our goal is to segment regions that contain salt. A seismic image is produced from imaging the reflection coming from rock boundaries. The seismic image shows the boundaries between different rock types.
Broad Steps:¶
- Download the dataset
- Upload to Drive
- Import from drive to colab
- Load the images and create training data.
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import tensorflow as tf
import csv
import numpy as np
from PIL import Image
import pandas as pd
from keras import Model
from keras.applications.mobilenet import MobileNet, preprocess_input
from keras.callbacks import ModelCheckpoint, EarlyStopping, ReduceLROnPlateau, Callback
from keras.layers import Conv2D, Reshape
from keras.utils import Sequence
from keras.backend import epsilon
import matplotlib.image as mpimg
%matplotlib inline
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#Mount drive
from google.colab import drive
drive.mount('/content/drive/')
Go to this URL in a browser: https://accounts.google.com/o/oauth2/auth?client_id=947318989803-6bn6qk8qdgf4n4g3pfee6491hc0brc4i.apps.googleusercontent.com&redirect_uri=urn%3aietf%3awg%3aoauth%3a2.0%3aoob&response_type=code&scope=email%20https%3a%2f%2fwww.googleapis.com%2fauth%2fdocs.test%20https%3a%2f%2fwww.googleapis.com%2fauth%2fdrive%20https%3a%2f%2fwww.googleapis.com%2fauth%2fdrive.photos.readonly%20https%3a%2f%2fwww.googleapis.com%2fauth%2fpeopleapi.readonly Enter your authorization code: ·········· Mounted at /content/drive/
1.Set your project path where you have your data and related files for this lab.¶
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import os
os.chdir('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab')
2. Set the necessary parameters¶
Setup¶
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im_width = 128 #width of your train image
im_height = 128 #hight of your train image
project_path = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/'
path_train = project_path + 'train/' #Path for your train data
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3. Make directory for train data at in your project/lab folder.¶
Hint - use !mkdir function.
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!mkdir train
4. Extract your train images to the train directory you have just created above.¶
train.zip and test.zip files available at your google drive/local system.
As a good practice - Upload or copy the data at your project path folder.
Make sure you are providing the right project_path.
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#For simplicity we have added the required code here.
from zipfile import ZipFile
with ZipFile(project_path + 'train.zip', 'r') as zf:
zf.extractall('train/')
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#The train file have both images and masks with the same names_ids.
5. Get the list of names of images and masks and name the list imagelist and masklist.¶
Hint - Use os.listdir() funtions.
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imagelist = []
masklist = []
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imagelist = os.listdir(path = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/images')
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masklist = os.listdir(path = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/masks')
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#Test your list names by printing some of the names as given below.
imagelist[0:9]
Out[0]:
['8d08955cdf.png', 'e045664b46.png', '4989c6509e.png', 'fff4eb4941.png', '3a310860a3.png', '7a696bb878.png', '8d3ee9356b.png', '213e0a9f7b.png', '78f17697f2.png']
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masklist[0:9]
Out[0]:
['8d08955cdf.png', 'e045664b46.png', '4989c6509e.png', 'fff4eb4941.png', '3a310860a3.png', '7a696bb878.png', '8d3ee9356b.png', '213e0a9f7b.png', '78f17697f2.png']
6. Read and test your images and respective masks.¶
Hint -
import matplotlib.pyplot as plt
import cv2
plt.imshow(cv2.imread('path of image'))
plt.imshow(cv2.imread('path of mask'))
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import matplotlib.pyplot as plt
import cv2
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#plt.imshow(cv2.imread('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/images/8d08955cdf.png'))
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#plt.imshow(cv2.imread('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/masks/8d08955cdf.png'))
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print("First 5 images")
for i, file in enumerate(imagelist[0:5]):
plt.figure()
ipath = path_train+ "images/" + file
#print(fullpath)
#print(i, file)
img=cv2.imread(ipath)
plt.subplot(326)
plt.imshow(img)
First 5 images
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for i, file in enumerate(imagelist[0:5]):
plt.figure()
mpath = path_train+ "masks/" + file
img=mpimg.imread(mpath)
plt.subplot(325)
plt.imshow(img)
7. Create your training data.¶
Hints -
image_path = os.path.join(project_path +'path of your image directory' +n )
mask_path = os.path.join(project_path +'path of your mask directory'+n )
In [0]:
X = []
for i in (imagelist):
image_path = os.path.join(path_train + "images/" + i)
#print(image_path)
X.append(image_path)
len(X)
Out[0]:
4000
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Y = []
for i in (masklist):
image_path = os.path.join(path_train + "masks/" + i)
#print(image_path)
Y.append(image_path)
len(Y)
Out[0]:
4000
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print(X[0:1])
print(Y[0:1])
['/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/images/8d08955cdf.png'] ['/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/masks/8d08955cdf.png']
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plt.imshow(cv2.imread(X[1]))
Out[0]:
<matplotlib.image.AxesImage at 0x7f5f16720e10>
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X[1]
Out[0]:
'/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/train/images/e045664b46.png'
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plt.imshow(cv2.imread(Y[1]))
Out[0]:
<matplotlib.image.AxesImage at 0x7f5f166890f0>
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batch_images = np.zeros((len(X),im_width, im_height, 3), dtype=np.float32)
for i, f in enumerate(X):
img = Image.open(f) # Read image
img = img.resize((im_width, im_height)) # Resize image
img = img.convert('RGB')
batch_images[i] = preprocess_input(np.array(img, dtype=np.float32))
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batch_masks = np.zeros((len(Y),im_width, im_height, 3), dtype=np.float32)
for i, f in enumerate(Y):
img = Image.open(f) # Read image
img = img.resize((im_width, im_height)) # Resize image
img = img.convert('RGB')
batch_masks[i] = preprocess_input(np.array(img, dtype=np.float32))
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batch_images[1]
Out[0]:
array([[[-0.36470586, -0.36470586, -0.36470586],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
...,
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ],
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ],
[-0.3098039 , -0.3098039 , -0.3098039 ]],
[[-0.30196077, -0.30196077, -0.30196077],
[-0.23921567, -0.23921567, -0.23921567],
[-0.23921567, -0.23921567, -0.23921567],
...,
[-0.38039213, -0.38039213, -0.38039213],
[-0.38039213, -0.38039213, -0.38039213],
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ]],
[[-0.30196077, -0.30196077, -0.30196077],
[-0.23921567, -0.23921567, -0.23921567],
[-0.23921567, -0.23921567, -0.23921567],
...,
[-0.38039213, -0.38039213, -0.38039213],
[-0.38039213, -0.38039213, -0.38039213],
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ]],
...,
[[-0.34117645, -0.34117645, -0.34117645],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
...,
[-0.6 , -0.6 , -0.6 ],
[-0.6 , -0.6 , -0.6 ],
[-0.5921569 , -0.5921569 , -0.5921569 ]],
[[-0.34117645, -0.34117645, -0.34117645],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ],
...,
[-0.6 , -0.6 , -0.6 ],
[-0.6 , -0.6 , -0.6 ],
[-0.5921569 , -0.5921569 , -0.5921569 ]],
[[-0.372549 , -0.372549 , -0.372549 ],
[-0.27058822, -0.27058822, -0.27058822],
[-0.27058822, -0.27058822, -0.27058822],
...,
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ],
[-0.3333333 , -0.3333333 , -0.3333333 ],
[-0.2862745 , -0.2862745 , -0.2862745 ]]], dtype=float32)
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batch_masks[1]
Out[0]:
array([[[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]],
[[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]],
[[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]],
...,
[[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]],
[[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]],
[[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
[ 1., 1., 1.],
...,
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.],
[-1., -1., -1.]]], dtype=float32)
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plt.imshow(batch_images[1])
Clipping input data to the valid range for imshow with RGB data ([0..1] for floats or [0..255] for integers).
Out[0]:
<matplotlib.image.AxesImage at 0x7f5f165ee0f0>
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plt.imshow(batch_masks[1])
Clipping input data to the valid range for imshow with RGB data ([0..1] for floats or [0..255] for integers).
Out[0]:
<matplotlib.image.AxesImage at 0x7f5f1654ccf8>
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# Split train and valid
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from sklearn.model_selection import train_test_split
X_train, X_val, y_train, Y_val = train_test_split(batch_images,batch_masks, test_size = .30, random_state=00)
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print("shape of training data:" , X_train.shape, y_train.shape)
print("shape of Validation data:" , X_val.shape, Y_val.shape)
shape of training data: (2800, 128, 128, 3) (2800, 128, 128, 3) shape of Validation data: (1200, 128, 128, 3) (1200, 128, 128, 3)
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## Test your data whether it looks fine - Random check
# Check if training data looks all right
## Already checked before!
Not very sure why we are asked to split the images and masks into training and validation data. Have just followed the instruction without calrity as I am not sure how this data will be used further in this exercise. This assignment seem to end abrubtly.
Text generation using a RNN¶
Given a sequence of words from this data, train a model to predict the next word in the sequence. Longer sequences of text can be generated by calling the model repeatedly.
Mount your Google Drive
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#Already Mounted
Import Keras and other libraries¶
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from sklearn.utils import shuffle
import numpy as np
from keras.preprocessing.text import Tokenizer
from keras.models import Sequential, load_model
from keras.layers import LSTM, Dense, Dropout, Embedding, Masking, Bidirectional
from keras.optimizers import Adam
from keras import backend
Download data¶
Reference: Data is collected from http://www.gutenberg.org
For the lab purpose, you can load the dataset provided by Great Learning
Load the Oscar Wilde dataset¶
Store all the ".txt" file names in a list
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project_path = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/'
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from zipfile import ZipFile
with ZipFile(project_path + 'data.zip', 'r') as zf:
zf.extractall('nlp/')
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project_path
Out[0]:
'/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/'
In [0]:
filelist = []
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filelist = os.listdir(path = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/data')
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filelist
Out[0]:
['For Love of the King.txt', 'Salomé A tragedy in one act.txt', 'Impressions of America.txt', 'The Canterville Ghost.txt', 'A House of Pomegranates.txt', 'Miscellaneous Aphorisms_ The Soul of Man.txt', 'A Woman of No Importance a play.txt', 'Essays and Lectures.txt', 'The Happy Prince and other tales.txt', 'Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf.txt', 'Vera or, The Nihilists.txt', 'Lord Arthur Savile_s Crime.txt', 'Poems with the Ballad of Reading Gaol.txt', 'Selected poems of oscar wilde including The Ballad of Reading Gaol.txt', 'Charmides and Other Poems.txt', 'An Ideal Husband.txt', 'The Duchess of Padua.txt', 'Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous.txt', 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol.txt', 'Shorter Prose Pieces.txt', 'Children in Prison and Other Cruelties of Prison Life.txt', 'Reviews.txt', 'A Critic in Pall Mall.txt', 'De Profundis.txt', 'Miscellanies.txt', 'The Importance of Being Earnest.txt', 'Selected prose of oscar wilde with a Preface by Robert Ross.txt', 'The Soul of Man.txt', 'Lady Windermere_s Fan.txt', 'Intentions.txt', 'The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt']
Read the data¶
Read contents of every file from the list and append the text in a new list
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content = []
for i, file in enumerate(filelist):
#print(i, file)
filename = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/data/'+file
with open(filename, 'r') as f:
content = [line.strip() for line in f if line.strip()] #Removed the empty lines
f.close()
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content = []
bookranges = []
for file in filelist:
filename = '/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/data/'+file
text = open(filename, "r")
start = len(content)
content.append(text.read())
end = len(content)
bookranges.append({"start": start, "end": end, "name": file.rsplit("/", 1)[-1]})
text.close()
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len(content)
Out[0]:
31
In [0]:
content
Out[0]:
['\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, For Love of the King, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: For Love of the King\n a Burmese Masque\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: October 28, 2007 [eBook #23229]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF THE KING***\n\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the [1922] Methuen and Co./Jarrold and Sons edition by\nDavid Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\nFOR\nLOVE OF THE KING\n\n\nA BURMESE MASQUE\n\nBY\nOSCAR WILDE\n\nMETHUEN & CO. LTD.\n36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\nLONDON\n\n_First Published by Methuen & Co. Ltd. in 1922_\n\n_This Edition on handmade paper is limited to 1000 copies_\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\n\nThe very interesting and richly coloured masque or pantomimic play which\nis here printed in book form for the first time, was invented sometime in\n1894 or possibly a little earlier. It was written, not for publication,\nbut as a personal gift to the author\'s friend and friend of his family,\nMrs. Chan Toon, and was sent to her with the letter that follows and\nexplains its origin.\n\nMrs. Chan Toon, before her marriage to Mr. Chan Toon, a Burmese\ngentleman, nephew of the King of Burma and a barrister of the Middle\nTemple, was Miss Mabel Cosgrove, the daughter of Mr. Ernest Cosgrove of\nLancaster Gate, a friend of Sir William and Lady Wilde, and herself\nbrought up with Oscar and his brother Willie.\n\nFor a long while Mrs. Chan Toon, who after her husband\'s death became\nMrs. Woodhouse-Pearse, refused to permit the masque to be printed. The\nlate Robert Ross much wanted to include it in an edition of Wilde\'s\nworks, of which it now forms a part, but he could not obtain its owner\'s\nconsent. An arrangement, however, having been completed, the play is now\nmade public.\n\n TITE STREET, CHELSEA,\n _November_ 27, 1894\n\n _My dear Mrs. Chan Toon_,\n\n _I am greatly repentant being so long in acknowledging receipt of_\n "_Told on the Pagoda_." _I enjoyed reading the stories_, _and much\n admired their quaint and delicate charm_. _Burmah calls to me_.\n\n _Under another cover I am sending you a fairy play entitled_ "_For\n Love of the King_," _just for your own amusement_. _It is the outcome\n of long and luminous talks with your distinguished husband in the\n Temple and on the river_, _in the days when I was meditating writing a\n novel as beautiful and as intricate as a Persian praying-rug_. _I\n hope that I have caught the atmosphere_.\n\n _I should like to see it acted in your Garden House on some night when\n the sky is a sheet of violet and the stars like women\'s eyes_. _Alas_,\n _it is not likely_.\n\n _I am in the throes of a new comedy_. _I met a perfectly wonderful\n person the other day who unconsciously has irradiated my present with\n sinuous suggestion_: _a Swedish Baron_, _French in manner_, _Athenian\n in mind_, _and Oriental in morals_. _His society is a series of\n revelations_. . . .\n\n _I was at Oakley Street on Thursday_; _my mother tells me she sends\n you a letter nearly every week_.\n\n _Constance desires to be warmly remembered_, _while I_, _who am\n bathing my brow in the perfume of water-lilies_, _lay myself at the\n feet of you and yours_.\n\n _OSCAR WILDE_\n\n\n\n\nPRINCIPAL CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY\n\n\nKING MENG BENG (_Lord of a Thousand White Elephants_, _Countless\nUmbrellas and other attributes of greatness_).\n\nU. RAI GYAN THOO (_A Prime Minister_).\n\nSHAH MAH PHRU (_A Girl_, _half Italian_, _half Burmese_, _of dazzling\nbeauty_).\n\nDHAMMATHAT (_Legal Adviser to the Court_).\n\nHIP LOONG (_A Chinese Wizard of great repute_).\n\nMOUNG PHO MHIN (_Minister of Finance_).\n\nTWO ENVOYS FROM THE KING OF CEYLON.\n\nNOBLES, COURTIERS, SOOTHSAYERS, POONYGEES, DANCING GIRLS, BETEL-NUT\nCARRIERS, UMBRELLA BEARERS, FOLLOWERS, SERVANTS, SLAVES, amongst whom are\nseveral CHINESE but no INDIANS.\n\nTIME: _The Sixteenth Century_.\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n\nSCENE I\n\n\n_The palace of the_ KING OF BURMAH. _The scene is laid in the Hall of a\nHundred Doors_. _In the distance can be seen the moat_, _the waiting\nelephants_, _and the peacocks promenading proudly in the blinding\nsunshine of late afternoon_. _The scene discovers_ KING MENG BENG\n_seated on a raised cushion sewn with rubies_, _under a canopy supported\nby four attendants_, _motionless as bronze figures_. _By his side is a\nbetel-nut box_, _glittering with gems_. _On either side of him_, _but\nmuch lower down_, _are the_ TWO AMBASSADORS OF THE KING OF CEYLON,\n_bearers of the King of Ceylon\'s consent to the marriage of his only\ndaughter to Meng Beng in two years\' time_, _men of grave_, _majestic\nmien_, _clad in flowing robes almost monastic in their white simplicity_.\n_They smoke gravely at the invitation of_ MENG BENG.\n\n_Round about are grouped the courtiers_, _the poonygees_, _and the\nkneeling servants_, _while in the background wait the dancing girls_.\n_Banners_, _propelled with a measured rhythm_, _create an agreeable\nbreeze_. _On a great table of gold stand goblets of gold and heaped-up\nfruits_. _Everywhere will be observed the emblems of the Royal Peacock\nand the Sacred White Elephant_. _Burmese musical instruments sound an\nabrupt but charming discord_. _The poinsettias flower punctuates points\nof deepest colour from out of vases fashioned like the lotus_. _Orchids\nare everywhere_. _The indescribable scent of Burmah steals across the\nfootlights_. _The glow_, _the colour_, _the sun-swept vista sweeps\nacross the senses_. THE KING _claps his hands_. _The_ DANCING GIRLS,\n_at the signal_, _advance_. _They are clad in dresses made of fish\nscales_, _which are fastened with diamonds and pale emeralds_, _to\nimitate the upthrown spray on the crest of a wave_. _The dance\nconcluded_, _the_ CINGALESE AMBASSADORS _rise and prepare to take\nceremonious leave of_ THE KING, _who hands to them_, _through his_\nVIZIER, _his message to His Majesty of Ceylon_, _inscribed on palm leaves\nand enclosed in a bejewelled casket_.\n\n_Many flowery speeches pass_. _Exit_ (_L._), _walking backwards_.\n\nTHE KING _expresses a desire for rest before starting by the Moon of\nTaboung _{4} _for the Pagoda of Golden Flowers_.\n\n_Exit_ MENG BENG (_C._), _an alcove of satin hangings which commands a\nview of the great hall_.\n\n_The Crowd break up into groups_. U. RAI GYAN THOO _and_ MOUNG PHO MHIN\n_converse on the tendency of the King to interference in affairs of\nState_; _his extreme youth and delicacy of temperament_; _the pity that\nthe marriage is to be so long delayed_; _the necessity to find him some\ndistraction in the meantime_.\n\n_Suddenly the tom-toms sound loudly_. _There is much movement_. _The\nmoon rises over the sea_. _Torches flare as the attendants move to and\nfro in the gardens beyond_.\n\n_The White Elephant of the King_, _with its trappings of gold_, _is led\nto the entrance where_, _at a word_, _it sinks obediently to the ground_.\n\nTHE KING _appears_. _He has changed his gay apple-green dress to one of\nmore sombre hue_. _He enters the howdah_--_the elephant rises_--_the\nprocession starts_. _It consists of not fewer than two hundred persons_,\n_keeping in view of the audience until lost by a bend in the avenue_.\n\n\n\nSCENE II\n\n\nTHE PAGODA OF GOLDEN FLOWERS\n\nMidnight\n\n_Surrounded by Peepul-trees_, _the great Htee_, {6} _with its crown of a\nmyriad jewels_, _rises towards the violet_, _star-studded sky_, _its\ngolden bells tinkling in a soft night-wind_.\n\n_When the curtain rises_, _the circular platform is deserted_. _Statues\nof Buddha seated and recumbent fill the numberless niches in the wall_,\n_and before each burn long candles_; _heaped-up pink roses and japonica\non brass trays are lit from above by swinging coloured lamps_. _At\nintervals are stalls laden with fruit and cheroots_. _All is\nmysterious_, _solemn_, _beautiful_.\n\n_A deep Burmese gong tolls_. _People emerge from the four staircases\nthat lead up to the platform_. _Men_, _women_, _and children_, _all in\ngala attire_. _The young people conversing_, _gesticulating_, _smiling_.\n_The older people_, _more subdued_, _carry beads and votive offering to\nBuddha_. _Charming Burmese girls_, _with huge cigars_, _meet and greet\nhandsome Burmese men smoking cheroots and wearing flowers in their ears_.\n_Children play silently with coloured balls_. _In the corners_, _under\ncanopies_, _are seated fortune-tellers_, _busy casting horoscopes_. _It\nis a veritable riot of colour_, _with never a discordant note_.\n\n_Through the crowd_ THE KING _passes alone and unrecognised_, _and\ndisappears through double doors of heavily carved teak wood_. _He has\nhardly passed when_ MAH PHRU, _a very lovely girl_, _enters in distress_.\n_She whispers that she desires an audience of the King who has come\namongst them_. _The few who hear her shrug their shoulders_, _smile_,\n_and pass on_. _They are incredulous_. _She goes from group to group_,\n_but the people turn from her with disdain_. _Then the great doors\nopen_, _and_ THE KING _is seen_. _The girl throws herself_, _Oriental\nfashion_, _in his path_. _Her beauty and her pathos arrest his attention\nand he waves aside those who would interfere_. _She implores_ THE KING\'S\n_protection_. _She is willing to be his slave_. _He listens with deep\nattention_. _She explains that since her father\'s death she has been\ncontinuously persecuted by the village people on the double count of her\nItalian blood and her poverty_.\n\n_The girl invites him to come to her hut in the forest and verify what\nshe says_. _With a gesture he signifies that he will follow where she\nleads_. _She rises_. _The crowd gathers round_--_all are hushed to\nsilence_. THE KING, _as one entranced_, _puts aside all who would in any\nway interfere_. _The girl precedes him_, _going from the Pagoda towards\nthe night_. _When she reaches the great staircase_, _she beckons_,\n_Oriental fashion_, _with downward hand_. _The scene should_, _in\ngrouping and colour_, _make for rare beauty_.\n\n\n\nSCENE III\n\n\n_A humble dhunni-thatched hut_, _set amidst the whispering grandeur of\nthe jungle_, _with its mighty trees_, _its trackless paths_, _its\nindescribable silence_. _The curtain discovers_ MAH PHRU _and_ THE KING,\n_who expresses his amazement at the loneliness and the poverty of her\nlot_. _She explains that poverty is not what frightens her_, _but the\nenmity of those who live yonder_, _and who make it almost impossible for\nher to sell her cucumbers or her pineapples_. THE KING\'S _gaze never\nleaves the face or figure of the girl_. _He declares that he will\nprotect her_--_that he will build her a home here in the shadow of the\nloneliness around them_. _He has two years of an unfettered\nfreedom_--_for those years he can command his life_. _He loves her_, _he\ndesires her_--_they will find a Paradise together_. _The girl trembles\nwith joy_--_with fear_--_with surprise_. "And after two years?" _she\nasks_. "Death," _he answers_.\n\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n\nSCENE I\n\n\n_The jungle once more_. _Time_: _noonday_. _In place of the hut is a\nbuilding_, _half Burmese_, _half Italian villa_, _of white Chunam_, _with\ncurled roofs rising on roofs_, _gilded and adorned with spiral carvings\nand a myriad golden and jewel-encrusted bells_. _On the broad verandahs\nare thrown Eastern carpets_, _rugs_, _embroideries_.\n\n_The world is sun-soaked_. _The surrounding trees stand sentinel-like in\nthe burning light_. _Burmese servants squat motionless_, _smoking on the\nbroad white steps that lead from the house to the garden_. _The crows\ncroak drowsily at intervals_. _Parrots scream intermittently_. _The\nsound of a guitar playing a Venetian love-song can be heard coming from\nthe interior_. _Otherwise life apparently sleeps_. _Two elderly\nretainers break the silence_.\n\n"When will the Thakin tire of this?" _one asks the other in kindly\ncontempt_.\n\n"The end is already at hand. I read it at dawn to-day."\n\n"Whence will it come?"\n\n"I know not. It is written that one heart will break."\n\n"He will leave her?"\n\n"He will leave her. He will have no choice--who can war with Fate?"\n\n_The sun shifts a little_; _a light breeze kisses the motionless palm\nleaves_--_they quiver gracefully_. _Attendants appear R. and L. bearing\na great Shamiana_ (_tent_), _silver poles_, _carved chairs_, _foot\nsupports_, _fruit_, _flowers_, _embroidered fans_. _Three musicians in\nsemi-Venetian-Burmese costume follow with their instruments_. _The tent\nerected_, _enter_ (C.) MENG BENG _and_ MAH PHRU, _followed by two Burmese\nwomen carrying two tiny children in Burmese fashion on their hips_.\n\n_The servants retire to a distance_. MENG BENG _and_ MAH PHRU _seat\nthemselves on carven chairs_; _the children are placed at their feet and\ngiven coloured glass balls to play with_. MENG BENG _and_ MAH PHRU _gaze\nat them with deep affection and then at each other_.\n\n_The musicians play light_, _zephyr-like airs_. MENG BENG _and_ MAH PHRU\n_talk together_. MENG BENG _smokes a cigar_, MAH PHRU _has one of the\nbig yellow cheroots affected by Burmese women to-day_.\n\n"It wants but two days to the two years," _he tells her sadly_.\n\n"And you are happy?"\n\n"As a god."\n\n_She smiles radiantly_. _She suspects nothing_. _She is more beautiful\nthan before_. _Her dress is of the richest Mandalay silks_. _She wears\nbig nadoungs of rubies in her ears_.\n\n_Presently_ MENG BENG _arranges a set of ivory chessmen on a low table\nbetween them_. _The sun sinks slowly_. _The sound of approaching wheels\nis heard_.\n\n_Enter_ (_C._) U. RAI GYAN THOO, _preceded by two servants_. MENG BENG\n_looks up in surprise_--_in alarm_. _He rises_, _etc._, _and goes\nforward_. U. RAI GYAN THOO _presents a letter written on palm leaves_.\nMENG BENG _does not open it_.\n\n_The curtains at the opening of the tent are_, _Oriental fashion_,\n_dropped_. _The music ceases_.\n\nMENG BENG _and the_ GRAND VIZIER _converse apart_. _The Minister\nexplains that the Princess of Ceylon\'s ship and its great convoy have\nalready been sighted_. _The Court and city wait in eager expectancy_.\n_The King has worshipped long enough at the Pagoda of Golden\nFlowers_--_his subjects and his bride call to him_. U. RAI GYAN THOO\n_has come to take him to them_.\n\nMENG BENG _is terribly distressed_.\n\n"You can return one day," _the Vizier tells him_. "The Pagoda will\nremain. I also, once, in years long dead, Lord of the Sea and Moon,\nworshipped at a Pagoda."\n\nMENG BENG _seeks_ MAH PHRU _to explain that he goes on urgent affairs_,\n_that he will come back to her and to his sons_, _perhaps before the\nwaning of the new moon_. _Their parting is sad with the pensive sadness\nof look and gesture peculiar to Eastern people_.\n\nMENG BENG _goes_ (C.) _with_ U. RAI GYAN THOO. MAH PHRU _mounts to the\nverandah to watch them go from behind the curtains_. _Then_, _slowly\nsinking across the heaped-up cushions_, _she faints_.\n\n_The sun has set_. _The music ceases_. _The melancholy cry of the\npeacocks fills the silence_.\n\nACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n\nSCENE I\n\n\n_Seven years have elapsed_.\n\n_The same scene_.\n\n_Curtain discovers_ MAH PHRU _seated on a high verandah_. _A clearance\nhas been made in the surrounding trees to give a full view of the road\nbeyond_. _She is watching_, _always watching_. _With her are two\nbeautiful little boys_.\n\n"To-day, perhaps," _she murmurs_. "Perhaps to-morrow; but without\nfail--one day."\n\n"Look!" _she cries_. "At last my lord returns!"\n\n_Coming up the jungle road_, _in view of the audience_, _are a bevy of\nhorsemen_.\n\nMAH PHRU, _wondering_, _descends to greet them_. _Enter_ U. RAI GYAN\nTHOO. _He is dressed all in white_, _which is Burmese mourning_. MAH\nPHRU _sinks back_--_she fears the worst_. _The old man reassures her_.\n_He tells her that_ MENG BENG _has sent for his sons_--_that the Queen is\ndead_, _and there is no heir_.\n\n"Queen? What Queen?" _demands_ MAH PHRU.\n\n"The Queen of Burmah."\n\n_So_ MAH PHRU _learns for the first time that her lover is the ruler of\nthe country_, _supreme master of and dictator to everyone_.\n\n_Weeping_, _but not daring to disobey_, _she summons the children to\nher_; _then_, _sinking on her knees_, _entreats in moving and pathetic\nwords to be permitted to go with them_, _in the lowest most menial\ncapacity_. U. RAI GYAN THOO _refuses_. _There is no place for her in\nthe greatness of the world yonder_. "Even Kings forget," _he says_. "It\nis the command of the supreme Lord of the Earth and of the Sky that she\nremain where she is."\n\n_Then he orders his followers to make the necessary arrangements for the\nsafe journey of their future king and his brother_.\n\n_The children stand passive in their gay dress_, _but are bewildered and\nafraid_.\n\nMAH PHRU _has risen to her feet_. _She appears as if turned to\nbronze_--_a model of restraint and dignity_, _blent with colour and\nbeauty and infinite grace_.\n\nTHE CURTAIN DESCENDS SLOWLY\n\n\n\nSCENE II\n\n\n_The same night_.\n\n_The home of the Chinese Wizard_, HIP LOONG, _by the river_--_a place\nfitted with Chinese things_: _Dragons of gold with eyes of jade gleaming\nfrom out dim corners_, _Buddhas of gigantic size fashioned of priceless\nmetals with heads that move_, _swinging banners with fringes of\nmany-coloured stones_, _lanterns with glass slides on which are painted\ngrotesque figures_. _The air is full of the scent of joss sticks_. _The\nWizard reclines on a divan_, _inhaling opium slowly_, _clothed with the\nsubdued gorgeousness of China_--_blue and tomato-red predominate_. _He\nhas the appearance of a wrinkled walnut_. _His forehead is a lattice-\nwork of wrinkles_. _His pigtail_, _braided with red_, _is twisted round\nhis head_. _His hands are as claws_. _The effect is weird_,\n_unearthly_.\n\n_Enter_ MAH PHRU.\n\n_The Wizard silently motions her to some piled-up cushions at a little\ndistance_. _He listens to what she tells him_. _He appears unmoved_,\n_at a recital apparently full of tragedy_. _Only the eyes of the dragons\nmove_, _and the heads of the Buddhas go slowly like pendulums_. _When\nshe has finished speaking_, HIP LOONG _makes reply_.\n\n"This is how passion always ends. I have lived for a thousand years; and\non this planet it is ever the same."\n\nMAH PHRU _is not listening_.\n\n"How can I go to my children?" _she demands_, _once again_.\n\n"I can turn you into a bird," _the Wizard says_. "You can fly to the\npalace and walk and watch ever on that terrace in the rose gardens above\nthe sea."\n\n"What bird?" _she asks_, _trembling_.\n\n"You shall have the form of the white paddy bird, because, though a woman\nand foolish as women ever are, you are very pure ivory. O! daughter of\nman and of love."\n\n_To this_ MAH PHRU _dissents_. _She paces the long room_.\n\n"Transform me into a peacock; they are more beautiful."\n\n_The Wizard_, _leaning on his elbow_, _smiles_, _and the smile is a\nrevelation of a mocking comprehension_.\n\n"So be it." _He bows his head_.\n\n_The lights fade one by one_.\n\nCURTAIN\n\n\n\nSCENE III\n\n\n_The Gardens of the Palace of the King_.\n\n_Time_: _late afternoon_.\n\n_Colonnades of roses stretch away on every side_. _Fountains play_,\n_throwing a shower on water-lilies of monstrous size_. _Peacocks walk\nwith stately tread across the green turf_. _Only one_, _larger and more\nbeautiful than the rest_, _is perched alone_, _with drooping head and\nfolded tail_, _on the broad-pillared terrace that overhangs the sea_.\n_The scene is aglow with light and colour_, _yet holds a shadowed\nsilence_.\n\n_Enter some courtiers_, _who converse in perturbed fashion as they go\ntowards the Palace_.\n\n_Enter_ MOUNG PHO MHIN _and_ U. RAI GYAN THOO, _accompanied by the Court\nPhysicians and Astrologers_.\n\n"The King cannot live beyond the night," _the Physicians say_. _The\nsudden_, _mysterious illness that has attacked him defies their skill_.\n\n_The Astrologers declare that the stars in their courses fight against\nhis recovery_; _unless a miracle should happen_, _the new day will see\nhim dead_.\n\n_The Ministers regard each other in consternation_; _then walk the\nterrace with bent heads_.\n\n_The peacock on the wall spreads its tail and utters a melancholy cry of\npoignant pain_.\n\n_The listeners start in superstitious horror_.\n\n_The peacock folds its tail and resumes its meditations_.\n\n"That bird is not as other birds," _one astrologer declares_. "I have\nwatched it for years past--it is ever alone--the others all avoid it. I\nthink it has a soul."\n\n"You mistake," _replies his colleague_; "it is but an evil Nat. {32}\nObserve its eyes: they are not those of a bird; they are those of a\nspirit in prison."\n\n_They pass on in the wake of the ministers_.\n\n_The peacock closes its eyes_.\n\n_Enter the two young_ PRINCES, _accompanied by two great Pegu hounds_.\n_They converse in subdued tones_, _strolling slowly_. _They are followed\nby pages of honour_, _carrying grain_, _which the young men proceed to\ndistribute amongst the birds as they rapidly approach them_. _The\npeacock on the wall never stirs_; _she watches the young men always_.\n_Then the elder one comes with a handful of food and proffers it_, _but\nthe peacock does not eat_.\n\n"I shall never understand you, Queen of the Kingdom of Birds," _he says_,\n_and strokes her feathers_. _At his touch the plumage scintillates with\na brighter_, _a more exquisite sheen_.\n\n_He murmurs to the bird in soft tones and mythical words_. _He tells it\nthat the fear of everyone is that the King is mortally stricken_, _for he\nlies yonder in most strange and evil agony_; _that the hearts of himself\nand his brother are numb with the sorrow that knows no language_. _The\nbird listens eagerly_. _And if the King should go_, _he_, _the speaker_,\n_will reign in his stead_. _The prospect fills him with fear_. _He\ndesires_, _as also his brother_, _if the King must die_, _to return to\ndwell in the forest with the mother who he knows awaits them there_.\n\n_The peacock spreads its wings as if for flight_, _then crouches down\nonce more_, _and over it watches the young prince_.\n\n_The sun envelops them both in a sudden shaft of rose and purple and\ngold_. _A servant descends and comes across the grass_. _He shikoes\nprofoundly to the two young men_, _lifting up his hands in the deepest\nreverence of Burmah_.\n\n"The Lord of the Earth and the Sky desires his sons; he nears the Great\nUnknown."\n\nCURTAIN\n\n\n\nSCENE IV\n\n\n_The retreat of_ HIP LOONG, _the Wizard_.\n\n_Time_: _the same night_.\n\n_The curtain discovers_ MAH PHRU, _who has returned to human form_, _and\nthe Wizard together_.\n\n_He tells her that he has restored her to her former state only because\nshe has implored him to do so_; _that her life is measured by hours as a\nconsequence of such insensate folly in breaking the vow of five years\nback_.\n\n"But the King will live," _she murmurs_.\n\n"The King will live. He will find happiness with someone fairer than\nyou. That is well. Your life for his. It is the price."\n\n"The price is nothing. Have I not looked on my heart\'s beloved one for\nfive years--looked on his face--heard his voice--trembled with joy at his\nfootsteps? Have I not waited and watched? Have I not gazed on my sons\nand seen their royal bearing, and known their touch?"\n\n"You are, then, content?"\n\n"You are a Wizard--you can read that I am."\n\n"It is not I that am a Wizard--it is Love. That is the only Wizard this\nworld knows."\n\nCURTAIN\n\n\n\nSCENE V\n\n\n_The bed-chamber of the King_--_vast and shadowy_. _On heaped-up\ncushions and covers of yellow and blue_, _under a pearl-sewn creamy\nvelvet baldaquin_, _embroidered with peacocks_, _lies_ MENG BENG,\n_mortally stricken_; _his face bears the ashen pallor that only dark\nskins know_. _The ministers_, _the servants_, _the courtiers_, _the\ncountless motley gathering of an Eastern Court are scattered in anxious\ngroups_, _watching_, _waiting_, _murmuring_. _Only the space near the\ncouch is clear_. _Without_, _the dawn breaks over the sea_, _and_,\n_stealing through the opening_, _makes the great chamber flush till it\nlooks like porphyry_.\n\n_The tolling of a deep gong and the voices of a myriad birds invade the\nthrobbing silence of the Palace_.\n\n"He passes," _murmur the physicians_. _Everyone\'s gaze turns to the\ndying man_.\n\n"Yet his star is in the ascendant," _say the astrologers_. _The risen\nsun touches him with its light like a caress_. _He opens his eyes_. _His\nsons advance_. _They raise him high on his cushions and give a\nrestorative_. _The end has come_. _Suddenly he rallies slightly_.\n\n_The doors at the far end are rudely opened_. _A woman_, _young and\nlovely_, _advances_, _thrusting roughly aside the many hands stretched\nout to bar her path_.\n\n_She reaches the King_.\n\n"I bring you life, Star of my Soul," _she cries_, "I bring you life,"\n_and so saying_, _falls dead at his feet_.\n\n_The Courtiers rush forward_.\n\n_The King rises_.\n\n_He stands erect_.\n\n_The sun lies like a golden benediction over all_.\n\n_Jewels glitter_.\n\n_The whole world of birds sing_.\n\nTHE CURTAIN FALLS\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{4} One of the greatest feasts of the Buddhist year.\n\n{6} Spire.\n\n{32} Fairy.\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF THE KING***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 23229.txt or 23229.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/2/2/23229\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Salomé, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Salomé\n A Tragedy in One Act\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nIllustrator: Aubrey Beardsley\n\nTranslator: Alfred, Lord Douglas\n\nRelease Date: May 12, 2013 [EBook #42704]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALOMÉ ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Marc D\'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org\n(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE WOMAN IN THE MOON]\n\n[Illustration: TITLE PAGE]\n\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nA TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT:\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF\n\nOSCAR WILDE,\n\nWITH SIXTEEN DRAWINGS BY AUBREY BEARDSLEY\n\nLONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD\n\nNEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMVII\n\n[Illustration: COVER DESIGN]\n\n\n\n\n THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.\n\n HEROD ANTIPAS, TETRARCH OF JUDÆA.\n JOKANAAN, THE PROPHET.\n THE YOUNG SYRIAN, CAPTAIN of the GUARD.\n TIGELLINUS, A YOUNG ROMAN.\n A CAPPADOCIAN.\n A NUBIAN.\n FIRST SOLDIER.\n SECOND SOLDIER.\n THE PAGE OF HERODIAS.\n JEWS, NAZARENES, ETC.\n A SLAVE.\n NAAMAN, THE EXECUTIONER.\n HERODIAS, WIFE OF THE TETRARCH.\n SALOMÉ, DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.\n THE SLAVES OF SALOMÉ.\n\n\n\n\nA NOTE ON "SALOMÉ."\n\n\n"SALOMÉ" has made the author\'s name a household word wherever the\nEnglish language is not spoken. Few English plays have such a\npeculiar history. Written in French in 1892 it was in full\nrehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the Palace Theatre when it was\nprohibited by the Censor. Oscar Wilde immediately announced his\nintention of changing his nationality, a characteristic jest,\nwhich was only taken seriously, oddly enough, in Ireland. The\ninterference of the Censor has seldom been more popular or more\nheartily endorsed by English critics. On its publication in book\nform "Salomé" was greeted by a chorus of ridicule, and it may be\nnoted in passing that at least two of the more violent reviews\nwere from the pens of unsuccessful dramatists, while all those\nwhose French never went beyond Ollendorff were glad to find in\nthat venerable school classic an unsuspected asset in their\neducation--a handy missile with which to pelt "Salomé" and its\nauthor. The correctness of the French was, of course, impugned,\nalthough the scrip had been passed by a distinguished French\nwriter, to whom I have heard the whole work attributed. The\nTimes, while depreciating the drama, gave its author credit for\na _tour de force_, in being capable of writing a French play for\nMadame Bernhardt, and this drew from him the following letter:--\n\n The Times, Thursday, March 2, 1893, p. 4.\n\n MR. OSCAR WILDE ON "SALOMÉ."\n\n To the Editor of The Times.\n\n Sir, My attention has been drawn to a review of\n "Salomé" which was published in your columns last\n week. The opinions of English critics on a French work\n of mine have, of course, little, if any, interest for\n me. I write simply to ask you to allow me to correct a\n misstatement that appears in the review in question.\n\n The fact that the greatest tragic actress of any stage\n now living saw in my play such beauty that she was\n anxious to produce it, to take herself the part of the\n heroine, to lend to the entire poem the glamour of her\n personality, and to my prose the music of her\n flute-like voice--this was naturally, and always will\n be, a source of pride and pleasure to me, and I look\n forward with delight to seeing Mme. Bernhardt present\n my play in Paris, that vivid centre of art, where\n religious dramas are often performed. But my play was\n in no sense of the words written for this great\n actress. I have never written a play for any actor or\n actress, nor shall I ever do so. Such work is for the\n artisan in literature--not for the artist.\n\n I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\n OSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\nWhen "Salomé" was translated into English by Lord Alfred Douglas,\nthe illustrator, Aubrey Beardsley, shared some of the obloquy\nheaped on Wilde. It is interesting that he should have found\ninspiration for his finest work in a play he never admired and by\na writer he cordially disliked. The motives are, of course, made\nto his hand, and never was there a more suitable material for\nthat odd tangent art in which there are no tactile values. The\namusing caricatures of Wilde which appear in the _Frontispiece_,\n"Enter Herodias" and "The Eyes of Herod," are the only pieces of\nvraisemblance in these exquisite designs. The colophon is a real\nmasterpiece and a witty criticism of the play as well.\n\nOn the production of "Salomé" by the New Stage Club in May,\n1905,[1] the dramatic critics again expressed themselves\nvehemently, vociferating their regrets that the play had been\ndragged from its obscurity. The obscure drama, however, had\nbecome for five years past part of the literature of Europe. It\nis performed regularly or intermittently in Holland, Sweden,\nItaly, France, and Russia, and it has been translated into every\nEuropean language, including the Czech. It forms part of the\nrepertoire of the German stage, where it is performed more often\nthan any play by any English writer except Shakespeare. Owing,\nperhaps, to what I must call its _obscure_ popularity in the\ncontinental theatres, Dr. Strauss was preparing his remarkable\nopera at the very moment when there appeared the criticisms to\nwhich I refer, and since the production of the opera in Dresden\nin December, 1905, English musical journalists and correspondents\nalways refer to the work as founded on Wilde\'s drama. That is the\nonly way in which they can evade an awkward truth--a palpable\ncontravention to their own wishes and theories. The music,\nhowever, has been set to the actual words of "Salomé" in Madame\nHedwig Lachmann\'s admirable translation. The words have not been\ntransfigured into ordinary operatic nonsense to suit the score,\nor the susceptibilities of the English people. I observe that\nadmirers of Dr. Strauss are a little mortified that the great\nmaster should have found an occasion for composition in a play\nwhich they long ago consigned to oblivion and the shambles of\nAubrey Beardsley. Wilde himself, in a rhetorical period, seems to\nhave contemplated the possibility of his prose drama for a\nmusical theme. In "De Profundis" he says: "The refrains, whose\nrecurring motifs make \'Salomé\' so like a piece of music, and bind\nit together as a ballad."\n\nHe was still incarcerated in 1896, when Mons. Luigne Poë produced\nthe play for the first time at the Théâtre Libre in Paris, with\nLina Muntz in the title role. A rather pathetic reference to this\noccasion occurs in a letter Wilde wrote to me from Reading:--\n\n"Please say how gratified I was at the performance of my play,\nand have my thanks conveyed to Luigne Poë. It is something that\nat a time of disgrace and shame I should still be regarded as an\nartist. I wish I could feel more pleasure, but I seem dead to all\nemotions except those of anguish and despair. However, please let\nLuigne Poë know that I am sensible of the honour he has done me.\nHe is a poet himself. Write to me in answer to this, and try and\nsee what Lemaitre, Bauer, and Sarcey said of \'Salomé.\'"\n\nThe bias of personal friendship precludes me from praising or\ndefending "Salomé," even if it were necessary to do so. Nothing I\nmight say would add to the reputation of its detractors. Its\nsources are obvious; particularly Flaubert and Maeterlinck, in\nwhose peculiar and original style it is an essay. A critic, for\nwhom I have a greater regard than many of his contemporaries,\nsays that "Salomé" is only a catalogue; but a catalogue can be\nintensely dramatic, as we know when the performance takes place\nat Christie\'s; few plays are more exciting than an auction in\nKing Street when the stars are fighting _for_ Sisera.\n\nIt has been remarked that Wilde confuses Herod the Great (_Mat._\nxi. 1), Herod Antipas (_Mat._ xiv. 3), and Herod Agrippa (Acts\nxiii), but the confusion is intentional, as in mediæval mystery\nplays Herod is taken for a type, not an historical character, and\nthe criticism is about as valuable as that of people who\nlaboriously point out the anachronisms in Beardsley\'s designs.\nWith reference to the charge of plagiarism brought against\n"Salomé" and its author, I venture to mention a personal\nrecollection.\n\nWilde complained to me one day that someone in a well-known novel\nhad stolen an idea of his. I pleaded in defence of the culprit\nthat Wilde himself was a fearless literary thief. "My dear\nfellow," he said, with his usual drawling emphasis, "when I see a\nmonstrous tulip with four wonderful petals in someone else\'s\ngarden, I am impelled to grow a monstrous tulip with five\nwonderful petals, but that is no reason why someone should grow a\ntulip with only three petals." THAT WAS OSCAR WILDE.\n\nROBERT ROSS.\n\n\n[1] A more recent performance of "Salomé" (1906), by the Literary\nTheatre Club, has again produced an ebullition of rancour and\ndeliberate misrepresentation on the part of the dramatic critics,\nthe majority of whom are anxious to parade their ignorance of the\ncontinental stage. The production was remarkable on account of\nthe beautiful dresses and mounting, for which Mr. Charles\nRicketts was responsible, and the marvellous impersonation of\nHerod by Mr. Robert Farquharson. Wilde used to say that "Salomé"\nwas a mirror in which everyone could see himself. The artist,\nart; the dull, dulness; the vulgar, vulgarity.\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nLIST OF THE PICTURES BY AUBREY BEARDSLEY.\n\n1. THE WOMAN IN THE MOON. 2. TITLE PAGE. 3. COVER DESIGN. 4. LIST\nOF THE PICTURES. 5. THE PEACOCK SKIRT. 6. THE BLACK CAPE. 7. A\nPLATONIC LAMENT. 8. JOHN AND SALOMÉ. 9. ENTER HERODIAS. 10. THE\nEYES OF HEROD. 11. THE STOMACH DANCE. 12. THE TOILETTE OF\nSALOMÉ--I. 13. THE TOILETTE OF SALOMÉ--II. 14. THE DANCER\'S\nREWARD. 15. THE CLIMAX. 16. CUL DE LAMPE.\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nCast of the Performance of "Salomé," represented in England for\nthe first time.\n\nNEW STAGE CLUB.\n\n"SALOMÉ,"\n\nBY OSCAR WILDE.\n\nMay 10th and 13th 1905.\n\n A YOUNG SYRIAN CAPTAIN -- MR. HERBERT ALEXANDER.\n PAGE OF HERODIAS -- MRS. GWENDOLEN BISHOP.\n FIRST SOLDIER -- MR. CHARLES GEE.\n SECOND SOLDIER -- MR. RALPH DE ROHAN.\n CAPPADOCIAN -- MR. CHARLES DALMON.\n JOKANAAN -- MR. VINCENT NELLO.\n NAAMAN, THE EXECUTIONER-- MR. W. EVELYN OSBORN.\n SALOMÉ -- Miss MILLICENT MURBY.\n SLAVE -- Miss CARRIE KEITH.\n HEROD -- MR. ROBERT FARQUHARSON.\n HERODIAS -- Miss LOUISE SALOM.\n TIGELLINUS -- MR. C.L. DELPH.\n SLAVE -- Miss STANSFELD.\n FIRST JEW -- MR. F. STANLEY SMITH.\n SECOND JEW -- MR. BERNHARD SMITH.\n THIRD JEW -- MR. JOHN BATE.\n FOURTH JEW -- STEPHEN BAGEHOT\n FIFTH JEW -- FREDERICK LAWRENCE.\n\nScene--THE GREAT TERRACE OUTSIDE THE PALACE.\n\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nSCENE.--_A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the\nbanqueting-hall. Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. To\nthe right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the\nback, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze.\nMoonlight._\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nHow beautiful is the Princess Salomé to-night!\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nLook at the moon! How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman\nrising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. You would fancy she\nwas looking for dead things.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nShe has a strange look. She is like a little princess who wears a\nyellow veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a princess\nwho has little white doves for feet. You would fancy she was\ndancing.\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nShe is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.\n\n[_Noise in the banqueting-hall._]\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWhat an uproar! Who are those wild beasts howling?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nThe Jews. They are always like that. They are disputing about\ntheir religion.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWhy do they dispute about their religion?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nI cannot tell. They are always doing it. The Pharisees, for\ninstance, say that there are angels, and the Sadducees declare\nthat angels do not exist.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nI think it is ridiculous to dispute about such things.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nHow beautiful is the Princess Salomé to-night!\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nYou are always looking at her. You look at her too much. It is\ndangerous to look at people in such fashion. Something terrible\nmay happen.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE PEACOCK SKIRT]\n\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nShe is very beautiful to-night.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nThe Tetrarch has a sombre look.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nYes; he has a sombre look.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nHe is looking at something.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nHe is looking at some one.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nAt whom is he looking?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nI cannot tell.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nHow pale the Princess is! Never have I seen her so pale. She is\nlike the shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver.\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nYou must not look at her. You look too much at her.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nHerodias has filled the cup of the Tetrarch.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nIs that the Queen Herodias, she who wears a black mitre sewn with\npearls, and whose hair is powdered with blue dust?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nYes; that is Herodias, the Tetrarch\'s wife.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nThe Tetrarch is very fond of wine. He has wine of three sorts.\nOne which is brought from the Island of Samothrace, and is purple\nlike the cloak of Cæsar.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nI have never seen Cæsar.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nAnother that comes from a town called Cyprus, and is yellow like\ngold.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nI love gold.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nAnd the third is a wine of Sicily. That wine is red like blood.\n\nTHE NUBIAN\n\nThe gods of my country are very fond of blood. Twice in the year\nwe sacrifice to them young men and maidens; fifty young men and\na hundred maidens. But it seems we never give them quite enough,\nfor they are very harsh to us.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nIn my country there are no gods left. The Romans have driven them\nout. There are some who say that they have hidden themselves in\nthe mountains, but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been\non the mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them.\nAnd at last I called them by their names, and they did not come.\nI think they are dead.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nThe Jews worship a God that you cannot see.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nI cannot understand that.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nIn fact, they only believe in things that you cannot see.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nThat seems to me altogether ridiculous.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nAfter me shall come another mightier than I. I am not worthy so\nmuch as to unloose the latchet of his shoes. When he cometh, the\nsolitary places shall be glad. They shall blossom like the lily.\nThe eyes of the blind shall see the day, and the ears of the deaf\nshall be opened. The new-born child shall put his hand upon the\ndragon\'s lair, he shall lead the lions by their manes.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nMake him be silent. He is always saying ridiculous things.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nNo, no. He is a holy man. He is very gentle, too. Every day, when\nI give him to eat he thanks me.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nWho is he?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nA prophet.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nWhat is his name?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nJokanaan.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nWhence comes he?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nFrom the desert, where he fed on locusts and wild honey. He was\nclothed in camel\'s hair, and round his loins he had a leathern\nbelt. He was very terrible to look upon. A great multitude used\nto follow him. He even had disciples.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nWhat is he talking of?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWe can never tell. Sometimes he says terrible things, but it is\nimpossible to understand what he says.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nMay one see him?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nNo. The Tetrarch has forbidden it.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nThe Princess has hidden her face behind her fan! Her little white\nhands are fluttering like doves that fly to their dove-cots. They\nare like white butterflies. They are just like white butterflies.\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nWhat is that to you? Why do you look at her? You must not look at\nher.... Something terrible may happen.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\n[_Pointing to the cistern._]\n\nWhat a strange prison!\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nIt is an old cistern.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nAn old cistern! It must be very unhealthy.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nOh no! For instance, the Tetrarch\'s brother, his elder brother,\nthe first husband of Herodias the Queen, was imprisoned there for\ntwelve years. It did not kill him. At the end of the twelve years\nhe had to be strangled.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nStrangled? Who dared to do that?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n[_Pointing to the Executioner, a huge Negro._]\n\nThat man yonder, Naaman.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nHe was not afraid?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nOh no! The Tetrarch sent him the ring.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nWhat ring?\n\n[Illustration: THE BLACK CAPE]\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nThe death-ring. So he was not afraid.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nYet it is a terrible thing to strangle a king.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWhy? Kings have but one neck, like other folk.\n\nTHE CAPPADOCIAN\n\nI think it terrible.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nThe Princess rises! She is leaving the table! She looks very\ntroubled. Ah, she is coming this way. Yes, she is coming towards\nus. How pale she is! Never have I seen her so pale.\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nDo not look at her. I pray you not to look at her.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nShe is like a dove that has strayed.... She is like a narcissus\ntrembling in the wind.... She is like a silver flower.\n\n[_Enter Salomé_.]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will not stay. I cannot stay. Why does the Tetrarch look at me\nall the while with his mole\'s eyes under his shaking eyelids? It\nis strange that the husband of my mother looks at me like that.\nI know not what it means. In truth, yes, I know it.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nYou have just left the feast, Princess?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nHow sweet the air is here! I can breathe here! Within there are\nJews from Jerusalem who are tearing each other in pieces over\ntheir foolish ceremonies, and barbarians who drink and drink, and\nspill their wine on the pavement, and Greeks from Smyrna with\npainted eyes and painted cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in\ntwisted coils, and silent, subtle Egyptians, with long nails of\njade and russett cloaks, and Romans brutal and coarse, with their\nuncouth jargon. Ah! how I loathe the Romans! They are rough and\ncommon, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nWill you be seated, Princess?\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nWhy do you speak to her? Why do you look at her? Oh! something\nterrible will happen.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nHow good to see the moon! She is like a little piece of money,\nyou would think she was a little silver flower. The moon is cold\nand chaste. I am sure she is a virgin, she has a virgin\'s beauty.\nYes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled herself. She has\nnever abandoned herself to men, like the other goddesses.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nThe Lord hath come. The son of man hath come. The centaurs have\nhidden themselves in the rivers, and the sirens have left the\nrivers, and are lying beneath the leaves of the forest.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nWho was that who cried out?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nThe prophet, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nAh, the prophet! He of whom the Tetrarch is afraid?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nWe know nothing of that, Princess. It was the prophet Jokanaan\nwho cried out.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nIs it your pleasure that I bid them bring your litter, Princess?\nThe night is fair in the garden.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nHe says terrible things about my mother, does he not?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nWe never understand what he says, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYes; he says terrible things about her.\n\n[_Enter a Slave_.]\n\nTHE SLAVE\n\nPrincess, the Tetrarch prays you to return to the feast.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will not go back.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPardon me, Princess, but if you do not return some misfortune may\nhappen.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nIs he an old man, this prophet?\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess, it were better to return. Suffer me to lead you in.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nThis prophet ... is he an old man?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nNo, Princess, he is quite a young man.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nYou cannot be sure. There are those who say he is Elias.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nWho is Elias?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nA very ancient prophet of this country, Princess.\n\nTHE SLAVE\n\nWhat answer may I give the Tetrarch from the Princess?\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nRejoice not thou, land of Palestine, because the rod of him who\nsmote thee is broken. For from the seed of the serpent shall come\nforth a basilisk, and that which is born of it shall devour the\nbirds.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nWhat a strange voice! I would speak with him.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nI fear it is impossible, Princess. The Tetrarch does not wish any\none to speak with him. He has even forbidden the high priest to\nspeak with him.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI desire to speak with him.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nIt is impossible, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will speak with him.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nWould it not be better to return to the banquet?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nBring forth this prophet.\n\n [_Exit the slave._]\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWe dare not, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Approaching the cistern and looking down into it._]\n\nHow black it is, down there! It must be terrible to be in so\nblack a pit! It is like a tomb.... [_To the soldiers._] Did you\nnot hear me? Bring out the prophet. I wish to see him.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nPrincess, I beg you do not require this of us.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou keep me waiting!\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nPrincess, our lives belong to you, but we cannot do what you have\nasked of us. And indeed, it is not of us that you should ask this\nthing.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Looking at the young Syrian._]\n\nAh!\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nOh! what is going to happen? I am sure that some misfortune will\nhappen.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Going up to the young Syrian._]\n\nYou will do this tiling for me, will you not, Narraboth? You will\ndo this thing for me. I have always been kind to you. You will do\nit for me. I would but look at this strange prophet. Men have\ntalked so much of him. Often have I heard the Tetrarch talk of\nhim. I think the Tetrarch is afraid of him. Are you, even you,\nalso afraid of him, Narraboth?\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nI fear him not, Princess; there is no man I fear. But the\nTetrarch has formally forbidden that any man should raise the\ncover of this well.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou will do this thing for me, Narraboth, and to-morrow when I\npass in my litter beneath the gateway of the idol-sellers I will\nlet fall for you a little flower, a little green flower.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess, I cannot, I cannot.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Smiling_.]\n\nYou will do this thing for me, Narraboth. You know that you will\ndo this thing for me. And to-morrow when I pass in my litter by\nthe bridge of the idol-buyers, I will look at you through the\nmuslin veils, I will look at you, Narraboth, it may be I will\nsmile at you. Look at me, Narraboth, look at me. Ah! you know\nthat you will do what I ask of you. You know it well.... I know\nthat you will do this thing.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\n[_Signing to the third soldier._]\n\nLet the prophet come forth.... The Princess Salomé desires to see\nhim.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nAh!\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nOh! How strange the moon looks. You would think it was the hand\nof a dead woman who is seeking to cover herself with a shroud.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nShe has a strange look! She is like a little princess, whose eyes\nare eyes of amber. Through the clouds of muslin she is smiling\nlike a little princess.\n\n[_The prophet comes out of the cistern. Salomé looks at him and\nsteps slowly back._]\n\n[Illustration: A PLATONIC LAMENT]\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nWhere is he whose cup of abominations is now full? Where is he,\nwho in a robe of silver shall one day die in the face of all the\npeople? Bid him come forth, that he may hear the voice of him who\nhath cried in the waste places and in the houses of kings.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nOf whom is he speaking?\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nYou can never tell, Princess.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nWhere is she who having seen the images of men painted on the\nwalls, the images of the Chaldeans limned in colours, gave\nherself up unto the lust of her eyes, and sent ambassadors into\nChaldea?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nIt is of my mother that he speaks.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nOh, no, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYes; it is of my mother that he speaks.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nWhere is she who gave herself unto the Captains of Assyria, who\nhave baldricks on their loins, and tiaras of divers colours on\ntheir heads? Where is she who hath given herself to the young men\nof Egypt, who are clothed in fine linen and purple, whose shields\nare of gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies are\nmighty? Bid her rise up from the bed of her abominations, from\nthe bed of her incestuousness, that she may hear the words of him\nwho prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may repent her of her\niniquities. Though she will never repent, but will stick fast in\nher abominations; bid her come, for the fan of the Lord is in His\nhand.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nBut he is terrible, he is terrible!\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nDo not stay here, Princess, I beseech you.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nIt is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are like black\nholes burned by torches in a Tyrian tapestry. They are like black\ncaverns where dragons dwell. They are like the black caverns of\nEgypt in which the dragons make their lairs. They are like black\nlakes troubled by fantastic moons.... Do you think he will speak\nagain?\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nDo not stay here, Princess. I pray you do not stay here.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nHow wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue. He is like an\nimage of silver. I am sure he is chaste as the moon is. He is\nlike a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. His flesh must be cool\nlike ivory. I would look closer at him.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nNo, no, Princess.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI must look at him closer.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess! Princess!\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nWho is this woman who is looking at me? I will not have her look\nat me. Wherefore doth she look at me with her golden eyes, under\nher gilded eyelids? I know not who she is. I do not wish to know\nwho she is. Bid her begone. It is not to her that I would speak.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am Salomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judæa.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nBack! daughter of Babylon! Come not near the chosen of the Lord.\nThy mother hath filled the earth with the wine of her iniquities,\nand the cry of her sins hath come up to the ears of God.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nSpeak again, Jokanaan. Thy voice is wine to me.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess! Princess! Princess!\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nSpeak again! Speak again, Jokanaan, and tell me what I must do.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nDaughter of Sodom, come not near me! But cover thy face with a\nveil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the\ndesert and seek out the Son of Man.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nWho is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art,\nJokanaan?\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nGet thee behind me! I hear in the palace the beating of the wings\nof the angel of death.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess, I beseech thee to go within.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nAngel of the Lord God, what dost thou here with thy sword? Whom\nseekest thou in this foul palace? The day of him who shall die in\na robe of silver has not yet come.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN AND SALOMÉ]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nJokanaan!\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nWho speaketh?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nJokanaan, I am amorous of thy body! Thy body is white like the\nlilies of a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is\nwhite like the snows that lie on the mountains, like the snows\nthat lie on the mountains of Judæa, and come down into the\nvalleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not\nso white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the\nQueen of Arabia, the perfumed garden of spices of the Queen of\nArabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves,\nnor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the\nsea.... There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Let\nme touch thy body.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nBack! daughter of Babylon! By woman came evil into the world.\nSpeak not to me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the\nvoice of the Lord God.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nThy body is hideous. It is like the body of a leper. It is like a\nplastered wall where vipers have crawled; like a plastered wall\nwhere the scorpions have made their nest. It is like a whitened\nsepulchre full of loathsome things. It is horrible, thy body is\nhorrible. It is of thy hair that I am enamoured, Jokanaan. Thy\nhair is like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black\ngrapes that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the\nEdomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like the great\ncedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the lions and to the\nrobbers who would hide themselves by day. The long black nights,\nwhen the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not\nso black. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black.\nThere is nothing in the world so black as thy hair.... Let me\ntouch thy hair.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nBack, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not. Profane not the temple of\nthe Lord God.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nThy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and dust. It is\nlike a crown of thorns which they have placed on thy forehead. It\nis like a knot of black serpents writhing round thy neck. I love\nnot thy hair.... It is thy mouth that I desire, Jokanaan. Thy\nmouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a\npomegranate cut with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate-flowers\nthat blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses,\nare not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the\napproach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red.\nThy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in\nthe wine-press. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of the doves\nwho haunt the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder\nthan the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain\na lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of\ncoral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the\ncoral that they keep for the kings!... It is like the vermilion\nthat the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that\nthe kings take from them. It is like the bow of the King of the\nPersians, that is painted with vermilion, and is tipped with\ncoral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth.... Let\nme kiss thy mouth.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nNever! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of Sodom! Never.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nPrincess, Princess, thou who art like a garden of myrrh, thou who\nart the dove of all doves, look not at this man, look not at him!\nDo not speak such words to him. I cannot suffer them....\nPrincess, Princess, do not speak these things.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.\n\nTHE YOUNG SYRIAN\n\nAh! [_He kills himself and falls between Salomé and Jokanaan._]\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nThe young Syrian has slain himself! The young captain has slain\nhimself! He has slain himself who was my friend! I gave him a\nlittle box of perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now\nhe has killed himself! Ah, did he not foretell that some\nmisfortune would happen? I, too, foretold it, and it has\nhappened. Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but\nI knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah! why did I not hide\nhim from the moon? If I had hidden him in a cavern she would not\nhave seen him.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nPrincess, the young captain has just killed himself.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nLet me kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nArt thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias? Did I not tell thee\nthat I had heard in the palace the beatings of the wings of the\nangel of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death?\n\n[Illustration: ENTER HERODIAS]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nLet me kiss thy mouth.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nDaughter of adultery, there is but one who can save thee, it is\nHe of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of\nGalilee, and He talketh with His disciples. Kneel down on the\nshore of the sea, and call unto Him by His name. When He cometh\nto thee (and to all who call on Him He cometh), bow thyself at\nHis feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nLet me kiss thy mouth.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nCursed be thou! daughter of an incestuous mother, be thou\naccursed!\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.\n\nJOKANAAN\n\nI do no wish to look at thee. I will not look at thee, thou art\naccursed, Salomé, thou art accursed. [_He goes down into the\ncistern._]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan; I will kiss thy mouth.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nWe must bear away the body to another place. The Tetrarch does\nnot care to see dead bodies, save the bodies of those whom he\nhimself has slain.\n\nTHE PAGE OF HERODIAS\n\nHe was my brother, and nearer to me than a brother. I gave him a\nlittle box full of perfumes, and a ring of agate that he wore\nalways on his hand. In the evening we used to walk by the river,\namong the almond trees, and he would tell me of the things of his\ncountry. He spake ever very low. The sound of his voice was like\nthe sound of the flute, of a flute player. Also he much loved to\ngaze at himself in the river. I used to reproach him for that.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nYou are right; we must hide the body. The Tetrarch must not see\nit.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nThe Tetrarch will not come to this place. He never comes on the\nterrace. He is too much afraid of the prophet.\n\n[_Enter Herod, Herodias, and all the Court._]\n\nHEROD\n\nWhere is Salomé? Where is the Princess? Why did she not return to\nthe banquet as I commanded her? Ah! there she is!\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou must not look at her! You are always looking at her!\n\nHEROD\n\nThe moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not a strange look?\nShe is like a mad woman, a mad woman who is seeking everywhere\nfor lovers. She is naked too. She is quite naked. The clouds are\nseeking to clothe her nakedness, but she will not let them. She\nshows herself naked in the sky. She reels through the clouds like\na drunken woman.... I am sure she is looking for lovers. Does she\nnot reel like a drunken woman? She is like a mad woman, is she\nnot?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nNo; the moon is like the moon, that is all. Let us go within....\nYou have nothing to do here.\n\nHEROD\n\nI will stay here! Manesseh, lay carpets there. Light torches,\nbring forth the ivory tables, and the tables of jasper. The air\nhere is delicious. I will drink more wine with my guests. We must\nshow all honours to the ambassadors of Cæsar.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nIt is not because of them that you remain.\n\nHEROD\n\nYes; the air is delicious. Come, Herodias, our guests await us.\nAh! I have slipped! I have slipped in blood! It is an ill omen.\nIt is a very evil omen. Wherefore is there blood here?... and\nthis body, what does this body here? Think you I am like the King\nof Egypt, who gives no feast to his guests but that he shows them\na corpse? Whose is it? I will not look on it.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nIt is our captain, sire. He is the young Syrian whom you made\ncaptain only three days ago.\n\nHEROD\n\nI gave no order that he should be slain.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nHe killed himself, sire.\n\nHEROD\n\nFor what reason? I had made him captain.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nWe do not know, sire. But he killed himself.\n\nHEROD\n\nThat seems strange to me. I thought it was only the Roman\nphilosophers who killed themselves. Is it not true, Tigellinus,\nthat the philosophers at Rome kill themselves?\n\nTIGELLINUS\n\nThere are some who kill themselves, sire. They are the Stoics.\nThe Stoics are coarse people. They are ridiculous people. I\nmyself regard them as being perfectly ridiculous.\n\nHEROD\n\nI also. It is ridiculous to kill oneself.\n\nTIGELLINUS\n\nEverybody at Rome laughs at them. The Emperor has written a\nsatire against them. It is recited everywhere.\n\nHEROD\n\nAh! he has written a satire against them? Cæsar is wonderful. He\ncan do everything.... It is strange that the young Syrian has\nkilled himself. I am sorry he has killed himself. I am very\nsorry; for he was fair to look upon. He was even very fair. He\nhad very languorous eyes. I remember that I saw that he looked\nlanguorously at Salomé. Truly, I thought he looked too much at\nher.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nThere are others who look at her too much.\n\nHEROD\n\nHis father was a king. I drove him from his kingdom. And you made\na slave of his mother, who was a queen, Herodias. So he was here\nas my guest, as it were, and for that reason I made him my\ncaptain. I am sorry he is dead. Ho! why have you left the body\nhere? I will not look at it--away with it! [_They take away the\nbody._] It is cold here. There is a wind blowing. Is there not a\nwind blowing?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nNo; there is no wind.\n\nHEROD\n\nI tell you there is a wind that blows.... And I hear in the air\nsomething that is like the beating of wings, like the beating of\nvast wings. Do you not hear it?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI hear nothing.\n\nHEROD\n\nI hear it no longer. But I heard it. It was the blowing of the\nwind, no doubt. It has passed away. But no, I hear it again. Do\nyou not hear it? It is just like the beating of wings.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI tell you there is nothing. You are ill. Let us go within.\n\nHEROD\n\nI am not ill. It is your daughter who is sick. She has the mien\nof a sick person. Never have I seen her so pale.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI have told you not to look at her.\n\nHEROD\n\nPour me forth wine [_wine is brought_]. Salomé, come drink a\nlittle wine with me. I have here a wine that is exquisite. Cæsar\nhimself sent it me. Dip into it thy little red lips, that I may\ndrain the cup.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am not thirsty, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\nYou hear how she answers me, this daughter of yours?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nShe does right. Why are you always gazing at her?\n\nHEROD\n\nBring me ripe fruits [_fruits are brought_]. Salomé, come and eat\nfruit with me. I love to see in a fruit the mark of thy little\nteeth. Bite but a little of this fruit and then I will eat what\nis left.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am not hungry, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\n[_To Herodias._] You see how you have brought up this daughter of\nyours.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nMy daughter and I come of a royal race. As for thee, thy father\nwas a camel driver! He was also a robber!\n\nHEROD\n\nThou liest!\n\nHERODIAS\n\nThou knowest well that it is true.\n\nHEROD\n\nSalomé, come and sit next to me. I will give thee the throne of\nthy mother.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am not tired, Tetrarch.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou see what she thinks of you.\n\nHEROD\n\nBring me--what is it that I desire? I forget. Ah! ah! I remember.\n\n[Illustration: THE EYES OF HEROD]\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nLo! the time is come! That which I foretold has come to pass,\nsaith the Lord God. Lo! the day of which I spoke.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nBid him be silent. I will not listen to his voice. This man is\nfor ever vomiting insults against me.\n\nHEROD\n\nHe has said nothing against you. Besides, he is a very great\nprophet.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI do not believe in prophets. Can a man tell what will come to\npass? No man knows it. Moreover, he is for ever insulting me. But\nI think you are afraid of him.... I know well that you are afraid\nof him.\n\nHEROD\n\nI am not afraid of him. I am afraid of no man.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI tell you, you are afraid of him. If you are not afraid of him\nwhy do you not deliver him to the Jews, who for these six months\npast have been clamouring for him?\n\nA JEW\n\nTruly, my lord, it were better to deliver him into our hands.\n\nHEROD\n\nEnough on this subject. I have already given you my answer. I\nwill not deliver him into your hands. He is a holy man. He is a\nman who has seen God.\n\nA JEW\n\nThat cannot be. There is no man who hath seen God since the\nprophet Elias. He is the last man who saw God. In these days God\ndoth not show Himself. He hideth Himself. Therefore great evils\nhave come upon the land.\n\nANOTHER JEW\n\nVerily, no man knoweth if Elias the prophet did indeed see God.\nPeradventure it was but the shadow of God that he saw.\n\nA THIRD JEW\n\nGod is at no time hidden. He showeth Himself at all times and in\neverything. God is in what is evil even as He is in what is good.\n\nA FOURTH JEW\n\nThat must not be said. It is a very dangerous doctrine. It is a\ndoctrine that cometh from the schools at Alexandria, where men\nteach the philosophy of the Greeks. And the Greeks are Gentiles:\nThey are not even circumcised.\n\nA FIFTH JEW\n\nNo one can tell how God worketh. His ways are very mysterious. It\nmay be that the things which we call evil are good, and that the\nthings which we call good are evil. There is no knowledge of any\nthing. We must needs submit to everything, for God is very\nstrong. He breaketh in pieces the strong together with the weak,\nfor He regardeth not any man.\n\nFIRST JEW\n\nThou speaketh truly. God is terrible; He breaketh the strong and\nthe weak as a man brays corn in a mortar. But this man hath never\nseen God. No man hath seen God since the prophet Elias.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nMake them be silent. They weary me.\n\nHEROD\n\nBut I have heard it said that Jokanaan himself is your prophet\nElias.\n\nTHE JEW\n\nThat cannot be. It is more than three hundred years since the\ndays of the prophet Elias.\n\nHEROD\n\nThere be some who say that this man is the prophet Elias..\n\nA NAZARENE\n\nI am sure that he is the prophet Elias.\n\nTHE JEW\n\nNay, but he is not the prophet Elias.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nSo the day is come, the day of the Lord, and I hear upon the\nmountains the feet of Him who shall be the Saviour of the world.\n\nHEROD\n\nWhat does that mean? The Saviour of the world.\n\nTIGELLINUS\n\nIt is a title that Cæsar takes.\n\nHEROD\n\nBut Cæsar is not coming into Judæa. Only yesterday I received\nletters from Rome. They contained nothing concerning this matter.\nAnd you, Tigellinus, who were at Rome during the winter, you\nheard nothing concerning this matter, did you?\n\nTIGELLINUS\n\nSire, I heard nothing concerning the matter. I was explaining the\ntitle. It is one of Cæsar\'s titles.\n\nHEROD\n\nBut Cæsar cannot come. He is too gouty. They say that his feet\nare like the feet of an elephant. Also there are reasons of\nState. He who leaves Rome loses Rome. He will not come. Howbeit,\nCæsar is lord, he will come if he wishes. Nevertheless, I do not\nthink he will come.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nIt was not concerning Cæsar that the prophet spake these words,\nsire.\n\nHEROD\n\nNot of Cæsar?\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nNo, sire.\n\nHEROD\n\nConcerning whom then did he speak?\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nConcerning Messias who has come.\n\nA JEW\n\nMessiah hath not come.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nHe hath come, and everywhere He worketh miracles.\n\nHERODIAS Ho! ho! miracles! I do not believe in miracles. I have\nseen too many. [_To the page._] My fan!\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nThis man worketh true miracles. Thus, at a marriage which took\nplace in a little town of Galilee, a town of some importance, He\nchanged water into wine. Certain persons who were present related\nit to me. Also He healed two lepers that were seated before the\nGate of Capernaum simply by touching them.\n\nSECOND NAZARENE\n\nNay, it was blind men that he healed at Capernaum.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nNay; they were lepers. But He hath healed blind people also, and\nHe was seen on a mountain talking with angels.\n\nA SADDUCEE\n\nAngels do not exist.\n\nA PHARISEE\n\nAngels exist, but I do not believe that this Man has talked with\nthem.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nHe was seen by a great multitude of people talking with angels.\n\nA SADDUCEE\n\nNot with angels.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nHow these men weary me! They are ridiculous! [_To the page._]\nWell! my fan! [_The page gives her the fan._] You have a\ndreamer\'s look; you must not dream. It is only sick people who\ndream. [_She strikes the page with her fan._]\n\nSECOND NAZARENE\n\nThere is also the miracle of the daughter of Jairus.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nYes, that is sure. No man can gainsay it.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nThese men are mad. They have looked too long on the moon. Command\nthem to be silent.\n\nHEROD\n\nWhat is this miracle of the daughter of Jairus?\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nThe daughter of Jairus was dead. He raised her from the dead.\n\nHEROD\n\nHe raises the dead?\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nYea, sire, He raiseth the dead.\n\nHEROD\n\nI do not wish Him to do that. I forbid Him to do that. I allow no\nman to raise the dead. This Man must be found and told that I\nforbid Him to raise the dead. Where is this Man at present?\n\nSECOND NAZARENE\n\nHe is in every place, my lord, but it is hard to find Him.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nIt is said that He is now in Samaria.\n\nA JEW\n\nIt is easy to see that this is not Messias, if He is in Samaria.\nIt is not to the Samaritans that Messias shall come. The\nSamaritans are accursed. They bring no offerings to the Temple.\n\nSECOND NAZARENE\n\nHe left Samaria a few days since. I think that at the present\nmoment He is in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem.\n\nFIRST NAZARENE\n\nNo; He is not there. I have just come from Jerusalem. For two\nmonths they have had no tidings of Him.\n\nHEROD\n\nNo matter! But let them find Him, and tell Him from me, I will\nnot allow him to raise the dead! To change water into wine, to\nheal the lepers and the blind.... He may do these things if He\nwill. I say nothing against these things. In truth I hold it a\ngood deed to heal a leper. But I allow no man to raise the dead.\nIt would be terrible if the dead came back.\n\n[Illustration: THE STOMACH DANCE]\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nAh! the wanton! The harlot! Ah! the daughter of Babylon with her\ngolden eyes and her gilded eyelids!--Thus saith the Lord God, Let\nthere come up against her a multitude of men. Let the people take\nstones and stone her....\n\nHERODIAS\n\nCommand him to be silent.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nLet the war captains pierce her with their swords, let them crush\nher beneath their shields.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nNay, but it is infamous.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nIt is thus that I will wipe out all wickedness from the earth,\nand that all women shall learn not to imitate her abominations.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou hear what he says against me? You allow him to revile your\nwife?\n\nHEROD\n\nHe did not speak your name.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nWhat does that matter? You know well that it is I whom he seeks\nto revile. And I am your wife, am I not?\n\nHEROD\n\nOf a truth, dear and noble Herodias, you are my wife, and before\nthat you were the wife of my brother.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nIt was you who tore me from his arms.\n\nHEROD\n\nOf a truth I was stronger.... But let us not talk of that matter.\nI do not desire to talk of it. It is the cause of the terrible\nwords that the prophet has spoken. Peradventure on account of it\na misfortune will come. Let us not speak of this matter. Noble\nHerodias, we are not mindful of our guests. Fill thou my cup, my\nwell-beloved. Fill with wine the great goblets of silver, and the\ngreat goblets of glass. I will drink to Cæsar. There are Romans\nhere, we must drink to Cæsar.\n\nALL\n\nCæsar! Cæsar!\n\nHEROD\n\nDo you not see your daughter, how pale she is?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nWhat is it to you if she be pale or not?\n\nHEROD\n\nNever have I seen her so pale.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou must not look at her.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nIn that day the sun shall become black like sackcloth of hair,\nand the moon shall become like blood, and the stars of the\nheavens shall fall upon the earth like ripe figs that fall from\nthe fig-tree, and the kings of the earth shall be afraid.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nAh! Ah! I should like to see that day of which he speaks, when\nthe moon shall become like blood, and when the stars shall fall\nupon the earth like ripe figs. This prophet talks like a drunken\nman ... but I cannot suffer the sound of his voice. I hate his\nvoice. Command him to be silent.\n\nHEROD\n\nI will not. I cannot understand what it is that he saith, but it\nmay be an omen.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI do not believe in omens. He speaks like a drunken man.\n\nHEROD\n\nIt may be he is drunk with the wine of God.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nWhat wine is that, the wine of God? From what vineyards is it\ngathered? In what wine-press may one find it?\n\nHEROD\n\n[_From this point he looks all the while at Salomé._]\n\nTigellinus, when you were at Rome of late, did the Emperor speak\nwith you: on the subject of...?\n\nTIGELLINUS\n\nOn what subject, sire?\n\nHEROD\n\nOn what subject? Ah! I asked you a question, did I not? I have\nforgotten what I would have asked you.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou are looking again at my daughter. You must not look at her. I\nhave already said so.\n\nHEROD\n\nYou say nothing else.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI say it again.\n\nHEROD\n\nAnd that restoration of the Temple about which they have talked\nso much, will anything be done? They say the veil of the\nSanctuary has disappeared, do they not?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nIt was thyself didst steal it. Thou speakest at random. I will\nnot stay here. Let us go within.\n\nHEROD\n\nDance for me, Salomé.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI will not have her dance.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI have no desire to dance, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\nSalomé, daughter of Herodias, dance for me.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nLet her alone.\n\nHEROD\n\nI command thee to dance, Salomé.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will not dance, Tetrarch.\n\nHERODIAS\n\n[_Laughing_].\n\nYou see how she obeys you.\n\nHEROD\n\nWhat is it to me whether she dance or not? It is naught to me.\nTo-night I am happy, I am exceeding happy. Never have I been so\nhappy.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nThe Tetrarch has a sombre look. Has he not a sombre look?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nYes, he has a sombre look.\n\nHEROD\n\nWherefore should I not be happy? Cæsar, who is lord of the world,\nwho is lord of all things, loves me well. He has just sent me\nmost precious gifts. Also he has promised me to summon to Rome\nthe King of Cappadocia, who is my enemy. It may be that at Rome\nhe will crucify him, for he is able to do all things that he\nwishes. Verily, Cæsar is lord. Thus you see I have a right to be\nhappy. Indeed, I am happy. I have never been so happy. There is\nnothing in the world that can mar my happiness.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nHe shall be seated on this throne. He shall be clothed in scarlet\nand purple. In his hand he shall bear a golden cup full of his\nblasphemies. And the angel of the Lord shall smite him. He shall\nbe eaten of worms.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYou hear what he says about you. He says that you will be eaten\nof worms.\n\nHEROD\n\nIt is not of me that he speaks. He speaks never against me. It is\nof the King of Cappadocia that he speaks; the King of Cappadocia,\nwho is mine enemy. It is he who shall be eaten of worms. It is\nnot I. Never has he spoken word against me, this prophet, save\nthat I sinned in taking to wife the wife of my brother. It may be\nhe is right. For, of a truth, you are sterile.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI am sterile, I? You say that, you that are ever looking at my\ndaughter, you that would have her dance for your pleasure? It is\nabsurd to say that. I have borne a child. You have gotten no\nchild, no, not even from one of your slaves. It is you who are\nsterile, not I.\n\nHEROD\n\nPeace, woman! I say that you are sterile. You have borne me no\nchild, and the prophet says that our marriage is not a true\nmarriage. He says that it is an incestuous marriage, a marriage\nthat will bring evils.... I fear he is right; I am sure that he\nis right. But it is not the moment to speak of such things. I\nwould be happy at this moment. Of a truth, I am happy. There is\nnothing I lack.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI am glad you are of so fair a humour to-night. It is not your\ncustom. But it is late. Let us go within. Do not forget that we\nhunt at sunrise. All honours must be shown to Cæsar\'s\nambassadors, must they not?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\nWhat a sombre look the Tetrarch wears.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\nYes, he wears a sombre look.\n\nHEROD\n\nSalomé, Salomé, dance for me. I pray thee dance for me. I am sad\nto-night. Yes; I am passing sad to-night. When I came hither I\nslipped in blood, which is an evil omen; and I heard, I am sure I\nheard in the air a beating of wings, a beating of giant wings. I\ncannot tell what they mean ... I am sad to-night. Therefore dance\nfor me. Dance for me, Salomé, I beseech you. If you dance for me\nyou may ask of me what you will, and I will give it you, even\nunto the half of my kingdom.\n\n[Illustration: THE TOILETTE OF SALOMÉ--I]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Rising._] Will you indeed give me whatsoever I shall ask,\nTetrarch?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nDo not dance, my daughter.\n\nHEROD\n\nEverything, even the half of my kingdom.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou swear it, Tetrarch?\n\nHEROD\n\nI swear it, Salomé.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nDo not dance, my daughter.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nBy what will you swear, Tetrarch?\n\nHEROD\n\nBy my life, by my crown, by my gods. Whatsoever you desire I will\ngive it you, even to the half of my kingdom, if you will but\ndance for me. O, Salomé, Salomé, dance for me!\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou have sworn, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\nI have sworn, Salomé.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nAll this I ask, even the half of your kingdom.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nMy daughter, do not dance.\n\nHEROD\n\nEven to the half of my kingdom. Thou wilt be passing fair as a\nqueen, Salomé, if it please thee to ask for the half of my\nkingdom. Will she not be fair as a queen? Ah! it is cold here!\nThere is an icy wind, and I hear ... wherefore do I hear in the\nair this beating of wings? Ah! one might fancy a bird, a huge\nblack bird that hovers over the terrace. Why can I not see it,\nthis bird? The beat of its wings is terrible. The breath of the\nwind of its wings is terrible. It is a chill wind. Nay, but it is\nnot cold, it is hot. I am choking. Pour water on my hands. Give\nme snow to eat. Loosen my mantle. Quick! quick! loosen my mantle.\nNay, but leave it. It is my garland that hurts me, my garland of\nroses. The flowers are like fire. They have burned my forehead.\n[_He tears the wreath from his head and throws it on the table._]\nAh! I can breathe now. How red those petals are! They are like\nstains of blood on the cloth. That does not matter. You must not\nfind symbols in everything you see. It makes life impossible. It\nwere better to say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose\npetals. It were better far to say that.... But we will not speak\nof this. Now I am happy, I am passing happy. Have I not the\nright to be happy? Your daughter is going to dance for me. Will\nyou not dance for me, Salomé? You have promised to dance for me.\n\n[Illustration: THE TOILETTE OF SALOMÉ--II]\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI will not have her dance.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI will dance for you, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\nYou hear what your daughter says. She is going to dance for me.\nYou do well to dance for me, Salomé. And when you have danced for\nme, forget not to ask of me whatsoever you wish. Whatsoever you\nwish I will give it you, even to the half of my kingdom. I have\nsworn it, have I not?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou have sworn it, Tetrarch.\n\nHEROD\n\nAnd I have never broken my word. I am not of those who break\ntheir oaths. I know not how to lie. I am the slave of my word,\nand my word is the word of a king. The King of Cappadocia always\nlies, but he is no true king. He is a coward. Also he owes me\nmoney that he will not repay. He has even insulted my\nambassadors. He has spoken words that were wounding. But Cæsar\nwill crucify him when he comes to Rome. I am sure that Cæsar will\ncrucify him. And if not, yet will he die, being eaten of worms.\nThe prophet has prophesied it. Well! wherefore dost thou tarry,\nSalomé?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am awaiting until my slaves bring perfumes to me and the seven\nveils, and take off my sandals. [_Slaves bring perfumes and the\nseven veils, and take off the sandals of Salomé._]\n\nHEROD\n\nAh, you are going to dance with naked feet. \'Tis well!--\'Tis\nwell. Your little feet will be like white doves. They will be\nlike little white flowers that dance upon the trees.... No, no,\nshe is going to dance on blood. There is blood spilt on the\nground. She must not dance on blood. It were an evil omen.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nWhat is it to you if she dance on blood? Thou hast waded deep\nenough therein....\n\nHEROD\n\nWhat is it to me? Ah! look at the moon! She has become red. She\nhas become red as blood. Ah! the prophet prophesied truly. He\nprophesied that the moon would become red as blood. Did he not\nprophesy it? All of you heard him. And now the moon has become\nred as blood. Do ye not see it?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nOh, yes, I see it well, and the stars are falling like ripe figs,\nare they not? and the sun is becoming black like sackcloth of\nhair, and the kings of the earth are afraid. That at least one\ncan see. The prophet, for once in his life, was right, the kings\nof the earth are afraid.... Let us go within. You are sick. They\nwill say at Rome that you are mad. Let us go within, I tell you.\n\nTHE VOICE OF JOKANAAN\n\nWho is this who cometh from Edom, who is this who cometh from\nBozra, whose raiment is dyed with purple, who shineth in the\nbeauty of his garments, who walketh mighty in his greatness?\nWherefore is thy raiment stained with scarlet?\n\nHERODIAS\n\nLet us go within. The voice of that man maddens me. I will not\nhave my daughter dance while he is continually crying out. I will\nnot have her dance while you look at her in this fashion. In a\nword, I will not have her dance.\n\nHEROD\n\nDo not rise, my wife, my queen, it will avail thee nothing. I\nwill not go within till she hath danced. Dance, Salomé, dance for\nme.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nDo not dance, my daughter.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI am ready, Tetrarch.\n\n[_Salomé dances the dance of the seven veils._]\n\nHEROD\n\nAh! wonderful! wonderful! You see that she has danced for me,\nyour daughter. Come near, Salomé, come near, that I may give you\nyour reward. Ah! I pay the dancers well. I will pay thee royally.\nI will give thee whatsoever thy soul desireth. What wouldst thou\nhave? Speak.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Kneeling_].\n\nI would that they presently bring me in a silver charger....\n\nHEROD\n\n[Laughing.]\n\nIn a silver charger? Surely yes, in a silver charger. She is\ncharming, is she not? What is it you would have in a silver\ncharger, O sweet and fair Salomé, you who are fairer than all the\ndaughters of Judæa? What would you have them bring thee in a\nsilver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, they shall give it\nyou. My treasures belong to thee. What is it, Salomé?\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_Rising_].\n\nThe head of Jokanaan.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nAh! that is well said, my daughter.\n\nHEROD\n\nNo, no!\n\nHERODIAS\n\nThat is well said, my daughter.\n\nHEROD\n\nNo, no, Salomé. You do not ask me that. Do not listen to your\nmother\'s voice. She is ever giving you evil counsel. Do not heed\nher.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI do not heed my mother. It is for mine own pleasure that I ask\nthe head of Jokanaan in a silver charger. You hath sworn, Herod.\nForget not that you have sworn an oath.\n\nHEROD\n\nI know it. I have sworn by my gods. I know it well. But I pray\nyou, Salomé, ask of me something else. Ask of me the half of my\nkingdom, and I will give it you. But ask not of me what you have\nasked.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI ask of you the head of Jokanaan.\n\nHEROD\n\nNo, no, I do not wish it.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nYou have sworn, Herod.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nYes, you have sworn. Everybody heard you. You swore it before\neverybody.\n\nHEROD\n\nBe silent! It is not to you I speak.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nMy daughter has done well to ask the head of Jokanaan. He has\ncovered me with insults. He has said monstrous things against me.\nOne can see that she loves her mother well. Do not yield, my\ndaughter. He has sworn, he has sworn.\n\nHEROD\n\nBe silent, speak not to me!... Come, Salomé, be reasonable. I\nhave never been hard to you. I have ever loved you.... It may be\nthat I have loved you too much. Therefore ask not this thing of\nme. This is a terrible thing, an awful thing to ask of me.\nSurely, I think thou art jesting. The head of a man that is cut\nfrom his body is ill to look upon, is it not? It is not meet\nthat the eyes of a virgin should look upon such a thing. What\npleasure could you have in it? None. No, no, it is not what you\ndesire. Hearken to me. I have an emerald, a great round emerald,\nwhich Cæsar\'s minion sent me. If you look through this emerald\nyou can see things which happen at a great distance. Cæsar\nhimself carries such an emerald when he goes to the circus. But\nmy emerald is larger. I know well that it is larger. It is the\nlargest emerald in the whole world. You would like that, would\nyou not? Ask it of me and I will give it you.\n\n[Illustration: THE DANCER\'S REWARD]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nI demand the head of Jokanaan.\n\nHEROD\n\nYou are not listening. You are not listening. Suffer me to speak,\nSalomé.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nThe head of Jokanaan.\n\nHEROD\n\nNo, no, you would not have that. You say that to trouble me,\nbecause I have looked at you all this evening. It is true, I have\nlooked at you all this evening. Your beauty troubled me. Your\nbeauty has grievously troubled me, and I have looked at you too\nmuch. But I will look at you no more. Neither at things, nor at\npeople should one look. Only in mirrors should one look, for\nmirrors do but show us masks. Oh! oh! bring wine! I thirst....\nSalomé, Salomé, let us be friends. Come now!... Ah! what would I\nsay? What was\'t? Ah! I remember!... Salomé--nay, but come nearer\nto me; I fear you will not hear me--Salomé, you know my white\npeacocks, my beautiful white peacocks, that walk in the garden\nbetween the myrtles and the tall cypress trees. Their beaks are\ngilded with gold, and the grains that they eat are gilded with\ngold also, and their feet are stained with purple. When they cry\nout the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens\nwhen they spread their tails. Two by two they walk between the\ncypress trees and the black myrtles, and each has a slave to tend\nit. Sometimes they fly across the trees, and anon they crouch in\nthe grass, and round the lake. There are not in all the world\nbirds so wonderful. There is no king in all the world who\npossesses such wonderful birds. I am sure that Cæsar himself has\nno birds so fair as my birds. I will give you fifty of my\npeacocks. They will follow you whithersoever you go, and in the\nmidst of them you will be like the moon in the midst of a great\nwhite cloud.... I will give them all to you. I have but a\nhundred, and in the whole world there is no king who has peacocks\nlike unto my peacocks. But I will give them all to you. Only you\nmust loose me from my oath, and must not ask of me that which you\nhave asked of me.\n\n [_He empties the cup of wine._]\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nGive me the head of Jokanaan.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nWell said, my daughter! As for you, you are ridiculous with your\npeacocks.\n\nHEROD\n\nBe silent! You cry out always; you cry out like a beast of prey.\nYou must not. Your voice wearies me. Be silent, I say Salomé,\nthink of what you are doing. This man comes perchance from God.\nHe is a holy man. The finger of God has touched him. God has put\ninto his mouth terrible words. In the palace as in the desert God\nis always with him.... At least it is possible. One does not\nknow. It is possible that God is for him and with him.\nFurthermore, if he died some misfortune might happen to me. In\nany case, he said that the day he dies a misfortune will happen\nto some one. That could only be to me. Remember, I slipped in\nblood when I entered. Also, I heard a beating of wings in the\nair, a beating of mighty wings. These are very evil omens, and\nthere were others. I am sure there were others though I did not\nsee them. Well, Salomé, you do not wish a misfortune to happen to\nme? You do not wish that. Listen to me, then.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nGive me the head of Jokanaan.\n\nHEROD\n\nAh! you are not listening to me. Be calm. I--I am calm. I am\nquite calm. Listen. I have jewels hidden in this place--jewels\nthat your mother even has never seen; jewels that are marvellous.\nI have a collar of pearls, set in four rows. They are like unto\nmoons chained with rays of silver. They are like fifty moons\ncaught in a golden net. On the ivory of her breast a queen has\nworn it. Thou shalt be as fair as a queen when thou wearest it. I\nhave amethysts of two kinds, one that is black like wine, and one\nthat is red like wine which has been coloured with water. I have\ntopazes, yellow as are the eyes of tigers, and topazes that are\npink as the eyes of a wood-pigeon, and green topazes that are as\nthe eyes of cats. I have opals that burn always, with an icelike\nflame, opals that make sad men\'s minds, and are fearful of the\nshadows. I have onyxes like the eyeballs of a dead woman. I have\nmoonstones that change when the moon changes, and are wan when\nthey see the sun. I have sapphires big like eggs, and as blue as\nblue flowers. The sea wanders within them and the moon comes\nnever to trouble the blue of their waves. I have chrysolites and\nberyls and chrysoprases and rubies. I have sardonyx and hyacinth\nstones, and stones of chalcedony, and I will give them all to\nyou, all, and other things will I add to them. The King of the\nIndies has but even now sent me four fans fashioned from the\nfeathers of parrots, and the King of Numidia a garment of ostrich\nfeathers. I have a crystal, into which it is not lawful for a\nwoman to look, nor may young men behold it until they have been\nbeaten with rods. In a coffer of nacre I have three wondrous\nturquoises. He who wears them on his forehead can imagine things\nwhich are not, and he who carries them in his hand can make women\nsterile. These are great treasures above all price. They are\ntreasures without price. But this is not all. In an ebony coffer\nI have two cups of amber, that are like apples of gold. If an\nenemy pour poison into these cups, they become like an apple of\nsilver. In a coffer incrusted with amber I have sandals incrusted\nwith glass. I have mantles that have been brought from the land\nof the Seres, and bracelets decked about with carbuncles and with\njade that come from the city of Euphrates.... What desirest thou\nmore than this, Salomé? Tell me the thing that thou desirest, and\nI will give it thee. All that thou askest I will give thee, save\none thing. I will give thee all that is mine, save one life. I\nwill give thee the mantle of the high priest. I will give thee\nthe veil of the sanctuary.\n\nTHE JEWS\n\nOh! oh!\n\nSALOMÉ\n\nGive me the head of Jokanaan.\n\nHEROD\n\n[_Sinking back in his seat_]. Let her be given what she asks! Of\na truth she is her mother\'s child! [_The first Soldier\napproaches. Herodias draws from the hand of the Tetrarch the ring\nof death and gives it to the Soldier, who straightway bears it to\nthe Executioner. The Executioner looks scared._] Who has taken my\nring? There was a ring on my right hand. Who has drunk my wine?\nThere was wine in my cup. It was full of wine. Someone has drunk\nit! Oh! surely some evil will befall some one. [_The Executioner\ngoes down into the cistern._] Ah! Wherefore did I give my oath?\nKings ought never to pledge their word. If they keep it not, it\nis terrible, and if they keep it, it is terrible also.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nMy daughter has done well.\n\nHEROD\n\nI am sure that some misfortune will happen.\n\nSALOMÉ\n\n[_She leans over the cistern and listens._]\n\nThere is no sound. I hear nothing. Why does he not cry out, this\nman? Ah! if any man sought to kill me, I would cry out, I would\nstruggle, I would not suffer.... Strike, strike, Naaman, strike,\nI tell you.... No, I hear nothing. There is a silence, a terrible\nsilence. Ah! something has fallen upon the ground. I heard\nsomething fall. It is the sword of the headsman. He is afraid,\nthis slave. He has let his sword fall. He dare not kill him. He\nis a coward, this slave! Let soldiers be sent. [_She sees the\nPage of Herodias and addresses him._] Come hither, thou wert the\nfriend of him who is dead, is it not so? Well, I tell thee, there\nare not dead men enough. Go to the soldiers and bid them go down\nand bring me the thing I ask, the thing the Tetrarch has promised\nme, the thing that is mine. [_The Page recoils. She turns to the\nsoldiers._] Hither, ye soldiers. Get ye down into this cistern\nand bring me the head of this man. [_The Soldiers recoil._]\nTetrarch, Tetrarch, command your soldiers that they bring me the\nhead of Jokanaan.\n\n[_A huge black arm, the arm of the Executioner, comes forth from\nthe cistern, bearing on a silver shield the head of Jokanaan.\nSalomé seizes it. Herod hides his face with his cloak. Herodias\nsmiles and fans herself. The Nazarenes fall on their knees and\nbegin to pray._]\n\nAh! thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. Well!\nI will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a\nripe fruit. Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I said it; did\nI not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now.... But,\nwherefore dost thou not look at me, Jokanaan? Thine eyes that\nwere so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now.\nWherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids,\nJokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of\nme, Jokanaan, that thou wilt not look at me?... And thy tongue,\nthat was like a red snake darting poison, it moves no more, it\nsays nothing now, Jokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its\nvenom upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red\nviper stirs no longer?... Thou wouldst have none of me, Jokanaan.\nThou didst reject me. Thou didst speak evil words against me.\nThou didst treat me as a harlot, as a wanton, me, Salomé,\ndaughter of Herodias, Princess of Judæa! Well, Jokanaan, I still\nlive, but thou, thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can\ndo with it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the\nbirds of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air\nshall devour.... Ah, Jokanaan, Jokanaan, thou wert the only man\nthat I have loved. All other men are hateful to me. But thou,\nthou wert beautiful! Thy body was a column of ivory set on a\nsilver socket. It was a garden full of doves and of silver\nlilies. It was a tower of silver decked with shields of ivory.\nThere was nothing in the world so white as thy body. There was\nnothing in the world so black as thy hair. In the whole world\nthere was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer\nthat scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on thee I\nheard a strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me,\nJokanaan? Behind thine hands and thy curses thou didst hide thy\nface. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the covering of him who\nwould see his God. Well, thou hast seen thy God, Jokanaan, but\nme, me, thou didst never see. If thou hadst seen me thou wouldst\nhave loved me. I, I saw thee, Jokanaan, and I loved thee. Oh, how\nI loved thee! I love thee yet, Jokanaan, I love thee only.... I\nam athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither\nwine nor fruits can appease my desire. What shall I do now,\nJokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my\npassion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I was a\nvirgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. I was chaste,\nand thou didst fill my veins with fire.... Ah! ah! wherefore\ndidst thou not look at me, Jokanaan? If thou hadst looked at me\nthou hadst loved me. Well I know that thou wouldst have loved me,\nand the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.\nLove only should one consider.\n\n[Illustration: THE CLIMAX]\n\nHEROD\n\nShe is monstrous, thy daughter, she is altogether monstrous. In\ntruth, what she has done is a great crime. I am sure that it was\na crime against an unknown God.\n\nHERODIAS\n\nI approve of what my daughter has done. And I will stay here now.\n\nHEROD\n\n[_Rising_].\n\nAh! There speaks the incestuous wife! Come! I will not stay here.\nCome, I tell thee. Surely some terrible thing will befall.\nManasseh, Issachar, Ozias, put out the torches. I will not look\nat things, I will not suffer things to look at me. Put out the\ntorches! Hide the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves in\nour palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid.\n\n[_The slaves put out the torches. The stars disappear. A great\nblack cloud crosses the moon and conceals it completely. The\nstage becomes very dark. The Tetrarch begins to climb the\nstaircase._]\n\nTHE VOICE OF SALOMÉ\n\nAh! I have kissed thy mouth, Jokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth.\nThere was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of\nblood?... But perchance it is the taste of love.... They say that\nlove hath a bitter taste.... But what of that? what of that? I\nhave kissed thy mouth, Jokanaan.\n\n[_A moonbeam falls on Salomé covering her with light._]\n\nHEROD\n\n[_Turning round and seeing Salomé_.]\n\nKill that woman!\n\n[_The soldiers rush forward and crush beneath their shields\nSalomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judæa._]\n\nCURTAIN.\n\n\n[Illustration: CUL DE LAMPE]\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Salomé, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALOMÉ ***\n\n***** This file should be named 42704-8.txt or 42704-8.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/7/0/42704/\n\nProduced by Marc D\'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org\n(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Impressions of America, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Impressions of America\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: Stuart Mason\n\nRelease Date: January 9, 2013 [EBook #41806]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by sp1nd, Jennifer Linklater and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n IMPRESSIONS\n OF\n AMERICA.\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE.\n\n EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION,\n BY STUART MASON.\n\n Keystone Press, Sunderland.\n 1906.\n\n\nThis Edition consists of 500 Copies.\n\n50 Copies have been printed on hand-made paper.\n\n\n TO\n WALTER LEDGER:\n\n PIGNUS\n AMICITIÆ.\n\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS.\n\n\nI.\n\nLE JARDIN.\n\n The lily’s withered chalice falls\n Around its rod of dusty gold,\n And from the beech trees on the wold\n The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.\n\n The gaudy leonine sunflower\n Hangs black and barren on its stalk,\n And down the windy garden walk\n The dead leaves scatter,--hour by hour.\n\n Pale privet-petals white as milk\n Are blown into a snowy mass;\n The roses lie upon the grass,\n Like little shreds of crimson silk.\n\n\nII.\n\nLA MER.\n\n A white mist drifts across the shrouds,\n A wild moon in this wintry sky\n Gleams like an angry lion’s eye\n Out of a mane of tawny clouds.\n\n The muffled steersman at the wheel\n Is but a shadow in the gloom;--\n And in the throbbing engine room\n Leap the long rods of polished steel.\n\n The shattered storm has left its trace\n Upon this huge and heaving dome,\n For the thin threads of yellow foam\n Float on the waves like ravelled lace.\n\n Oscar Wilde.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nOscar Wilde visited America in the year 1882. Interest in the Æsthetic\nSchool, of which he was already the acknowledged master, had sometime\npreviously spread to the United States, and it is said that the\nproduction of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera, “Patience,”[1] in which he\nand his disciples were held up to ridicule, determined him to pay a\nvisit to the States to give some lectures explaining what he meant by\nÆstheticism, hoping thereby to interest, and possibly to instruct and\nelevate our transatlantic cousins.\n\nHe set sail on board the “Arizona” on Saturday, December 24th, 1881,\narriving in New York early in the following year. On landing he was\nbombarded by journalists eager to interview the distinguished stranger.\n“Punch,” in its issue of January 14th, in a happy vein, parodied these\ninterviewers, the most amusing passage in which referred to “His\nGlorious Past,” wherein Wilde was made to say, “Precisely--I took the\nNewdigate. Oh! no doubt, every year some man gets the Newdigate; but not\nevery year does Newdigate get an Oscar.”\n\nAt Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club, Wilde\ndelivered a lecture on “Decorative Art,” he described his impressions\nof many American houses as being “illy designed, decorated shabbily, and\nin bad taste, filled with furniture that was not honestly made, and was\nout of character.” This statement gave rise to the following verses:--\n\n What a shame and what a pity,\n In the streets of London City\n Mr. Wilde is seen no more.\n Far from Piccadilly banished,\n He to Omaha has vanished.\n Horrid place, which swells ignore.\n\n On his back a coat he beareth,\n Such as Sir John Bennet weareth,\n Made of velvet--strange array!\n Legs Apollo might have sighed for,\n Or great Hercules have died for,\n His knee breeches now display.\n\n Waving sunflower and lily,\n He calls all the houses “illy\n Decorated and designed.”\n For of taste they’ve not a tittle;\n They may chew and they may whittle;\n But they’re all born colour-blind!\n\nHis lectures dealt almost exclusively with the subjects of Art and Dress\nReform. In the course of one lecture he remarked that the most\nimpressive room he had yet entered in America was the one in Camden Town\nwhere he met Walt Whitman. It contained plenty of fresh air and\nsunlight. On the table was a simple cruse of water. This led to a\nparody, in the style of Whitman, describing an imaginary interview\nbetween the two poets, which appeared in “The Century” a few months\nlater. Wilde is called Narcissus and Whitman Paumanokides.\n\n Paumanokides:--\n\n Who may this be?\n This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous,\n glidingly toward me advancing,\n Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs\n uprolling,\n\nand so on, to which Narcissus replies,\n\n O clarion, from whose brazen throat,\n Strange sounds across the seas are blown,\n Where England, girt as with a moat,\n A strong sea-lion sits alone!\n\nOf the lectures which he delivered in America only one has been\npreserved, namely that on the English Renaissance. This was his first\nlecture, and it was delivered in New York on January 9th, 1882.\nAccording to a contemporary account in the “New York Herald” a\ndistinguished and crowded audience assembled in Chickering Hall that\nevening to listen to one who “was well worth seeing, his short breeches\nand silk stockings showing to even better advantage upon the stage than\nin the gilded drawing-rooms, where the young Apostle has heretofore been\nseen in New York.”[2]\n\nOn leaving the States in the “fall” of the year Wilde proceeded to\nCanada and thence to Nova Scotia, arriving in Halifax in the second week\nof October. Of his visit there we have no record except an amusing\ninterview described in a local paper a few days later. He was dressed in\na velvet jacket with an ordinary linen collar and neck tie and he wore\ntrousers. “Mr. Wilde,” the interviewer states, “was communicative and\ngenial; he said he found Canada pleasant, but in answer to a question as\nto whether European or American women were the more beautiful, he\ndexterously evaded his querist.”\n\nAs regards poetry he expressed his opinion that Poe was the greatest\nAmerican poet, and that Walt Whitman, if not a poet, was a man who\nsounded a strong note, perhaps neither prose nor poetry, but something\nof his own that was “grand, original and unique.”\n\nDuring his tour in America Wilde “happened to find” himself (as he has\nhimself described it), in Louisville, Kentucky. The subject he had\nselected to speak on was the Mission of Art in the Nineteenth Century.\nIn the course of his lecture he had occasion to quote Keats’ Sonnet on\nBlue “as an example of the poet’s delicate sense of colour-harmonies.”\nAfter the lecture there came round to see him “a lady of middle age,\nwith a sweet gentle manner and most musical voice,” who introduced\nherself as Mrs. Speed, the daughter of George Keats, and she invited the\nlecturer to come and examine the Keats manuscripts in her possession.\n\nSome months afterwards when lecturing in California he received a letter\nfrom this lady asking him to accept the original manuscript of the\nsonnet which he had quoted.\n\nMention must be made of Wilde’s first play, a drama in blank verse\nentitled “Vera, or the Nihilists.” It had been arranged that, before his\ndeparture for America, this play should be performed at the Adelphi\nTheatre, London, with Mrs. Bernard Beere as the heroine, on Saturday,\nDecember 17th, 1881, but a few weeks before the date fixed for the first\nperformance, the author decided to postpone the production “owing to the\nstate of political feeling in England.”\n\nOn his return to England in 1883 Wilde started on a lecturing tour, the\nfirst being to the Art Students of the Royal Academy at their Club in\nGolden Square on June 30th. Ten days later he spoke at Prince’s Hall on\nhis “Personal Impressions of America,” and on subsequent occasions at\nMargate, Ramsgate and Southampton. On Monday, July 30th he lectured at\nSouthport and on the following Thursday he went to Liverpool to welcome\nMrs. Langtry on her return from America, and the same afternoon he left\non his second visit to the States in order to superintend the rehearsals\nof “Vera,” which it had been arranged to produce at the Union Square\nTheatre, New York, on August 20th following. The piece was not a\nsuccess--it was, indeed, the only failure Wilde had. However, his next\nplay, which he called his “Opus Secundum,” also a blank verse tragedy,\nhad a successful run in America in 1891. This was “The Duchess of\nPadua,” played by Lawrence Barrett, under the title of “Guido Ferranti.”\nThis has not been seen in England, nor is it even possible for Wilde’s\nadmirers to read this early offspring of his pen, for only twenty copies\nwere printed for acting purposes in America and of these but one is\nknown to be in existence, in this country at least.\n\nAn authorised German translation was made by Max Meyerfeld and the first\nperformance took place at the German Theatre in Hamburg about a year\nago. An English version is advertised from a piratical publisher in\nParis but it is only a translation from the German back into English.\n\nTowards the end of September 1883 Oscar Wilde returned to England and\nimmediately began “an all round lecturing tour,” his first visit being\nto Wandsworth Town Hall on Monday, September 24th, when he delivered to\nan enthusiastic audience a lecture on his “Impressions of America,”\nwhich is contained in the following pages. He was dressed, a London\npaper of the time states, “in ordinary evening costume, and carried an\norange-coloured silk handkerchief in his breast. He spoke with great\nfluency, in a voice now and then singularly musical, and only once or\ntwice made a scarcely perceptible reference to notes.” The lecture was\nunder the auspices of a local Literary Society, and the principle\nresidents of the district turned out “en masse.” The Chairman, the Rev.\nJohn Park, in introducing the lecturer, said there were two reasons why\nhe was glad to welcome him, and he thought his own feelings would be\nshared by the audience. They must all plead guilty to a feeling of\ncuriosity, he hoped a laudable one, to see and hear Mr. Wilde for his\nown sake, and they were also glad to hear about America--a country which\nmany might regard as a kind of Elysium.\n\nOn March 5th in the following year Wilde lectured at the Crystal Palace\non his American experiences, and on April 26th he “preached his Gospel\nin the East-end,” when it is recorded that his audience was not only\ndelighted with his humour, but was “surprised at the excellent good\nsense he talked.” His subject was a plea in favour of “art for schools,”\nand many of his remarks about the English system of elementary\neducation--with its insistence on “the population of places that no one\never wants to go to,” and its “familiarity with the lives of persons who\nprobably never existed”--were said to be quite worthy of Ruskin. A\ncontemporary account adds that Wilde “showed himself a pupil of Mr.\nRuskin’s, too, in insisting on the importance of every child being\ntaught some handicraft, and in looking forward to the time when a boy\nwould rather look at a bird or even draw it than throw “his customary\nstone!”\n\nThe British “gamin” has not made much progress in this respect during\nthe last twenty years!\n\nHis lectures on “Dress,” with the newspaper correspondence which they\nevoked, including some of Oscar Wilde’s replies in his most\ncharacteristic vein, must be reserved for a future volume.\n\n STUART MASON.\n\n Oxford, January 1906.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES.\n\n[1] First produced at the Opera Comique, April 23rd, 1881. Wilde was\nburlesqued as Reginald Bunthorne, a Fleshly Poet.\n\n[2] Wilde repeated this lecture throughout the States during his tour.\nAt Rochester, on February 7th, he met with a most disorderly reception\non the part of the College Students. Two days later Mr. Joaquin Miller,\nof St. Louis, wrote to Wilde saying that he had “read with shame about\nthe behaviour of those ruffians.” To this Wilde replied, “I thank you\nfor your chivalrous and courteous letter,” and in the course of his\nletter makes a more special attack on that critic whom he terms “the\nitinerant libeller of New England.”\n\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA.\n\n\nI fear I cannot picture America as altogether an Elysium--perhaps, from\nthe ordinary standpoint I know but little about the country. I cannot\ngive its latitude or longitude; I cannot compute the value of its dry\ngoods, and I have no very close acquaintance with its politics. These\nare matters which may not interest you, and they certainly are not\ninteresting to me.\n\nThe first thing that struck me on landing in America was that if the\nAmericans are not the most well-dressed people in the world, they are\nthe most comfortably dressed. Men are seen there with the dreadful\nchimney-pot hat, but there are very few hatless men; men wear the\nshocking swallow-tail coat, but few are to be seen with no coat at all.\nThere is an air of comfort in the appearance of the people which is a\nmarked contrast to that seen in this country, where, too often, people\nare seen in close contact with rags.\n\nThe next thing particularly noticeable is that everybody seems in a\nhurry to catch a train. This is a state of things which is not\nfavourable to poetry or romance. Had Romeo or Juliet been in a constant\nstate of anxiety about trains, or had their minds been agitated by the\nquestion of return-tickets, Shakespeare could not have given us those\nlovely balcony scenes which are so full of poetry and pathos.\n\nAmerica is the noisiest country that ever existed. One is waked up in\nthe morning, not by the singing of the nightingale, but by the steam\nwhistle. It is surprising that the sound practical sense of the\nAmericans does not reduce this intolerable noise. All Art depends upon\nexquisite and delicate sensibility, and such continual turmoil must\nultimately be destructive of the musical faculty.\n\nThere is not so much beauty to be found in American cities as in Oxford,\nCambridge, Salisbury or Winchester, where are lovely relics of a\nbeautiful age; but still there is a good deal of beauty to be seen in\nthem now and then, but only where the American has not attempted to\ncreate it. Where the Americans have attempted to produce beauty they\nhave signally failed. A remarkable characteristic of the Americans is\nthe manner in which they have applied science to modern life.\n\nThis is apparent in the most cursory stroll through New York. In England\nan inventor is regarded almost as a crazy man, and in too many instances\ninvention ends in disappointment and poverty. In America an inventor is\nhonoured, help is forthcoming, and the exercise of ingenuity, the\napplication of science to the work of man, is there the shortest road to\nwealth. There is no country in the world where machinery is so lovely as\nin America.\n\nI have always wished to believe that the line of strength and the line\nof beauty are one. That wish was realised when I contemplated American\nmachinery. It was not until I had seen the water-works at Chicago that I\nrealised the wonders of machinery; the rise and fall of the steel rods,\nthe symmetrical motion of the great wheels is the most beautifully\nrhythmic thing I have ever seen.[3] One is impressed in America, but not\nfavourably impressed, by the inordinate size of everything. The country\nseems to try to bully one into a belief in its power by its impressive\nbigness.\n\nI was disappointed with Niagara--most people must be disappointed with\nNiagara. Every American bride is taken there, and the sight of the\nstupendous waterfall must be one of the earliest, if not the keenest,\ndisappointments in American married life. One sees it under bad\nconditions, very far away, the point of view not showing the splendour\nof the water. To appreciate it really one has to see it from underneath\nthe fall, and to do that it is necessary to be dressed in a yellow\noil-skin, which is as ugly as a mackintosh--and I hope none of you ever\nwears one. It is a consolation to know, however, that such an artist as\nMadame Bernhardt has not only worn that yellow, ugly dress, but has been\nphotographed in it.\n\nPerhaps the most beautiful part of America is the West, to reach which,\nhowever, involves a journey by rail of six days, racing along tied to an\nugly tin-kettle of a steam engine. I found but poor consolation for this\njourney in the fact that the boys who infest the cars and sell\neverything that one can eat--or should not eat--were selling editions of\nmy poems vilely printed on a kind of grey blotting paper, for the low\nprice of ten cents.[4] Calling these boys on one side I told them that\nthough poets like to be popular they desire to be paid, and selling\neditions of my poems without giving me a profit is dealing a blow at\nliterature which must have a disastrous effect on poetical aspirants.\nThe invariable reply that they made was that they themselves made a\nprofit out of the transaction and that was all they cared about.\n\nIt is a popular superstition that in America a visitor is invariably\naddressed as “Stranger.” I was never once addressed as “Stranger.” When\nI went to Texas I was called “Captain”; when I got to the centre of the\ncountry I was addressed as “Colonel,” and, on arriving at the borders of\nMexico, as “General.” On the whole, however, “Sir,” the old English\nmethod of addressing people is the most common.\n\nIt is, perhaps, worth while to note that what many people call\nAmericanisms are really old English expressions which have lingered in\nour colonies while they have been lost in our own country. Many people\nimagine that the term “I guess,” which is so common in America, is\npurely an American expression, but it was used by John Locke in his work\non “The Understanding,” just as we now use “I think.”[5]\n\nIt is in the colonies, and not in the mother country, that the old life\nof the country really exists. If one wants to realise what English\nPuritanism is--not at its worst (when it is very bad), but at its best,\nand then it is not very good--I do not think one can find much of it in\nEngland, but much can be found about Boston and Massachusetts. We have\ngot rid of it. America still preserves it, to be, I hope, a short-lived\ncuriosity.\n\nSan Francisco is a really beautiful city. China Town, peopled by Chinese\nlabourers, is the most artistic town I have ever come across. The\npeople--strange, melancholy Orientals, whom many people would call\ncommon, and they are certainly very poor--have determined that they will\nhave nothing about them that is not beautiful. In the Chinese\nrestaurant, where these navvies meet to have supper in the evening, I\nfound them drinking tea out of china cups as delicate as the petals of a\nrose-leaf, whereas at the gaudy hotels I was supplied with a delf cup an\ninch and a half thick. When the Chinese bill was presented it was made\nout on rice paper, the account being done in Indian ink as fantastically\nas if an artist had been etching little birds on a fan.\n\nSalt Lake City contains only two buildings of note, the chief being the\nTabernacle, which is in the shape of a soup-kettle. It is decorated by\nthe only native artist, and he has treated religious subjects in the\nnaive spirit of the early Florentine painters, representing people of\nour own day in the dress of the period side by side with people of\nBiblical history who are clothed in some romantic costume.\n\nThe building next in importance is called the Amelia Palace, in honour\nof one of Brigham Young’s wives. When he died the present president of\nthe Mormons stood up in the Tabernacle and said that it had been\nrevealed to him that he was to have the Amelia Palace, and that on this\nsubject there were to be no more revelations of any kind!\n\nFrom Salt Lake City one travels over the great plains of Colorado and up\nthe Rocky Mountains, on the top of which is Leadville, the richest city\nin the world. It has also got the reputation of being the roughest, and\nevery man carries a revolver. I was told that if I went there they\nwould be sure to shoot me or my travelling manager. I wrote and told\nthem that nothing that they could do to my travelling manager would\nintimidate me. They are miners--men working in metals, so I lectured to\nthem on the Ethics of Art. I read them passages from the autobiography\nof Benvenuto Cellini and they seemed much delighted. I was reproved by\nmy hearers for not having brought him with me. I explained that he had\nbeen dead for some little time which elicited the enquiry “Who shot\nhim”? They afterwards took me to a dancing saloon where I saw the only\nrational method of art criticism I have ever come across. Over the piano\nwas printed a notice:--\n\n | |\n --+---------------------------+--\n | PLEASE DO NOT SHOOT THE |\n | PIANIST. |\n | HE IS DOING HIS BEST. |\n --+---------------------------+--\n | |\n\nThe mortality among pianists in that place is marvellous. Then they\nasked me to supper, and having accepted, I had to descend a mine in a\nrickety bucket in which it was impossible to be graceful. Having got\ninto the heart of the mountain I had supper, the first course being\nwhisky, the second whisky and the third whisky.\n\nI went to the Theatre to lecture and I was informed that just before I\nwent there two men had been seized for committing a murder, and in that\ntheatre they had been brought on to the stage at eight o’clock in the\nevening, and then and there tried and executed before a crowded\naudience. But I found these miners very charming and not at all rough.\n\nAmong the more elderly inhabitants of the South I found a melancholy\ntendency to date every event of importance by the late war. “How\nbeautiful the moon is to-night,” I once remarked to a gentleman who was\nstanding next to me. “Yes,” was his reply, “but you should have seen it\nbefore the war.”\n\nSo infinitesimal did I find the knowledge of Art, west of the Rocky\nMountains, that an art patron--one who in his day had been a\nminer--actually sued the railroad company for damages because the\nplaster cast of Venus of Milo, which he had imported from Paris, had\nbeen delivered minus the arms. And, what is more surprising still, he\ngained his case and the damages.\n\nPennsylvania, with its rocky gorges and woodland scenery, reminded me of\nSwitzerland. The prairie reminded me of a piece of blotting-paper.\n\nThe Spanish and French have left behind them memorials in the beauty of\ntheir names. All the cities that have beautiful names derive them from\nthe Spanish or the French. The English people give intensely ugly names\nto places. One place had such an ugly name that I refused to lecture\nthere. It was called Grigsville. Supposing I had founded a school of Art\nthere--fancy “Early Grigsville.” Imagine a School of Art teaching\n“Grigsville Renaissance.”\n\nAs for slang I did not hear much of it, though a young lady who had\nchanged her clothes after an afternoon dance did say that “after the\nheel kick she shifted her day goods.”\n\nAmerican youths are pale and precocious, or sallow and supercilious, but\nAmerican girls are pretty and charming--little oases of pretty\nunreasonableness in a vast desert of practical common-sense.\n\nEvery American girl is entitled to have twelve young men devoted to her.\nThey remain her slaves and she rules them with charming nonchalance.\n\nThe men are entirely given to business; they have, as they say, their\nbrains in front of their heads. They are also exceedingly acceptive of\nnew ideas. Their education is practical. We base the education of\nchildren entirely on books, but we must give a child a mind before we\ncan instruct the mind. Children have a natural antipathy to\nbooks--handicraft should be the basis of education. Boys and girls\nshould be taught to use their hands to make something, and they would be\nless apt to destroy and be mischievous.\n\nIn going to America one learns that poverty is not a necessary\naccompaniment to civilisation. There at any rate is a country that has\nno trappings, no pageants and no gorgeous ceremonies. I saw only two\nprocessions--one was the Fire Brigade preceded by the Police, the other\nwas the Police preceded by the Fire Brigade.\n\nEvery man when he gets to the age of twenty-one is allowed a vote, and\nthereby immediately acquires his political education. The Americans are\nthe best politically educated people in the world. It is well worth\none’s while to go to a country which can teach us the beauty of the word\nFREEDOM and the value of the thing LIBERTY.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES.\n\n[3] In a poem published in an American magazine on February 15th, 1882,\nWilde wrote\n\n “And in the throbbing engine room\n Leap the long rods of polished steel.”\n\n[4] _Poems by Oscar Wilde. Also his Lecture on the English Renaissance._\nThe Seaside Library, Vol. lviii. No. 1183, January 19th, 1882. 4to. Pp.\n32. New York: George Munro, Publisher.\n\nA copy of this edition was sold by auction in New York last year for\neight dollars.\n\n[5] See _An Essay concerning Human Understanding_, IV. xii. 10.\n\nA still more striking instance of the use of this expression is to be\nfound in the same writer’s _Thoughts concerning Education_, s. 28, where\nhe says:--“Once in four and twenty hours, I think, is enough; and\nnobody, _I guess_, will think it too much.”\n\n\n\n\nOSCAR WILDE IN AMERICA.\n\n\nAn interesting account of Oscar Wilde, at the time of his American tour,\nwas given in the _Lady’s Pictorial_ a few weeks after his arrival in New\nYork, the city which he described as “one huge Whiteley’s shop.”\n\n[Sidenote: His Abode.]\n\nHe was interviewed in a room which was intensely warm and the sofa on\nwhich the poet reclined was drawn up to the fire. An immense wolf rug,\nbordered with scarlet, was thrown over it and half-encircled his\ngraceful form in its warm embrace. Wilde was wearied. In a languid, half\nenervated manner he gently sipped hot chocolate from a cup by his side.\nOccasionally he inhaled a long, deep whiff from a smouldering cigarette\nheld lightly in his white and shapely hand.\n\n[Sidenote: His Dress.]\n\nHe was attired in a smoking suit of dark brown velvet faced with lapels\nof red quilted silk. The ends of a long dark necktie floated over the\nfacing like sea-weed on foam tinged by the dying sun. Dark brown nether\ngarments, striped with red up the seam, and patent leather shoes with\nlight cloth uppers completed the rest of the poet’s costume.\n\nHis favourite colour is said to have been something between brown and\ngreen, a tint “that never was on sea or sky,” and he had a complete suit\nmade of it. A white walking-stick which he was in the habit of carrying\nwas presented to him at the Acropolis and was said to have been cut from\nthe olive groves of the Academia. Only in the evening was he wont to don\nknee breeches, “but evening and morning alike,” adds his interviewer,\n“find him neither more nor less than a man, and always a perfect\ngentleman.”\n\n[Sidenote: His appearance.]\n\nLong masses of dark brown hair, parted in the middle, fell in odd curves\nof beauty over his broad shoulders. He wore neither beard nor moustache.\nThe full, rather sensuous lips, now pressed close together with\nmomentary tension, now parted in kindly smile, showed to perfection the\nnobility of his countenance.\n\nA Grecian nose and a well-tinged flush of health on the poet’s face\nadded all that was required to make it a truly remarkable one. The eyes\nwere large, dark[6] and ever-changing in expression. He was a charming\ncompanion who could tell racy stories and repeat _bons mots_ of those\nwhom society delighted to honour, and at the same time could cap\nquotations from Greek authors.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE.\n\n[6] A French writer, M. Joseph-Renaud, recently described Wilde’s eyes\nas being _blue_, while Lord Alfred Douglas affirms that they were\n_green_.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe two poems _Le Jardin_ and _La Mer_ appeared originally in the first\nnumber of _Our Continent_, an American Magazine, in February, 1882. They\nhave not been reprinted or included in any edition of the collected\npoems.\n\n\n\n\nBY THE SAME WRITER.\n\nImp. 16mo. Pp. 120. Five Illustrations.\n\nOSCAR WILDE: A STUDY. From the French of André Gide.\n\nWith Introduction, Notes and Bibliography by Stuart Mason.\n\n500 copies 3/6 net.\n\n50 copies on hand made paper, 10/6 net.\n\nOxford: The Holywell Press: 1905.\n\n\n“Will be found interesting by many readers.”--_Publishers’ Circular._\n\n“Beautifully printed and illustrated, and has genuine literary\nattributes.”--_Notes and Queries._\n\n“One of the best accounts yet printed of the poet’s later days ... with\nunique illustrations.”--_Reynolds’s Newspaper._\n\nThe author “saw much of Wilde in his later days.”--_Evening Standard and\nSt. James’s Gazette._\n\n“Probably nothing good will ever be written about Oscar Wilde. This is\nbetter than Mr. Sherard’s book; at any rate shorter. But it is very dull\nand unintelligent.”--_Oxford Magazine._\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Impressions of America, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA ***\n\n***** This file should be named 41806-0.txt or 41806-0.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/8/0/41806/\n\nProduced by sp1nd, Jennifer Linklater and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, The Canterville Ghost, by Oscar Wilde,\nIllustrated by Wallace Goldsmith\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: The Canterville Ghost\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: December 30, 2004 [eBook #14522]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CANTERVILLE GHOST***\n\n\nE-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Karina Aleksandrova, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n file which includes the original illustrations.\n See 14522-h.htm or 14522-h.zip:\n (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/2/14522/14522-h/14522-h.htm)\n or\n (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/2/14522/14522-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CANTERVILLE GHOST\n\nby\n\nWILDE\n\nAn amusing chronicle of the tribulations of the Ghost of Canterville\nChase when his ancestral halls became the home of the American Minister\nto the Court of St. James.\n\nIllustrated by Wallace Goldsmith\n\nJohn W. Luce and Company\nBoston and London\n\n1906\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nMISS VIRGINIA E. OTIS\n\n"HAD ONCE RACED OLD LORD BILTON ON HER PONY"\n\n"BLOOD HAS BEEN SPILLED ON THAT SPOT"\n\n"I REALLY MUST INSIST ON YOUR OILING THOSE CHAINS"\n\n"THE TWINS ... AT ONCE DISCHARGED TWO PELLETS ON HIM"\n\n"ITS HEAD WAS BALD AND BURNISHED"\n\n"HE MET WITH A SEVERE FALL"\n\n"A HEAVY JUG OF WATER FELL RIGHT DOWN ON HIM"\n\n"MAKING SATIRICAL REMARKS ON THE PHOTOGRAPHS"\n\n"SUDDENLY THERE LEAPED OUT TWO FIGURES"\n\n"\'POOR, POOR GHOST,\' SHE MURMURED; \'HAVE YOU NO PLACE WHERE YOU CAN\nSLEEP?\'"\n\n"THE GHOST GLIDED ON MORE SWIFTLY"\n\n"HE HEARD SOMEBODY GALLOPING AFTER HIM"\n\n"OUT ON THE LANDING STEPPED VIRGINIA"\n\n"CHAINED TO IT WAS A GAUNT SKELETON"\n\n"BY THE SIDE OF THE HEARSE AND THE COACHES WALKED THE SERVANTS WITH\nLIGHTED TORCHES"\n\n"THE MOON CAME OUT FROM BEHIND A CLOUD"\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nWhen Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,\nevery one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no\ndoubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville\nhimself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his\nduty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.\n\n"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord\nCanterville, "since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was\nfrightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two\nskeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for\ndinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been\nseen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of\nthe parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King\'s\nCollege, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none\nof our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often\ngot very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises\nthat came from the corridor and the library."\n\n"My Lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the\nghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have\neverything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows\npainting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and\nprima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in\nEurope, we\'d have it at home in a very short time in one of our public\nmuseums, or on the road as a show."\n\n"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though\nit may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It\nhas been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always\nmakes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."\n\n"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But\nthere is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature\nare not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy."\n\n"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville,\nwho did not quite understand Mr. Otis\'s last observation, "and if you\ndon\'t mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember\nI warned you."\n\n[Illustration: MISS VIRGINIA E. OTIS]\n\nA few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of\nthe season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.\nMrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been\na celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,\nwith fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving\ntheir native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the\nimpression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had\nnever fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a\nreally wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she\nwas quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we\nhave really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of\ncourse, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents\nin a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a\nfair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself\nfor American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for\nthree successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an\nexcellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses.\nOtherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little\ngirl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom\nin her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced\nold Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length\nand a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of\nthe young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was\nsent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears.\nAfter Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Star and\nStripes," as they were always getting swished. They were delightful\nboys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true\nrepublicans of the family.\n\n[Illustration: "HAD ONCE RACED OLD LORD BILTON ON HER PONY"]\n\nAs Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway\nstation, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and\nthey started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July\nevening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now\nand then they heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or\nsaw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant.\nLittle squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by,\nand the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy\nknolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of\nCanterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with\nclouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great\nflight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they\nreached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.\n\nStanding on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed\nin black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the\nhousekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville\'s earnest request, had\nconsented to keep in her former position. She made them each a low\ncurtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner,\n"I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase." Following her, they passed\nthrough the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled\nin black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Here\nthey found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps,\nthey sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.\n\nSuddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by\nthe fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said\nto Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has been spilt there."\n\n"Yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has\nbeen spilt on that spot."\n\n[Illustration: "BLOOD HAS BEEN SPILLED ON THAT SPOT"]\n\n"How horrid!" cried Mrs. Otis; "I don\'t at all care for blood-stains in\na sitting-room. It must be removed at once."\n\nThe old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice,\n"It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on\nthat very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575.\nSir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very\nmysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his\nguilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much\nadmired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed."\n\n"That is all nonsense," cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton\'s Champion\nStain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time," and\nbefore the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his\nknees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what\nlooked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the\nblood-stain could be seen.\n\n"I knew Pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he\nlooked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these\nwords than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a\nfearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs.\nUmney fainted.\n\n"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister, calmly, as he\nlit a long cheroot. "I guess the old country is so overpopulated that\nthey have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of\nopinion that emigration is the only thing for England."\n\n"My dear Hiram," cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman who\nfaints?"\n\n"Charge it to her like breakages," answered the Minister; "she won\'t\nfaint after that;" and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.\nThere was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she\nsternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.\n\n"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make\nany Christian\'s hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not\nclosed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here." Mr.\nOtis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they\nwere not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of\nProvidence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for\nan increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nThe storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note\noccurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,\nthey found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "I don\'t\nthink it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent," said Washington,\n"for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost." He\naccordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning\nit appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the\nlibrary had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key\ncarried up-stairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis\nbegan to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the\nexistence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the\nPsychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs.\nMyers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains\nwhen connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective\nexistence of phantasmata were removed for ever.\n\nThe day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the\nwhole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine\no\'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned\nupon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of\nreceptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of\npsychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned\nfrom Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of\ncultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority\nof Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the\ndifficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in\nthe best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of\nthe world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway\ntravelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the\nLondon drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was\nSir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o\'clock the\nfamily retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time\nafter, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside\nhis room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming\nnearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at\nthe time. It was exactly one o\'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his\npulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued,\nand with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his\nslippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened\nthe door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man\nof terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair\nfell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of\nantique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung\nheavy manacles and rusty gyves.\n\n"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those\nchains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the\nTammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious\nupon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect\non the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall\nleave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to\nsupply you with more, should you require it." With these words the\nUnited States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,\nclosing his door, retired to rest.\n\n[Illustration: "I REALLY MUST INSIST ON YOUR OILING THOSE CHAINS"]\n\nFor a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural\nindignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor,\nhe fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a\nghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great\noak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures\nappeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently\nno time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space\nas a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house\nbecame quite quiet.\n\nOn reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up\nagainst a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize\nhis position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three\nhundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the\nDowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before\nthe glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone\ninto hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on\none of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he\nhad blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who\nhad been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr\nto nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having\nwakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair\nby the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six\nweeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become\nreconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that\nnotorious sceptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible\nnight when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his\ndressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and\nconfessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox\nout of £50,000 at Crockford\'s by means of that very card, and swore that\nthe ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back\nto him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because\nhe had seen a green hand tapping at the window-pane, to the beautiful\nLady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round\nher throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin,\nand who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the\nKing\'s Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went\nover his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as\nhe recalled to mind his last appearance as "Red Reuben, or the Strangled\nBabe," his _début_ as "Guant Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,"\nand the _furore_ he had excited one lovely June evening by merely\nplaying ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And\nafter all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him\nthe Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite\nunbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this\nmanner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till\ndaylight in an attitude of deep thought.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nThe next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed\nthe ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a\nlittle annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "I have\nno wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say\nthat, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don\'t\nthink it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,"--a very just remark,\nat which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter.\n"Upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the\nRising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It\nwould be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside\nthe bedrooms."\n\nFor the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing\nthat excited any attention being the continual renewal of the\nblood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as\nthe door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept\nclosely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a\ngood deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red,\nthen it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came\ndown for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free\nAmerican Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright\nemerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party\nvery much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The\nonly person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who,\nfor some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the\nsight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was\nemerald-green.\n\nThe second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after\nthey had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in\nthe hall. Rushing down-stairs, they found that a large suit of old\narmour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone\nfloor, while seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost,\nrubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The\ntwins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged\ntwo pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained\nby long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United\nStates Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in\naccordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost\nstarted up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a\nmist, extinguishing Washington Otis\'s candle as he passed, and so\nleaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase\nhe recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of\ndemoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely\nuseful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker\'s wig grey in a single\nnight, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville\'s French\ngovernesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly\nlaughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and\nrang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door\nopened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "I am\nafraid you are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle\nof Doctor Dobell\'s tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a\nmost excellent remedy." The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at\nonce to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an\naccomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family\ndoctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville\'s\nuncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps,\nhowever, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself\nwith becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep\nchurchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.\n\n[Illustration: "THE TWINS ... AT ONCE DISCHARGED TWO PELLETS ON HIM"]\n\nOn reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the\nmost violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross\nmaterialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what\nreally distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit\nof mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by\nthe sight of a Spectre in armour, if for no more sensible reason, at\nleast out of respect for their natural poet Longfellow, over whose\ngraceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary\nhour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit.\nHe had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had\nbeen highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen\nherself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered\nby the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen\nheavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and\nbruising the knuckles of his right hand.\n\nFor some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of\nhis room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.\nHowever, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to\nmake a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his\nfamily. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent\nmost of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in\nfavour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet\nfrilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a\nviolent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the\nwindows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was\njust such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to\nmake his way quietly to Washington Otis\'s room, gibber at him from the\nfoot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound\nof low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware\nthat it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville\nblood-stain by means of Pinkerton\'s Paragon Detergent. Having reduced\nthe reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was\nthen to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and\nhis wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis\'s forehead,\nwhile he hissed into her trembling husband\'s ear the awful secrets of\nthe charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made\nup his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and\ngentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more\nthan sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the\ncounterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite\ndetermined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of\ncourse, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling\nsensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each\nother, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse,\ntill they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the\nwinding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and\none rolling eyeball, in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide\'s\nSkeleton," a _rôle_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a\ngreat effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of\n"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery."\n\nAt half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was\ndisturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the\nlight-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves\nbefore they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still,\nand, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the\nwindow-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind\nwandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family\nslept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he\ncould hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He\nstepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his\ncruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole\npast the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his\nmurdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like\nan evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed.\nOnce he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only\nthe baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange\nsixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger\nin the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that\nled to luckless Washington\'s room. For a moment he paused there, the\nwind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into\ngrotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man\'s\nshroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was\ncome. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had\nhe done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid\nhis blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was\nstanding a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous\nas a madman\'s dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,\nand fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its\nfeatures into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet\nlight, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like\nto his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast\nwas a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of\nshame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,\nand, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.\n\n[Illustration: "ITS HEAD WAS BALD AND BURNISHED"]\n\nNever having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,\nand, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to\nhis room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the\ncorridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister\'s\njack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the\nprivacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small\npallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,\nthe brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to\ngo and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,\njust as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards\nthe spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling\nthat, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid\nof his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching\nthe spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had\nevidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from\nits hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it\nwas leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable\nattitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his\nhorror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a\nrecumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity\nbed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow\nturnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious\ntransformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,\nin the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:--\n\n +------------------------------------+\n | YE OTIS GHOSTE |\n | Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook, |\n | Beware of Ye Imitationes. |\n | All others are counterfeite. |\n +------------------------------------+\n\nThe whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and\nout-witted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his\ntoothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his\nhead, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique\nschool, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds\nof blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.\n\nHardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of\na distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,\nand waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange\nreason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of\nthe housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back\nto his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he\nconsulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was\nexceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath\nhad been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition\nseize the naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my\nstout spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow\nfor me an \'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead\ncoffin, and stayed there till evening.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\n[Illustration: "HE MET WITH A SEVERE FALL"]\n\nThe next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement\nof the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were\ncompletely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five\ndays he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point\nof the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want\nit, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a\nlow, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating\nthe symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic\napparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a\ndifferent matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn\nduty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large\noriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he\ndid not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is\nquite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand,\nhe was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural.\nFor the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as\nusual between midnight and three o\'clock, taking every possible\nprecaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots,\ntrod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large\nblack velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for\noiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good\ndeal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of\nprotection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he\nslipped into Mr. Otis\'s bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a\nlittle humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see\nthat there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a\ncertain degree, it served his purpose. Still in spite of everything he\nwas not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across\nthe corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion,\nwhile dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley\nWoods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide,\nwhich the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry\nChamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged\nhim, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and\nsocial position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the\nnext night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or the\nHeadless Earl."\n\n[Illustration: "A HEAVY JUG OF WATER FELL RIGHT DOWN ON HIM."]\n\nHe had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in\nfact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means\nof it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord\nCanterville\'s grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome\nJack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to\nmarry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and\ndown the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by\nLord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken\nheart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it\nhad been a great success. It was, however an extremely difficult\n"make-up," if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with\none of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more\nscientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three\nhours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was\nvery pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went\nwith the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only\nfind one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite\nsatisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting\nand crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,\nwhich I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of\nthe colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make\nan effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water\nfell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his\nleft shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled\nshrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his\nnervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he\ncould go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only\nthing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he\nhad not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences\nmight have been very serious.\n\n[Illustration: "MAKING SATIRICAL REMARKS ON THE PHOTOGRAPHS"]\n\nHe now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family,\nand contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in\nlist slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of\ndraughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the\ntwins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He\nhad gone down-stairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that\nthere, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing\nhimself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of\nthe United States Minister and his wife which had now taken the place of\nthe Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long\nshroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip\nof yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton\'s spade. In\nfact, he was dressed for the character of "Jonas the Graveless, or the\nCorpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn," one of his most remarkable\nimpersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to\nremember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their\nneighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o\'clock in\nthe morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As\nhe was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any\ntraces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a\ndark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads,\nand shrieked out "BOO!" in his ear.\n\n[Illustration: "SUDDENLY THERE LEAPED OUT TWO FIGURES."]\n\nSeized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural,\nhe rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him\nthere with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his\nenemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the\ngreat iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to\nmake his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own\nroom in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.\n\nAfter this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins\nlay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with\nnutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the\nservants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings\nwere so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed\nhis great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had\nbeen engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful\nclam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse\neuchre, poker, and other American national games, and Virginia rode\nabout the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire,\nwho had come to spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville\nChase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in\nfact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who,\nin reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best\ncongratulations to the Minister\'s worthy wife.\n\nThe Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the\nhouse, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let\nmatters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the\nyoung Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had\nonce bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice\nwith the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the\nfloor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though\nhe lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but\n"Double Sixes." The story was well known at the time, though, of course,\nout of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt\nwas made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances\nconnected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle\'s\n_Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends_. The ghost, then,\nwas naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence\nover the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his\nown first cousin having been married _en secondes noces_ to the Sieur de\nBulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are\nlineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to\nVirginia\'s little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "The Vampire\nMonk, or the Bloodless Benedictine," a performance so horrible that when\nold Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year\'s Eve, in\nthe year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which\nculminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after\ndisinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and\nleaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment,\nhowever, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the\nlittle Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal\nBedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nA few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out\nriding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting\nthrough a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go\nup by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past\nthe Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied\nshe saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother\'s maid, who\nsometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend\nher habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville\nGhost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of\nthe yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing\nmadly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his\nwhole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so\nmuch out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea\nhad been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity,\nand determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so\ndeep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she\nspoke to him.\n\n"I am so sorry for you," she said, "but my brothers are going back to\nEton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy\nyou."\n\n"It is absurd asking me to behave myself," he answered, looking round in\nastonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him,\n"quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and\nwalk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for\nexisting."\n\n"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very\nwicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had\nkilled your wife."\n\n"Well, I quite admit it," said the Ghost, petulantly, "but it was a\npurely family matter, and concerned no one else."\n\n"It is very wrong to kill any one," said Virginia, who at times had a\nsweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.\n\n"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very\nplain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about\ncookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent\npricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is\nno matter now, for it is all over, and I don\'t think it was very nice of\nher brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her."\n\n"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost--I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I\nhave a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?"\n\n"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you,\nall the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude,\nvulgar, dishonest family."\n\n"Stop!" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, and\nhorrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the\npaints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain\nin the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and\nI couldn\'t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the\nchrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese\nwhite, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing\nto look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I\nwas very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for\nwho ever heard of emerald-green blood?"\n\n"Well, really," said the Ghost, rather meekly, "what was I to do? It is\na very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother\nbegan it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I\nshould not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of\ntaste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest\nin England; but I know you Americans don\'t care for things of this\nkind."\n\n"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate\nand improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a\nfree passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,\nthere will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are\nall Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I\nknow lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to\nhave a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost."\n\n"I don\'t think I should like America."\n\n"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities," said Virginia,\nsatirically.\n\n"No ruins! no curiosities!" answered the Ghost; "you have your navy and\nyour manners."\n\n"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week\'s\nholiday."\n\n"Please don\'t go, Miss Virginia," he cried; "I am so lonely and so\nunhappy, and I really don\'t know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I\ncannot."\n\n"That\'s quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the\ncandle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at\nchurch, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even\nbabies know how to do that, and they are not very clever."\n\n"I have not slept for three hundred years," he said sadly, and\nVirginia\'s beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundred\nyears I have not slept, and I am so tired."\n\nVirginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like\nrose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked\nup into his old withered face.\n\n"Poor, poor Ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can\nsleep?"\n\n[Illustration: "\'POOR, POOR GHOST,\' SHE MURMURED; \'HAVE YOU NO PLACE\nWHERE YOU CAN SLEEP?\'"]\n\n"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,\n"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there\nare the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale\nsings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal\nmoon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the\nsleepers."\n\nVirginia\'s eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.\n\n"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.\n\n"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,\nwith the grasses waving above one\'s head, and listen to silence. To have\nno yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at\npeace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death\'s\nhouse, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death\nis."\n\nVirginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments\nthere was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.\n\nThen the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of\nthe wind.\n\n"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"\n\n"Oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well.\nIt is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There\nare only six lines:\n\n "\'When a golden girl can win\n Prayer from out the lips of sin,\n When the barren almond bears,\n And a little child gives away its tears,\n Then shall all the house be still\n And peace come to Canterville.\'\n\n"But I don\'t know what they mean."\n\n"They mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins,\nbecause I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no\nfaith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle,\nthe angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in\ndarkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not\nharm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell\ncannot prevail."\n\nVirginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair\nas he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very\npale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid," she said\nfirmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you."\n\nHe rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent\nover it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold\nas ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as\nhe led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were\nbroidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with\ntheir tiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia,"\nthey cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly,\nand she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails\nand goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and\nmurmured, "Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,"\nbut the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When\nthey reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she\ncould not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly\nfading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A\nbitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her\ndress. "Quick, quick," cried the Ghost, "or it will be too late," and\nin a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry\nChamber was empty.\n\n[Illustration: "THE GHOST GLIDED ON MORE SWIFTLY"]\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nAbout ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not\ncome down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a\nlittle time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia\nanywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every\nevening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all\nalarmed at first, but when six o\'clock struck, and Virginia did not\nappear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for\nher, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At\nhalf-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace\nof their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of\nexcitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly\nremembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies\npermission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for\nBlackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son\nand two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was\nperfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too,\nbut Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a\nscuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had\ngone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as\nthe fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass.\nHaving sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran\nhome, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the\ncounty, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been\nkidnapped by tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought\nround, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down\nto dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly,\nhowever, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after\nhim, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with\nhis face very flushed, and no hat. "I\'m awfully sorry, Mr. Otis," gasped\nout the boy, "but I can\'t eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost.\nPlease don\'t be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year,\nthere would never have been all this trouble. You won\'t send me back,\nwill you? I can\'t go! I won\'t go!"\n\n[Illustration: "HE HEARD SOMEBODY GALLOPING AFTER HIM"]\n\nThe Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace,\nand was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down\nfrom his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "Well,\nCecil, if you won\'t go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I must\nget you a hat at Ascot."\n\n"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!" cried the little Duke, laughing,\nand they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of\nthe station-master if any one answering to the description of Virginia\nhad been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The\nstation-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him\nthat a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a\nhat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his\nshutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,\nwhich he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a\nlarge common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but\ncould get no information from him, and, after riding all over the\ncommon, they turned their horses\' heads homewards, and reached the Chase\nabout eleven o\'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found\nWashington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with\nlanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of\nVirginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley\nmeadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden\ndeparture by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and\nhad gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they had\nbeen quite distressed at hearing of Virginia\'s disappearance, as they\nwere very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his\npark, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.\nThe carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone\nover, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any\nrate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest\ndepression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom\nfollowing behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they\nfound a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library\nwas poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and\nhaving her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper.\nMr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up\nsupper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one\nspoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very\nfond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the\nentreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that\nnothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in\nthe morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down\nimmediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight\nbegan to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded\nthey heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder\nshook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a\npanel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out\non the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her\nhand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.\nOtis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with\nviolent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.\n\n[Illustration: "OUT ON THE LANDING STEPPED VIRGINIA"]\n\n"Good heavens! child, where have you been?" said Mr. Otis, rather\nangrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.\n"Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and\nyour mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these\npractical jokes any more."\n\n"Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!" shrieked the twins, as they\ncapered about.\n\n"My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side\nagain," murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and\nsmoothed the tangled gold of her hair.\n\n"Papa," said Virginia, quietly, "I have been with the Ghost. He is dead,\nand you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was\nreally sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of\nbeautiful jewels before he died."\n\nThe whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave\nand serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the\nwainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a\nlighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they\ncame to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia\ntouched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves\nin a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated\nwindow. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was\na gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone\nfloor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers\nan old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its\nreach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was\ncovered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but\na pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding\nher little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the\nparty looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now\ndisclosed to them.\n\n[Illustration: "CHAINED TO IT WAS A GAUNT SKELETON"]\n\n"Hallo!" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out\nof the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was\nsituated. "Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see\nthe flowers quite plainly in the moonlight."\n\n"God has forgiven him," said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet,\nand a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.\n\n"What an angel you are!" cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round\nher neck, and kissed her.\n\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\n[Illustration: "BY THE SIDE OF THE HEARSE AND THE COACHES WALKED THE\nSERVANTS WITH LIGHTED TORCHES"]\n\nFour days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from\nCanterville Chase at about eleven o\'clock at night. The hearse was drawn\nby eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of\nnodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich\npurple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville\ncoat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the\nservants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully\nimpressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up\nspecially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first\ncarriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States\nMinister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the\nlast carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had\nbeen frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she\nhad a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the\ncorner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service\nwas read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier.\nWhen the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom\nobserved in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as\nthe coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward,\nand laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As\nshe did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its\nsilent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a\nnightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost\'s description of the\nGarden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a\nword during the drive home.\n\n[Illustration: "THE MOON CAME OUT FROM BEHIND A CLOUD"]\n\nThe next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had\nan interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given\nto Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby\nnecklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen\nof sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis\nfelt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.\n\n"My lord," he said, "I know that in this country mortmain is held to\napply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that\nthese jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg\nyou, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them\nsimply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you\nunder certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a\nchild, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such\nappurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I\nmay say, is no mean authority upon Art,--having had the privilege of\nspending several winters in Boston when she was a girl,--that these gems\nare of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall\nprice. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you\nwill recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain\nin the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such\nvain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the\nBritish aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who\nhave been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles\nof Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very\nanxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of\nyour unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and\nconsequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to\ncomply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal\nsurprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediævalism\nin any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was\nborn in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned\nfrom a trip to Athens."\n\nLord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister\'s speech,\npulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile,\nand when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and\nsaid: "My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky\nancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are\nmuch indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels\nare clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough\nto take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave\nin a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being\nheirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or\nlegal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite\nunknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and\nwhen Miss Virginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have\npretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the\nfurniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to\nthe ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity\nSir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he\nwas really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase."\n\nMr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville\'s refusal, and\nbegged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was\nquite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to\nretain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of\n1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen\'s first\ndrawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the\nuniversal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which\nis the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her\nboy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and\nthey loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the\nmatch, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch\nthe Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less\nthan three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to\nsay, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke\npersonally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his\nown words, "was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating\ninfluences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of\nRepublican simplicity should be forgotten." His objections, however,\nwere completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the\naisle of St. George\'s, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his\narm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of\nEngland.\n\nThe Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to\nCanterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over\nin the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had\nbeen a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir\nSimon\'s tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it\nsimply the initials of the old gentleman\'s name, and the verse from the\nlibrary window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses,\nwhich she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for\nsome time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There\nthe Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her\nfeet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly\nhe threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,\n"Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband."\n\n"Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you."\n\n"Yes, you have," he answered, smiling, "you have never told me what\nhappened to you when you were locked up with the ghost."\n\n"I have never told any one, Cecil," said Virginia, gravely.\n\n"I know that, but you might tell me."\n\n"Please don\'t ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe\nhim a great deal. Yes, don\'t laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see\nwhat Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than\nboth."\n\nThe Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.\n\n"You can have your secret as long as I have your heart," he murmured.\n\n"You have always had that, Cecil."\n\n"And you will tell our children some day, won\'t you?"\n\nVirginia blushed.\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CANTERVILLE GHOST***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 14522-8.txt or 14522-8.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/5/2/14522\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, A House of Pomegranates, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: A House of Pomegranates\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: October 26, 2014 [eBook #873]\n[This file was first posted on April 8, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1915 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n [Picture: Book cover]\n\n * * * * *\n\n TO\n CONSTANCE MARY WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\n\n A HOUSE\n OF POMEGRANATES\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Seventh Edition_\n\n_First Published_ 1891\n_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ (_Limited Editions on 1908\nHandmade Paper and Japanese Vellum_)\n_Third Edition_ (_F’cap._ 8_vo_) 1909\n_Fourth Edition_ ( ,, ) 1911\n_Fifth Edition_ ( ,, ) 1913\n_Sixth Edition_ (_Crown_ 4_to_, _Illustrated by Jessie 1915\nKing_)\n_Seventh Edition_ (_F’cap._ 8_vo_) 1915\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nTHE YOUNG KING 1\nTHE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 31\nTHE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL 73\nTHE STAR-CHILD 147\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG KING\n\n\n TO\n MARGARET LADY BROOKE\n [THE RANEE OF SARAWAK]\n\nIT was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the young\nKing was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His courtiers had all\ntaken their leave of him, bowing their heads to the ground, according to\nthe ceremonious usage of the day, and had retired to the Great Hall of\nthe Palace, to receive a few last lessons from the Professor of\nEtiquette; there being some of them who had still quite natural manners,\nwhich in a courtier is, I need hardly say, a very grave offence.\n\nThe lad—for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age—was not\nsorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a deep sigh of\nrelief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch, lying there,\nwild-eyed and open-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun, or some young\nanimal of the forest newly snared by the hunters.\n\nAnd, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him, coming upon him almost\nby chance as, bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following the flock of\nthe poor goatherd who had brought him up, and whose son he had always\nfancied himself to be. The child of the old King’s only daughter by a\nsecret marriage with one much beneath her in station—a stranger, some\nsaid, who, by the wonderful magic of his lute-playing, had made the young\nPrincess love him; while others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom\nthe Princess had shown much, perhaps too much honour, and who had\nsuddenly disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the Cathedral\nunfinished—he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his\nmother’s side, as she slept, and given into the charge of a common\npeasant and his wife, who were without children of their own, and lived\nin a remote part of the forest, more than a day’s ride from the town.\nGrief, or the plague, as the court physician stated, or, as some\nsuggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of spiced wine,\nslew, within an hour of her wakening, the white girl who had given him\nbirth, and as the trusty messenger who bare the child across his\nsaddle-bow stooped from his weary horse and knocked at the rude door of\nthe goatherd’s hut, the body of the Princess was being lowered into an\nopen grave that had been dug in a deserted churchyard, beyond the city\ngates, a grave where it was said that another body was also lying, that\nof a young man of marvellous and foreign beauty, whose hands were tied\nbehind him with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many\nred wounds.\n\nSuch, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other. Certain\nit was that the old King, when on his deathbed, whether moved by remorse\nfor his great sin, or merely desiring that the kingdom should not pass\naway from his line, had had the lad sent for, and, in the presence of the\nCouncil, had acknowledged him as his heir.\n\nAnd it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he had\nshown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was destined to have\nso great an influence over his life. Those who accompanied him to the\nsuite of rooms set apart for his service, often spoke of the cry of\npleasure that broke from his lips when he saw the delicate raiment and\nrich jewels that had been prepared for him, and of the almost fierce joy\nwith which he flung aside his rough leathern tunic and coarse sheepskin\ncloak. He missed, indeed, at times the fine freedom of his forest life,\nand was always apt to chafe at the tedious Court ceremonies that occupied\nso much of each day, but the wonderful palace—_Joyeuse_, as they called\nit—of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be a new world\nfresh-fashioned for his delight; and as soon as he could escape from the\ncouncil-board or audience-chamber, he would run down the great staircase,\nwith its lions of gilt bronze and its steps of bright porphyry, and\nwander from room to room, and from corridor to corridor, like one who was\nseeking to find in beauty an anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration\nfrom sickness.\n\nUpon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them—and, indeed, they\nwere to him real voyages through a marvellous land, he would sometimes be\naccompanied by the slim, fair-haired Court pages, with their floating\nmantles, and gay fluttering ribands; but more often he would be alone,\nfeeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination,\nthat the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that Beauty, like\nWisdom, loves the lonely worshipper.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMany curious stories were related about him at this period. It was said\nthat a stout Burgo-master, who had come to deliver a florid oratorical\naddress on behalf of the citizens of the town, had caught sight of him\nkneeling in real adoration before a great picture that had just been\nbrought from Venice, and that seemed to herald the worship of some new\ngods. On another occasion he had been missed for several hours, and\nafter a lengthened search had been discovered in a little chamber in one\nof the northern turrets of the palace gazing, as one in a trance, at a\nGreek gem carved with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the\ntale ran, pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue\nthat had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the\nbuilding of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of the\nBithynian slave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in noting the\neffect of the moonlight on a silver image of Endymion.\n\nAll rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him,\nand in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants,\nsome to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of the north seas,\nsome to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found\nonly in the tombs of kings, and is said to possess magical properties,\nsome to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to\nIndia to buy gauze and stained ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade,\nsandal-wood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool.\n\nBut what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his\ncoronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown, and the\nsceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was of this that\nhe was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching\nthe great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth.\nThe designs, which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the\ntime, had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given\norders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out,\nand that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be\nworthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar\nof the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and\nlingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his dark\nwoodland eyes.\n\nAfter some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the carved\npenthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit room. The walls\nwere hung with rich tapestries representing the Triumph of Beauty. A\nlarge press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and\nfacing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels\nof powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets\nof Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were\nbroidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from\nthe tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the\nvelvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like\nwhite foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing\nNarcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the\ntable stood a flat bowl of amethyst.\n\nOutside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a\nbubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and\ndown on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a\nnightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the\nopen window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and\ntaking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy\neyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had\nhe felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery\nof beautiful things.\n\nWhen midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and his\npages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose-water\nover his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after\nthat they had left the room, he fell asleep.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the whir and\nclatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in through the grated\nwindows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers bending over\ntheir cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched on the huge\ncrossbeams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they lifted up the\nheavy battens, and when the shuttles stopped they let the battens fall\nand pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched with famine,\nand their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated\nat a table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place. The air was foul\nand heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp.\n\nThe young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him and\nwatched him.\n\nAnd the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, ‘Why art thou watching\nme? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?’\n\n‘Who is thy master?’ asked the young King.\n\n‘Our master!’ cried the weaver, bitterly. ‘He is a man like myself.\nIndeed, there is but this difference between us—that he wears fine\nclothes while I go in rags, and that while I am weak from hunger he\nsuffers not a little from overfeeding.’\n\n‘The land is free,’ said the young King, ‘and thou art no man’s slave.’\n\n‘In war,’ answered the weaver, ‘the strong make slaves of the weak, and\nin peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and\nthey give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long,\nand they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before\ntheir time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We\ntread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and\nour own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and\nare slaves, though men call us free.’\n\n‘Is it so with all?’ he asked,\n\n‘It is so with all,’ answered the weaver, ‘with the young as well as with\nthe old, with the women as well as with the men, with the little children\nas well as with those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us\ndown, and we must needs do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells\nhis beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps\nPoverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close\nbehind her. Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with us at\nnight. But what are these things to thee? Thou art not one of us. Thy\nface is too happy.’ And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle\nacross the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a\nthread of gold.\n\nAnd a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver, ‘What robe\nis this that thou art weaving?’\n\n‘It is the robe for the coronation of the young King,’ he answered; ‘what\nis that to thee?’\n\nAnd the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his own\nchamber, and through the window he saw the great honey-coloured moon\nhanging in the dusky air.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was being\nrowed by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the master of the\ngalley was seated. He was black as ebony, and his turban was of crimson\nsilk. Great earrings of silver dragged down the thick lobes of his ears,\nand in his hands he had a pair of ivory scales.\n\nThe slaves were naked, but for a ragged loin-cloth, and each man was\nchained to his neighbour. The hot sun beat brightly upon them, and the\nnegroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with whips of hide.\nThey stretched out their lean arms and pulled the heavy oars through the\nwater. The salt spray flew from the blades.\n\nAt last they reached a little bay, and began to take soundings. A light\nwind blew from the shore, and covered the deck and the great lateen sail\nwith a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild asses rode out and\nthrew spears at them. The master of the galley took a painted bow in his\nhand and shot one of them in the throat. He fell heavily into the surf,\nand his companions galloped away. A woman wrapped in a yellow veil\nfollowed slowly on a camel, looking back now and then at the dead body.\n\nAs soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail, the negroes\nwent into the hold and brought up a long rope-ladder, heavily weighted\nwith lead. The master of the galley threw it over the side, making the\nends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the negroes seized the youngest\nof the slaves and knocked his gyves off, and filled his nostrils and his\nears with wax, and tied a big stone round his waist. He crept wearily\ndown the ladder, and disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where\nhe sank. Some of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At\nthe prow of the galley sat a shark-charmer, beating monotonously upon a\ndrum.\n\nAfter some time the diver rose up out of the water, and clung panting to\nthe ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes seized it from\nhim, and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep over their oars.\n\nAgain and again he came up, and each time that he did so he brought with\nhim a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them, and put\nthem into a little bag of green leather.\n\nThe young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the\nroof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. The negroes chattered\nto each other, and began to quarrel over a string of bright beads. Two\ncranes flew round and round the vessel.\n\nThen the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl that he brought\nwith him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz, for it was shaped like\nthe full moon, and whiter than the morning star. But his face was\nstrangely pale, and as he fell upon the deck the blood gushed from his\nears and nostrils. He quivered for a little, and then he was still. The\nnegroes shrugged their shoulders, and threw the body overboard.\n\nAnd the master of the galley laughed, and, reaching out, he took the\npearl, and when he saw it he pressed it to his forehead and bowed. ‘It\nshall be,’ he said, ‘for the sceptre of the young King,’ and he made a\nsign to the negroes to draw up the anchor.\n\nAnd when the young King heard this he gave a great cry, and woke, and\nthrough the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn clutching at\nthe fading stars.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd he fell asleep again, and dreamed, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was wandering through a dim wood, hung with strange\nfruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders hissed at him as\nhe went by, and the bright parrots flew screaming from branch to branch.\nHuge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud. The trees were full of apes\nand peacocks.\n\nOn and on he went, till he reached the outskirts of the wood, and there\nhe saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a dried-up\nriver. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep pits in the\nground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the rocks with great\naxes; others grabbled in the sand.\n\nThey tore up the cactus by its roots, and trampled on the scarlet\nblossoms. They hurried about, calling to each other, and no man was\nidle.\n\nFrom the darkness of a cavern Death and Avarice watched them, and Death\nsaid, ‘I am weary; give me a third of them and let me go.’ But Avarice\nshook her head. ‘They are my servants,’ she answered.\n\nAnd Death said to her, ‘What hast thou in thy hand?’\n\n‘I have three grains of corn,’ she answered; ‘what is that to thee?’\n\n‘Give me one of them,’ cried Death, ‘to plant in my garden; only one of\nthem, and I will go away.’\n\n‘I will not give thee anything,’ said Avarice, and she hid her hand in\nthe fold of her raiment.\n\nAnd Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water,\nand out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great multitude,\nand a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her, and the\nwater-snakes ran by her side.\n\nAnd when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her\nbreast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried aloud. ‘Thou hast\nslain a third of my servants,’ she cried, ‘get thee gone. There is war\nin the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to\nthee. The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle.\nThey have beaten upon their shields with their spears, and have put on\ntheir helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee, that thou shouldst\ntarry in it? Get thee gone, and come here no more.’\n\n‘Nay,’ answered Death, ‘but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I\nwill not go.’\n\nBut Avarice shut her hand, and clenched her teeth. ‘I will not give thee\nanything,’ she muttered.\n\nAnd Death laughed, and took up a black stone, and threw it into the\nforest, and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came Fever in a robe of\nflame. She passed through the multitude, and touched them, and each man\nthat she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she\nwalked.\n\nAnd Avarice shuddered, and put ashes on her head. ‘Thou art cruel,’ she\ncried; ‘thou art cruel. There is famine in the walled cities of India,\nand the cisterns of Samarcand have run dry. There is famine in the\nwalled cities of Egypt, and the locusts have come up from the desert.\nThe Nile has not overflowed its banks, and the priests have cursed Isis\nand Osiris. Get thee gone to those who need thee, and leave me my\nservants.’\n\n‘Nay,’ answered Death, ‘but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I\nwill not go.’\n\n‘I will not give thee anything,’ said Avarice.\n\nAnd Death laughed again, and he whistled through his fingers, and a woman\ncame flying through the air. Plague was written upon her forehead, and a\ncrowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered the valley with\nher wings, and no man was left alive.\n\nAnd Avarice fled shrieking through the forest, and Death leaped upon his\nred horse and galloped away, and his galloping was faster than the wind.\n\nAnd out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and\nhorrible things with scales, and the jackals came trotting along the\nsand, sniffing up the air with their nostrils.\n\nAnd the young King wept, and said: ‘Who were these men, and for what were\nthey seeking?’\n\n‘For rubies for a king’s crown,’ answered one who stood behind him.\n\nAnd the young King started, and, turning round, he saw a man habited as a\npilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver.\n\nAnd he grew pale, and said: ‘For what king?’\n\nAnd the pilgrim answered: ‘Look in this mirror, and thou shalt see him.’\n\nAnd he looked in the mirror, and, seeing his own face, he gave a great\ncry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and\nfrom the trees of the garden and pleasaunce the birds were singing.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd the Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and made\nobeisance to him, and the pages brought him the robe of tissued gold, and\nset the crown and the sceptre before him.\n\nAnd the young King looked at them, and they were beautiful. More\nbeautiful were they than aught that he had ever seen. But he remembered\nhis dreams, and he said to his lords: ‘Take these things away, for I will\nnot wear them.’\n\nAnd the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they thought\nthat he was jesting.\n\nBut he spake sternly to them again, and said: ‘Take these things away,\nand hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not\nwear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of Pain,\nhas this my robe been woven. There is Blood in the heart of the ruby,\nand Death in the heart of the pearl.’ And he told them his three dreams.\n\nAnd when the courtiers heard them they looked at each other and\nwhispered, saying: ‘Surely he is mad; for what is a dream but a dream,\nand a vision but a vision? They are not real things that one should heed\nthem. And what have we to do with the lives of those who toil for us?\nShall a man not eat bread till he has seen the sower, nor drink wine till\nhe has talked with the vinedresser?’\n\nAnd the Chamberlain spake to the young King, and said, ‘My lord, I pray\nthee set aside these black thoughts of thine, and put on this fair robe,\nand set this crown upon thy head. For how shall the people know that\nthou art a king, if thou hast not a king’s raiment?’\n\nAnd the young King looked at him. ‘Is it so, indeed?’ he questioned.\n‘Will they not know me for a king if I have not a king’s raiment?’\n\n‘They will not know thee, my lord,’ cried the Chamberlain.\n\n‘I had thought that there had been men who were kinglike,’ he answered,\n‘but it may be as thou sayest. And yet I will not wear this robe, nor\nwill I be crowned with this crown, but even as I came to the palace so\nwill I go forth from it.’\n\nAnd he bade them all leave him, save one page whom he kept as his\ncompanion, a lad a year younger than himself. Him he kept for his\nservice, and when he had bathed himself in clear water, he opened a great\npainted chest, and from it he took the leathern tunic and rough sheepskin\ncloak that he had worn when he had watched on the hillside the shaggy\ngoats of the goatherd. These he put on, and in his hand he took his rude\nshepherd’s staff.\n\nAnd the little page opened his big blue eyes in wonder, and said smiling\nto him, ‘My lord, I see thy robe and thy sceptre, but where is thy\ncrown?’\n\nAnd the young King plucked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over\nthe balcony, and bent it, and made a circlet of it, and set it on his own\nhead.\n\n‘This shall he my crown,’ he answered.\n\nAnd thus attired he passed out of his chamber into the Great Hall, where\nthe nobles were waiting for him.\n\nAnd the nobles made merry, and some of them cried out to him, ‘My lord,\nthe people wait for their king, and thou showest them a beggar,’ and\nothers were wroth and said, ‘He brings shame upon our state, and is\nunworthy to be our master.’ But he answered them not a word, but passed\non, and went down the bright porphyry staircase, and out through the\ngates of bronze, and mounted upon his horse, and rode towards the\ncathedral, the little page running beside him.\n\nAnd the people laughed and said, ‘It is the King’s fool who is riding\nby,’ and they mocked him.\n\nAnd he drew rein and said, ‘Nay, but I am the King.’ And he told them\nhis three dreams.\n\nAnd a man came out of the crowd and spake bitterly to him, and said,\n‘Sir, knowest thou not that out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life\nof the poor? By your pomp we are nurtured, and your vices give us bread.\nTo toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is\nmore bitter still. Thinkest thou that the ravens will feed us? And what\ncure hast thou for these things? Wilt thou say to the buyer, “Thou shalt\nbuy for so much,” and to the seller, “Thou shalt sell at this price”? I\ntrow not. Therefore go back to thy Palace and put on thy purple and fine\nlinen. What hast thou to do with us, and what we suffer?’\n\n‘Are not the rich and the poor brothers?’ asked the young King.\n\n‘Ay,’ answered the man, ‘and the name of the rich brother is Cain.’\n\nAnd the young King’s eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the\nmurmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him.\n\nAnd when he reached the great portal of the cathedral, the soldiers\nthrust their halberts out and said, ‘What dost thou seek here? None\nenters by this door but the King.’\n\nAnd his face flushed with anger, and he said to them, ‘I am the King,’\nand waved their halberts aside and passed in.\n\nAnd when the old Bishop saw him coming in his goatherd’s dress, he rose\nup in wonder from his throne, and went to meet him, and said to him, ‘My\nson, is this a king’s apparel? And with what crown shall I crown thee,\nand what sceptre shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to\nthee a day of joy, and not a day of abasement.’\n\n‘Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?’ said the young King. And he\ntold him his three dreams.\n\nAnd when the Bishop had heard them he knit his brows, and said, ‘My son,\nI am an old man, and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil\nthings are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the\nmountains, and carry off the little children, and sell them to the Moors.\nThe lions lie in wait for the caravans, and leap upon the camels. The\nwild boar roots up the corn in the valley, and the foxes gnaw the vines\nupon the hill. The pirates lay waste the sea-coast and burn the ships of\nthe fishermen, and take their nets from them. In the salt-marshes live\nthe lepers; they have houses of wattled reeds, and none may come nigh\nthem. The beggars wander through the cities, and eat their food with the\ndogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper\nfor thy bedfellow, and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do\nthy bidding, and the wild boar obey thee? Is not He who made misery\nwiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou hast\ndone, but I bid thee ride back to the Palace and make thy face glad, and\nput on the raiment that beseemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I\nwill crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl will I place in thy hand. And\nas for thy dreams, think no more of them. The burden of this world is\ntoo great for one man to bear, and the world’s sorrow too heavy for one\nheart to suffer.’\n\n‘Sayest thou that in this house?’ said the young King, and he strode past\nthe Bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the\nimage of Christ.\n\nHe stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his\nleft were the marvellous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow\nwine, and the vial with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of\nChrist, and the great candles burned brightly by the jewelled shrine, and\nthe smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome.\nHe bowed his head in prayer, and the priests in their stiff copes crept\naway from the altar.\n\nAnd suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered\nthe nobles with drawn swords and nodding plumes, and shields of polished\nsteel. ‘Where is this dreamer of dreams?’ they cried. ‘Where is this\nKing who is apparelled like a beggar—this boy who brings shame upon our\nstate? Surely we will slay him, for he is unworthy to rule over us.’\n\nAnd the young King bowed his head again, and prayed, and when he had\nfinished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them\nsadly.\n\nAnd lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him,\nand the sun-beams wove round him a tissued robe that was fairer than the\nrobe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed,\nand bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed,\nand bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls\nwere the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than male\nrubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold.\n\nHe stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jewelled\nshrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-rayed monstrance shone\na marvellous and mystical light. He stood there in a king’s raiment, and\nthe Glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches\nseemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and\nthe organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their\ntrumpets, and the singing boys sang.\n\nAnd the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed\ntheir swords and did homage, and the Bishop’s face grew pale, and his\nhands trembled. ‘A greater than I hath crowned thee,’ he cried, and he\nknelt before him.\n\nAnd the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through\nthe midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was\nlike the face of an angel.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA\n\n\n TO\n MRS. WILLIAM H. GRENFELL\n OF TAPLOW COURT\n [LADY DESBOROUGH]\n\nIT was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age,\nand the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.\n\nAlthough she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only\none birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so\nit was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that\nshe should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine\nday it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon\ntheir stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the\ngrass at the roses, and said: ‘We are quite as splendid as you are now.’\nThe purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings,\nvisiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the\ncrevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the\npomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding\nred hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion\nfrom the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have\ncaught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia\ntrees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled\nthe air with a sweet heavy perfume.\n\nThe little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her\ncompanions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old\nmoss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with\nchildren of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her\nbirthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to\ninvite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse\nthemselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish\nchildren as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and\nshort fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long\nbrocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of\nblack and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the\nmost tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day.\nHer robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily\nembroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine\npearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her\ndress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her\nhair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her\npale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.\n\nFrom a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind\nhim stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his\nconfessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even\nthan usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with\nchildish gravity to the assembling counters, or laughing behind her fan\nat the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought\nof the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before—so it seemed\nto him—had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in\nthe sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after\nthe birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice\nin the orchard, or plucked the second year’s fruit from the old gnarled\nfig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So\ngreat had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave\nto hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who\nin return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy\nand suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said,\nto the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier\nin the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her\nin on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month\nthe King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand,\nwent in and knelt by her side calling out, ‘_Mi reina_! _Mi reina_!’ and\nsometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs\nevery separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a\nKing, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of\ngrief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.\n\nTo-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle\nof Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still\nyounger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal\nNuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had\nreturned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow\nhair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand\nas he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage,\nhastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two\ncountries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary\ncelebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than\nusually solemn _auto-da-fé_, in which nearly three hundred heretics,\namongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular\narm to be burned.\n\nCertainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his\ncountry, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the\nNew World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for\nher, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of\nState; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its\nservants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which\nhe sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which\nshe suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of\nreason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally\nabdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of\nwhich he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the\nlittle Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain,\nwas notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen’s\ndeath by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her\non the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the\nexpiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained\nthroughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his\nministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself\nsent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of\nBohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their\nmaster that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that\nthough she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an\nanswer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which\nsoon after, at the Emperor’s instigation, revolted against him under the\nleadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.\n\nHis whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the\nterrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as\nhe watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen’s\npretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the\nsame proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile—_vrai sourire\nde France_ indeed—as she glanced up now and then at the window, or\nstretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss.\nBut the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the\nbright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange\nspices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint—or was it\nfancy?—the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when\nthe Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had\nretired.\n\nShe made a little _moue_ of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders.\nSurely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the\nstupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where\nthe candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to\nenter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and\neverybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for\nwhich the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet-show\nand the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were\nmuch more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice\ncompliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the\nhand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple\nsilk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children\nfollowing in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names\ngoing first.\n\n * * * * *\n\nA procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as _toreadors_, came\nout to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully\nhandsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all\nthe grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to\na little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the\narena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big\nfans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor\nstood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess—the Camerera-Mayor as\nshe was called—a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not\nlook quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile\nflitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.\n\nIt certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta\nthought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at\nSeville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father.\nSome of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses\nbrandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached\nto them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull,\nand vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for\nthe bull himself, he was just like a live bull, though he was only made\nof wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running\nround the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of\ndoing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so\nexcited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace\nhandkerchiefs and cried out: _Bravo toro_! _Bravo toro_! just as\nsensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a\nprolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored\nthrough and through, and, their riders dismounted, the young Count of\nTierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained\npermission from the Infanta to give the _coup de grâce_, he plunged his\nwooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head\ncame right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de\nLorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.\n\nThe arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead\nhobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and\nblack liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French\nposture-master performed upon the tightrope, some Italian puppets\nappeared in the semi-classical tragedy of _Sophonisba_ on the stage of a\nsmall theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so\nwell, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of\nthe play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some\nof the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats,\nand the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help\nsaying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made\nsimply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires,\nshould be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes.\n\nAn African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered\nwith a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he\ntook from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few\nmoments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and\nshriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped\nheads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant\nsways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at\ntheir spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased\nwhen the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear\npretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the\nfan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it\ninto a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight\nand amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the\ndancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming.\nThe Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes\nplace every year at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and\nin her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered\nthe great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to\nhave been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a\npoisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by\nhearsay of ‘Our Lady’s Dance,’ as it was called, and it certainly was a\nbeautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white\nvelvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver\nand surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling\nwhiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being\nstill more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair.\nEverybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved\nthrough the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of\ntheir slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their\nperformance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she\nacknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she\nwould send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in\nreturn for the pleasure that she had given her.\n\nA troop of handsome Egyptians—as the gipsies were termed in those\ndays—then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a\ncircle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to\nthe tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When\nthey caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them\nlooked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their\ntribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place at Seville, but the pretty\nInfanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her\ngreat blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could\nnever be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just\ntouching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and\ntheir heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly,\nwith a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro’s\nhand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet\nand whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and\nchaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then\nat another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay\nthere quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound\nthat broke the silence. After that they had done this several times,\nthey disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear\nby a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes.\nThe bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened\napes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to\nbe their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and\nwent through a regular soldier’s drill just like the King’s own\nbodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.\n\nBut the funniest part of the whole morning’s entertainment, was\nundoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the\narena, waddling on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head\nfrom side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight,\nand the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to\nremind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King’s\ndaughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the\nblood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth.\nThe Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the\nSpanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible,\nso fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first\nappearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running\nwild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been\nhunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town,\nand had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the\nInfanta; his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner, being but too well\npleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most\namusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own\ngrotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the\nhighest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as\njoyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them each\nthe funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was\nreally one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature,\nin some humourous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the\nInfanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off\nher, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the\nperformance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court\nthrow bouquets to Caffarelli, the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope\nhad sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King’s\nmelancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the\nbeautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the\nCamerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he\ntook the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his\nrough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee\nbefore her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes\nsparkling with pleasure.\n\nThis so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long\nafter the little Dwarf had ran out of the arena, and expressed a desire\nto her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The\nCamerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it\nwould be better that her Highness should return without delay to the\nPalace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her,\nincluding a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it\nin painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The\nInfanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders\nthat the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of\nsiesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for\nhis charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children\nfollowing in the same order in which they had entered.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNow when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before\nthe Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran\nout into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of\npleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.\n\nThe Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their\nbeautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and\nwaving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could\nnot restrain their feelings any longer.\n\n‘He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we\nare,’ cried the Tulips.\n\n‘He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years,’ said\nthe great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.\n\n‘He is a perfect horror!’ screamed the Cactus. ‘Why, he is twisted and\nstumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs.\nReally he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will\nsting him with my thorns.’\n\n‘And he has actually got one of my best blooms,’ exclaimed the White\nRose-Tree. ‘I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday\npresent, and he has stolen it from her.’ And she called out: ‘Thief,\nthief, thief!’ at the top of her voice.\n\nEven the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and\nwere known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in\ndisgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that\nthough he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they\nretorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and\nthat there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was\nincurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the\nugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would\nhave shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive,\ninstead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such\ngrotesque and silly attitudes.\n\nAs for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and\nhad once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor\nCharles V. himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf’s\nappearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long\nshadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white\nPeacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that every one knew\nthat the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of\ncharcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd to pretend\nthat it wasn’t so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed,\nand indeed screamed out, ‘Certainly, certainly,’ in such a loud, harsh\nvoice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing\nfountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone\nTritons what on earth was the matter.\n\nBut somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest,\ndancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the\nhollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They\ndid not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself,\nwho sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon\nleaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides,\nhe had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when\nthere were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron,\nand the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for\nfood, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs\nout of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever\npoor breakfast he had.\n\nSo they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their\nwings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf\nwas so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white\nrose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him\nbecause she loved him.\n\nThey did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that\nmade no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise,\nwhich is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.\n\nThe Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of\nrunning about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played\nand romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they\ncould. ‘Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard,’ they cried; ‘that\nwould be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he\nis really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts\none’s eyes, and does not look at him.’ The Lizards were extremely\nphilosophical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours\ntogether, when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too\nrainy for them to go out.\n\nThe Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at\nthe behaviour of the birds. ‘It only shows,’ they said, ‘what a\nvulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has.\nWell-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one\never saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the\ngrass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the\ngardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it\nshould be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed\nbirds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the\ngipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner.’ So they put\ntheir noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted\nwhen after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the\ngrass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.\n\n‘He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life,’\nthey said. ‘Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs,’ and they\nbegan to titter.\n\nBut the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and\nthe lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most\nmarvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but\nthen she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and\nthat made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with\nher! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he\nwould have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and\ntaught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been\nin a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make\nlittle cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion\nthe long jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew\nthe cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or\nthe heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could\ntrack the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled\nleaves. All the wild-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with\nthe autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with\nwhite snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards\nin spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once\nwhen a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young\nones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a\npollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands\nevery morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about\nin the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black\nbills, and the hedgehogs that could curl themselves up into prickly\nballs, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking\ntheir heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly\ncome to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little\nbed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild\nhorned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the\nhut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they\nwould go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a\nbit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white\nmule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet\ncaps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with\nhooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage-time came the grape-treaders,\nwith purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying\ndripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge\nbraziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and\nroasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves\nand made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession\nwinding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front\nsinging sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and\nthen, in silver armour, with matchlocks and pikes, came the soldiers, and\nin their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses\npainted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in\ntheir hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest,\nand when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or\ncarry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was\nnot tall. He would make her a necklace of red bryony berries, that would\nbe quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and\nwhen she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find\nher others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and\ntiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.\n\nBut where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer.\nThe whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been\nclosed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the\nglare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he\nmight gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private\ndoor that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a\nsplendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was\nso much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great\ncoloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But\nthe little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that\nlooked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and\nstrangely smiling lips.\n\nAt the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet,\npowdered with suns and stars, the King’s favourite devices, and broidered\non the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He\nwould try at any rate.\n\nSo he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only\nanother room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had\njust left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of\nneedle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish\nartists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had\nonce been the chamber of _Jean le Fou_, as he was called, that mad King\nwho was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his\ndelirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on\nwhich the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and\nstabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the\ncouncil-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of\nthe ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms\nand emblems of the house of Hapsburg.\n\nThe little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to\ngo on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the\nlong glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible\nphantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-burners speaking—the\nComprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into\na hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took\ncourage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved\nher. Perhaps she was in the room beyond.\n\nHe ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She\nwas not here either. The room was quite empty.\n\nIt was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when\nthe King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a\npersonal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had\nappeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their\nQueen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor’s\neldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt\nchandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the\nblack and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on\nwhich the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls,\nstood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded\nwith silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On\nthe second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the\nInfanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that\nagain, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal\nNuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King’s presence on\nthe occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal’s hat, with its\ntangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple _tabouret_ in front. On the\nwall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in\nhunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip\nII. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the\nother wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with\nplates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein’s Dance of Death had\nbeen graved—by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.\n\nBut the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would\nnot have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white\npetal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the\nInfanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away\nwith him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air\nwas close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the\nsunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside.\nThere were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the\nflowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths\nin early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and\ngrassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the\ngnarled roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and\nirises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the\nfoxgloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells.\nThe chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid\nmoons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her!\nShe would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would\ndance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he\npassed into the next room.\n\nOf all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The\nwalls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with\nbirds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of\nmassive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in\nfront of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with\nparrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed\nto stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under\nthe shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a\nlittle figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from\nhis lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure\nmoved out also, and he saw it plainly.\n\nThe Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever\nbeheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked,\nand crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The\nlittle Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it\nlaughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was\ndoing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence.\nHe went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he\nmade, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement,\nand ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster\ntouched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his\nhand across, and the monster’s hand followed it quickly. He tried to\npress on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the\nmonster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed\nhis hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it\nreturned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him.\nHe drew back, and it retreated.\n\nWhat is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the\nroom. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this\ninvisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated,\nand couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the\ndoorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that\nstood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.\n\nWas it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had\nanswered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the\nvoice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the\nshadows of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that—?\n\nHe started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he\nturned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal\nfor petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its\nheart with horrible gestures.\n\nWhen the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell\nsobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked,\nfoul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at\nhim that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who\nhe had thought loved him—she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness,\nand making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in\nthe forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was?\nWhy had his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame?\nThe hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to\npieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint\npetals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at\nit, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he\nshould see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like\nsome wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.\n\nAnd at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions\nthrough the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on\nthe ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most\nfantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy\nlaughter, and stood all round him and watched him.\n\n‘His dancing was funny,’ said the Infanta; ‘but his acting is funnier\nstill. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not\nquite so natural.’ And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.\n\nBut the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and\nfainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side. And\nthen he fell back again, and lay quite still.\n\n‘That is capital,’ said the Infanta, after a pause; ‘but now you must\ndance for me.’\n\n‘Yes,’ cried all the children, ‘you must get up and dance, for you are as\nclever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.’ But the little\nDwarf made no answer.\n\nAnd the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was\nwalking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that\nhad just arrived from Mexico, where the Holy Office had recently been\nestablished. ‘My funny little dwarf is sulking,’ she cried, ‘you must\nwake him up, and tell him to dance for me.’\n\nThey smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down,\nand slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. ‘You must\ndance,’ he said, ‘_petit monsire_. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain\nand the Indies wishes to be amused.’\n\nBut the little Dwarf never moved.\n\n‘A whipping master should be sent for,’ said Don Pedro wearily, and he\nwent back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt\nbeside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a\nfew moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low\nbow to the Infanta, he said—\n\n‘_Mi bella Princesa_, your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It\nis a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile.’\n\n‘But why will he not dance again?’ asked the Infanta, laughing.\n\n‘Because his heart is broken,’ answered the Chamberlain.\n\nAnd the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty\ndisdain. ‘For the future let those who come to play with me have no\nhearts,’ she cried, and she ran out into the garden.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL\n\n\n TO H.S.H.\n ALICE, PRINCESS\n OF MONACO\n\nEVERY evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw his\nnets into the water.\n\nWhen the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little at\nbest, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves rose up\nto meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish came in from\nthe deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he took them to the\nmarket-place and sold them.\n\nEvery evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was so\nheavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he laughed, and\nsaid to himself, ‘Surely I have caught all the fish that swim, or snared\nsome dull monster that will be a marvel to men, or some thing of horror\nthat the great Queen will desire,’ and putting forth all his strength, he\ntugged at the coarse ropes till, like lines of blue enamel round a vase\nof bronze, the long veins rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin\nropes, and nearer and nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net\nrose at last to the top of the water.\n\nBut no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror, but\nonly a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.\n\nHer hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread\nof fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white ivory, and her\ntail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the\ngreen weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like sea-shells were her\nears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The cold waves dashed over her\ncold breasts, and the salt glistened upon her eyelids.\n\nSo beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was filled\nwith wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close to him, and\nleaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And when he touched\nher, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull, and woke, and looked at him\nin terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and struggled that she might\nescape. But he held her tightly to him, and would not suffer her to\ndepart.\n\nAnd when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she began to\nweep, and said, ‘I pray thee let me go, for I am the only daughter of a\nKing, and my father is aged and alone.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered, ‘I will not let thee go save thou\nmakest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and sing to\nme, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-folk, and so\nshall my nets be full.’\n\n‘Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?’ cried the\nMermaid.\n\n‘In very truth I will let thee go,’ said the young Fisherman.\n\nSo she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of the\nSea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she sank down\ninto the water, trembling with a strange fear.\n\n * * * * *\n\nEvery evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called to\nthe Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him. Round and\nround her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled above her head.\n\nAnd she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who drive\ntheir flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves on their\nshoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and hairy breasts,\nand blow through twisted conchs when the King passes by; of the palace of\nthe King which is all of amber, with a roof of clear emerald, and a\npavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens of the sea where the great\nfiligrane fans of coral wave all day long, and the fish dart about like\nsilver birds, and the anemones cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon\nin the ribbed yellow sand. She sang of the big whales that come down\nfrom the north seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the\nSirens who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop\ntheir ears with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the water\nand be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall masts, and the\nfrozen sailors clinging to the rigging, and the mackerel swimming in and\nout of the open portholes; of the little barnacles who are great\ntravellers, and cling to the keels of the ships and go round and round\nthe world; and of the cuttlefish who live in the sides of the cliffs and\nstretch out their long black arms, and can make night come when they will\nit. She sang of the nautilus who has a boat of her own that is carved\nout of an opal and steered with a silken sail; of the happy Mermen who\nplay upon harps and can charm the great Kraken to sleep; of the little\nchildren who catch hold of the slippery porpoises and ride laughing upon\ntheir backs; of the Mermaids who lie in the white foam and hold out their\narms to the mariners; and of the sea-lions with their curved tusks, and\nthe sea-horses with their floating manes.\n\nAnd as she sang, all the tunny-fish came in from the deep to listen to\nher, and the young Fisherman threw his nets round them and caught them,\nand others he took with a spear. And when his boat was well-laden, the\nMermaid would sink down into the sea, smiling at him.\n\nYet would she never come near him that he might touch her. Oftentimes he\ncalled to her and prayed of her, but she would not; and when he sought to\nseize her she dived into the water as a seal might dive, nor did he see\nher again that day. And each day the sound of her voice became sweeter\nto his ears. So sweet was her voice that he forgot his nets and his\ncunning, and had no care of his craft. Vermilion-finned and with eyes of\nbossy gold, the tunnies went by in shoals, but he heeded them not. His\nspear lay by his side unused, and his baskets of plaited osier were\nempty. With lips parted, and eyes dim with wonder, he sat idle in his\nboat and listened, listening till the sea-mists crept round him, and the\nwandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver.\n\nAnd one evening he called to her, and said: ‘Little Mermaid, little\nMermaid, I love thee. Take me for thy bridegroom, for I love thee.’\n\nBut the Mermaid shook her head. ‘Thou hast a human soul,’ she answered.\n‘If only thou wouldst send away thy soul, then could I love thee.’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to himself, ‘Of what use is my soul to me?\nI cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will\nsend it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine.’ And a cry of joy\nbroke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his\narms to the Mermaid. ‘I will send my soul away,’ he cried, ‘and you\nshall be my bride, and I will be thy bridegroom, and in the depth of the\nsea we will dwell together, and all that thou hast sung of thou shalt\nshow me, and all that thou desirest I will do, nor shall our lives be\ndivided.’\n\nAnd the little Mermaid laughed for pleasure and hid her face in her\nhands.\n\n‘But how shall I send my soul from me?’ cried the young Fisherman. ‘Tell\nme how I may do it, and lo! it shall be done.’\n\n‘Alas! I know not,’ said the little Mermaid: ‘the Sea-folk have no\nsouls.’ And she sank down into the deep, looking wistfully at him.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNow early on the next morning, before the sun was the span of a man’s\nhand above the hill, the young Fisherman went to the house of the Priest\nand knocked three times at the door.\n\nThe novice looked out through the wicket, and when he saw who it was, he\ndrew back the latch and said to him, ‘Enter.’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman passed in, and knelt down on the sweet-smelling\nrushes of the floor, and cried to the Priest who was reading out of the\nHoly Book and said to him, ‘Father, I am in love with one of the\nSea-folk, and my soul hindereth me from having my desire. Tell me how I\ncan send my soul away from me, for in truth I have no need of it. Of\nwhat value is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do\nnot know it.’\n\nAnd the Priest beat his breast, and answered, ‘Alack, alack, thou art\nmad, or hast eaten of some poisonous herb, for the soul is the noblest\npart of man, and was given to us by God that we should nobly use it.\nThere is no thing more precious than a human soul, nor any earthly thing\nthat can be weighed with it. It is worth all the gold that is in the\nworld, and is more precious than the rubies of the kings. Therefore, my\nson, think not any more of this matter, for it is a sin that may not be\nforgiven. And as for the Sea-folk, they are lost, and they who would\ntraffic with them are lost also. They are as the beasts of the field\nthat know not good from evil, and for them the Lord has not died.’\n\nThe young Fisherman’s eyes filled with tears when he heard the bitter\nwords of the Priest, and he rose up from his knees and said to him,\n‘Father, the Fauns live in the forest and are glad, and on the rocks sit\nthe Mermen with their harps of red gold. Let me be as they are, I\nbeseech thee, for their days are as the days of flowers. And as for my\nsoul, what doth my soul profit me, if it stand between me and the thing\nthat I love?’\n\n‘The love of the body is vile,’ cried the Priest, knitting his brows,\n‘and vile and evil are the pagan things God suffers to wander through His\nworld. Accursed be the Fauns of the woodland, and accursed be the\nsingers of the sea! I have heard them at night-time, and they have\nsought to lure me from my beads. They tap at the window, and laugh.\nThey whisper into my ears the tale of their perilous joys. They tempt me\nwith temptations, and when I would pray they make mouths at me. They are\nlost, I tell thee, they are lost. For them there is no heaven nor hell,\nand in neither shall they praise God’s name.’\n\n‘Father,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘thou knowest not what thou sayest.\nOnce in my net I snared the daughter of a King. She is fairer than the\nmorning star, and whiter than the moon. For her body I would give my\nsoul, and for her love I would surrender heaven. Tell me what I ask of\nthee, and let me go in peace.’\n\n‘Away! Away!’ cried the Priest: ‘thy leman is lost, and thou shalt be\nlost with her.’\n\nAnd he gave him no blessing, but drove him from his door.\n\nAnd the young Fisherman went down into the market-place, and he walked\nslowly, and with bowed head, as one who is in sorrow.\n\nAnd when the merchants saw him coming, they began to whisper to each\nother, and one of them came forth to meet him, and called him by name,\nand said to him, ‘What hast thou to sell?’\n\n‘I will sell thee my soul,’ he answered. ‘I pray thee buy it of me, for\nI am weary of it. Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may\nnot touch it. I do not know it.’\n\nBut the merchants mocked at him, and said, ‘Of what use is a man’s soul\nto us? It is not worth a clipped piece of silver. Sell us thy body for\na slave, and we will clothe thee in sea-purple, and put a ring upon thy\nfinger, and make thee the minion of the great Queen. But talk not of the\nsoul, for to us it is nought, nor has it any value for our service.’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to himself: ‘How strange a thing this is!\nThe Priest telleth me that the soul is worth all the gold in the world,\nand the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.’\nAnd he passed out of the market-place, and went down to the shore of the\nsea, and began to ponder on what he should do.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd at noon he remembered how one of his companions, who was a gatherer\nof samphire, had told him of a certain young Witch who dwelt in a cave at\nthe head of the bay and was very cunning in her witcheries. And he set\nto and ran, so eager was he to get rid of his soul, and a cloud of dust\nfollowed him as he sped round the sand of the shore. By the itching of\nher palm the young Witch knew his coming, and she laughed and let down\nher red hair. With her red hair falling around her, she stood at the\nopening of the cave, and in her hand she had a spray of wild hemlock that\nwas blossoming.\n\n‘What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack?’ she cried, as he came panting up the\nsteep, and bent down before her. ‘Fish for thy net, when the wind is\nfoul? I have a little reed-pipe, and when I blow on it the mullet come\nsailing into the bay. But it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price.\nWhat d’ye lack? What d’ye lack? A storm to wreck the ships, and wash\nthe chests of rich treasure ashore? I have more storms than the wind\nhas, for I serve one who is stronger than the wind, and with a sieve and\na pail of water I can send the great galleys to the bottom of the sea.\nBut I have a price, pretty boy, I have a price. What d’ye lack? What\nd’ye lack? I know a flower that grows in the valley, none knows it but\nI. It has purple leaves, and a star in its heart, and its juice is as\nwhite as milk. Shouldst thou touch with this flower the hard lips of the\nQueen, she would follow thee all over the world. Out of the bed of the\nKing she would rise, and over the whole world she would follow thee. And\nit has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d’ye lack? What d’ye\nlack? I can pound a toad in a mortar, and make broth of it, and stir the\nbroth with a dead man’s hand. Sprinkle it on thine enemy while he\nsleeps, and he will turn into a black viper, and his own mother will slay\nhim. With a wheel I can draw the Moon from heaven, and in a crystal I\ncan show thee Death. What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack? Tell me thy\ndesire, and I will give it thee, and thou shalt pay me a price, pretty\nboy, thou shalt pay me a price.’\n\n‘My desire is but for a little thing,’ said the young Fisherman, ‘yet\nhath the Priest been wroth with me, and driven me forth. It is but for a\nlittle thing, and the merchants have mocked at me, and denied me.\nTherefore am I come to thee, though men call thee evil, and whatever be\nthy price I shall pay it.’\n\n‘What wouldst thou?’ asked the Witch, coming near to him.\n\n‘I would send my soul away from me,’ answered the young Fisherman.\n\nThe Witch grew pale, and shuddered, and hid her face in her blue mantle.\n‘Pretty boy, pretty boy,’ she muttered, ‘that is a terrible thing to do.’\n\nHe tossed his brown curls and laughed. ‘My soul is nought to me,’ he\nanswered. ‘I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.’\n\n‘What wilt thou give me if I tell thee?’ asked the Witch, looking down at\nhim with her beautiful eyes.\n\n‘Five pieces of gold,’ he said, ‘and my nets, and the wattled house where\nI live, and the painted boat in which I sail. Only tell me how to get\nrid of my soul, and I will give thee all that I possess.’\n\nShe laughed mockingly at him, and struck him with the spray of hemlock.\n‘I can turn the autumn leaves into gold,’ she answered, ‘and I can weave\nthe pale moonbeams into silver if I will it. He whom I serve is richer\nthan all the kings of this world, and has their dominions.’\n\n‘What then shall I give thee,’ he cried, ‘if thy price be neither gold\nnor silver?’\n\nThe Witch stroked his hair with her thin white hand. ‘Thou must dance\nwith me, pretty boy,’ she murmured, and she smiled at him as she spoke.\n\n‘Nought but that?’ cried the young Fisherman in wonder and he rose to his\nfeet.\n\n‘Nought but that,’ she answered, and she smiled at him again.\n\n‘Then at sunset in some secret place we shall dance together,’ he said,\n‘and after that we have danced thou shalt tell me the thing which I\ndesire to know.’\n\nShe shook her head. ‘When the moon is full, when the moon is full,’ she\nmuttered. Then she peered all round, and listened. A blue bird rose\nscreaming from its nest and circled over the dunes, and three spotted\nbirds rustled through the coarse grey grass and whistled to each other.\nThere was no other sound save the sound of a wave fretting the smooth\npebbles below. So she reached out her hand, and drew him near to her and\nput her dry lips close to his ear.\n\n‘To-night thou must come to the top of the mountain,’ she whispered. ‘It\nis a Sabbath, and He will be there.’\n\nThe young Fisherman started and looked at her, and she showed her white\nteeth and laughed. ‘Who is He of whom thou speakest?’ he asked.\n\n‘It matters not,’ she answered. ‘Go thou to-night, and stand under the\nbranches of the hornbeam, and wait for my coming. If a black dog run\ntowards thee, strike it with a rod of willow, and it will go away. If an\nowl speak to thee, make it no answer. When the moon is full I shall be\nwith thee, and we will dance together on the grass.’\n\n‘But wilt thou swear to me to tell me how I may send my soul from me?’ he\nmade question.\n\nShe moved out into the sunlight, and through her red hair rippled the\nwind. ‘By the hoofs of the goat I swear it,’ she made answer.\n\n‘Thou art the best of the witches,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘and I\nwill surely dance with thee to-night on the top of the mountain. I would\nindeed that thou hadst asked of me either gold or silver. But such as\nthy price is thou shalt have it, for it is but a little thing.’ And he\ndoffed his cap to her, and bent his head low, and ran back to the town\nfilled with a great joy.\n\nAnd the Witch watched him as he went, and when he had passed from her\nsight she entered her cave, and having taken a mirror from a box of\ncarved cedarwood, she set it up on a frame, and burned vervain on lighted\ncharcoal before it, and peered through the coils of the smoke. And after\na time she clenched her hands in anger. ‘He should have been mine,’ she\nmuttered, ‘I am as fair as she is.’\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd that evening, when the moon had risen, the young Fisherman climbed up\nto the top of the mountain, and stood under the branches of the hornbeam.\nLike a targe of polished metal the round sea lay at his feet, and the\nshadows of the fishing-boats moved in the little bay. A great owl, with\nyellow sulphurous eyes, called to him by his name, but he made it no\nanswer. A black dog ran towards him and snarled. He struck it with a\nrod of willow, and it went away whining.\n\nAt midnight the witches came flying through the air like bats. ‘Phew!’\nthey cried, as they lit upon the ground, ‘there is some one here we know\nnot!’ and they sniffed about, and chattered to each other, and made\nsigns. Last of all came the young Witch, with her red hair streaming in\nthe wind. She wore a dress of gold tissue embroidered with peacocks’\neyes, and a little cap of green velvet was on her head.\n\n‘Where is he, where is he?’ shrieked the witches when they saw her, but\nshe only laughed, and ran to the hornbeam, and taking the Fisherman by\nthe hand she led him out into the moonlight and began to dance.\n\nRound and round they whirled, and the young Witch jumped so high that he\ncould see the scarlet heels of her shoes. Then right across the dancers\ncame the sound of the galloping of a horse, but no horse was to be seen,\nand he felt afraid.\n\n‘Faster,’ cried the Witch, and she threw her arms about his neck, and her\nbreath was hot upon his face. ‘Faster, faster!’ she cried, and the earth\nseemed to spin beneath his feet, and his brain grew troubled, and a great\nterror fell on him, as of some evil thing that was watching him, and at\nlast he became aware that under the shadow of a rock there was a figure\nthat had not been there before.\n\nIt was a man dressed in a suit of black velvet, cut in the Spanish\nfashion. His face was strangely pale, but his lips were like a proud red\nflower. He seemed weary, and was leaning back toying in a listless\nmanner with the pommel of his dagger. On the grass beside him lay a\nplumed hat, and a pair of riding-gloves gauntleted with gilt lace, and\nsewn with seed-pearls wrought into a curious device. A short cloak lined\nwith sables hang from his shoulder, and his delicate white hands were\ngemmed with rings. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes.\n\nThe young Fisherman watched him, as one snared in a spell. At last their\neyes met, and wherever he danced it seemed to him that the eyes of the\nman were upon him. He heard the Witch laugh, and caught her by the\nwaist, and whirled her madly round and round.\n\nSuddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up\ntwo by two, knelt down, and kissed the man’s hands. As they did so, a\nlittle smile touched his proud lips, as a bird’s wing touches the water\nand makes it laugh. But there was disdain in it. He kept looking at the\nyoung Fisherman.\n\n‘Come! let us worship,’ whispered the Witch, and she led him up, and a\ngreat desire to do as she besought him seized on him, and he followed\nher. But when he came close, and without knowing why he did it, he made\non his breast the sign of the Cross, and called upon the holy name.\n\nNo sooner had he done so than the witches screamed like hawks and flew\naway, and the pallid face that had been watching him twitched with a\nspasm of pain. The man went over to a little wood, and whistled. A\njennet with silver trappings came running to meet him. As he leapt upon\nthe saddle he turned round, and looked at the young Fisherman sadly.\n\nAnd the Witch with the red hair tried to fly away also, but the Fisherman\ncaught her by her wrists, and held her fast.\n\n‘Loose me,’ she cried, ‘and let me go. For thou hast named what should\nnot be named, and shown the sign that may not be looked at.’\n\n‘Nay,’ he answered, ‘but I will not let thee go till thou hast told me\nthe secret.’\n\n‘What secret?’ said the Witch, wrestling with him like a wild cat, and\nbiting her foam-flecked lips.\n\n‘Thou knowest,’ he made answer.\n\nHer grass-green eyes grew dim with tears, and she said to the Fisherman,\n‘Ask me anything but that!’\n\nHe laughed, and held her all the more tightly.\n\nAnd when she saw that she could not free herself, she whispered to him,\n‘Surely I am as fair as the daughters of the sea, and as comely as those\nthat dwell in the blue waters,’ and she fawned on him and put her face\nclose to his.\n\nBut he thrust her back frowning, and said to her, ‘If thou keepest not\nthe promise that thou madest to me I will slay thee for a false witch.’\n\nShe grew grey as a blossom of the Judas tree, and shuddered. ‘Be it so,’\nshe muttered. ‘It is thy soul and not mine. Do with it as thou wilt.’\nAnd she took from her girdle a little knife that had a handle of green\nviper’s skin, and gave it to him.\n\n‘What shall this serve me?’ he asked of her, wondering.\n\nShe was silent for a few moments, and a look of terror came over her\nface. Then she brushed her hair back from her forehead, and smiling\nstrangely she said to him, ‘What men call the shadow of the body is not\nthe shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul. Stand on the\nsea-shore with thy back to the moon, and cut away from around thy feet\nthy shadow, which is thy soul’s body, and bid thy soul leave thee, and it\nwill do so.’\n\nThe young Fisherman trembled. ‘Is this true?’ he murmured.\n\n‘It is true, and I would that I had not told thee of it,’ she cried, and\nshe clung to his knees weeping.\n\nHe put her from him and left her in the rank grass, and going to the edge\nof the mountain he placed the knife in his belt and began to climb down.\n\nAnd his Soul that was within him called out to him and said, ‘Lo! I have\ndwelt with thee for all these years, and have been thy servant. Send me\nnot away from thee now, for what evil have I done thee?’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Thou hast done me no evil, but I have\nno need of thee,’ he answered. ‘The world is wide, and there is Heaven\nalso, and Hell, and that dim twilight house that lies between. Go\nwherever thou wilt, but trouble me not, for my love is calling to me.’\n\nAnd his Soul besought him piteously, but he heeded it not, but leapt from\ncrag to crag, being sure-footed as a wild goat, and at last he reached\nthe level ground and the yellow shore of the sea.\n\nBronze-limbed and well-knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood\non the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white\narms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose dim forms that did\nhim homage. Before him lay his shadow, which was the body of his soul,\nand behind him hung the moon in the honey-coloured air.\n\nAnd his Soul said to him, ‘If indeed thou must drive me from thee, send\nme not forth without a heart. The world is cruel, give me thy heart to\ntake with me.’\n\nHe tossed his head and smiled. ‘With what should I love my love if I\ngave thee my heart?’ he cried.\n\n‘Nay, but be merciful,’ said his Soul: ‘give me thy heart, for the world\nis very cruel, and I am afraid.’\n\n‘My heart is my love’s,’ he answered, ‘therefore tarry not, but get thee\ngone.’\n\n‘Should I not love also?’ asked his Soul.\n\n‘Get thee gone, for I have no need of thee,’ cried the young Fisherman,\nand he took the little knife with its handle of green viper’s skin, and\ncut away his shadow from around his feet, and it rose up and stood before\nhim, and looked at him, and it was even as himself.\n\nHe crept back, and thrust the knife into his belt, and a feeling of awe\ncame over him. ‘Get thee gone,’ he murmured, ‘and let me see thy face no\nmore.’\n\n‘Nay, but we must meet again,’ said the Soul. Its voice was low and\nflute-like, and its lips hardly moved while it spake.\n\n‘How shall we meet?’ cried the young Fisherman. ‘Thou wilt not follow me\ninto the depths of the sea?’\n\n‘Once every year I will come to this place, and call to thee,’ said the\nSoul. ‘It may be that thou wilt have need of me.’\n\n‘What need should I have of thee?’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘but be it\nas thou wilt,’ and he plunged into the waters and the Tritons blew their\nhorns and the little Mermaid rose up to meet him, and put her arms around\nhis neck and kissed him on the mouth.\n\nAnd the Soul stood on the lonely beach and watched them. And when they\nhad sunk down into the sea, it went weeping away over the marshes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd after a year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea and\ncalled to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep, and said,\n‘Why dost thou call to me?’\n\nAnd the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I\nhave seen marvellous things.’\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head\nupon his hand and listened.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, ‘When I left thee I turned my face to the East\nand journeyed. From the East cometh everything that is wise. Six days I\njourneyed, and on the morning of the seventh day I came to a hill that is\nin the country of the Tartars. I sat down under the shade of a tamarisk\ntree to shelter myself from the sun. The land was dry and burnt up with\nthe heat. The people went to and fro over the plain like flies crawling\nupon a disk of polished copper.\n\n‘When it was noon a cloud of red dust rose up from the flat rim of the\nland. When the Tartars saw it, they strung their painted bows, and\nhaving leapt upon their little horses they galloped to meet it. The\nwomen fled screaming to the waggons, and hid themselves behind the felt\ncurtains.\n\n‘At twilight the Tartars returned, but five of them were missing, and of\nthose that came back not a few had been wounded. They harnessed their\nhorses to the waggons and drove hastily away. Three jackals came out of\na cave and peered after them. Then they sniffed up the air with their\nnostrils, and trotted off in the opposite direction.\n\n‘When the moon rose I saw a camp-fire burning on the plain, and went\ntowards it. A company of merchants were seated round it on carpets.\nTheir camels were picketed behind them, and the negroes who were their\nservants were pitching tents of tanned skin upon the sand, and making a\nhigh wall of the prickly pear.\n\n‘As I came near them, the chief of the merchants rose up and drew his\nsword, and asked me my business.\n\n‘I answered that I was a Prince in my own land, and that I had escaped\nfrom the Tartars, who had sought to make me their slave. The chief\nsmiled, and showed me five heads fixed upon long reeds of bamboo.\n\n‘Then he asked me who was the prophet of God, and I answered him\nMohammed.\n\n‘When he heard the name of the false prophet, he bowed and took me by the\nhand, and placed me by his side. A negro brought me some mare’s milk in\na wooden dish, and a piece of lamb’s flesh roasted.\n\n‘At daybreak we started on our journey. I rode on a red-haired camel by\nthe side of the chief, and a runner ran before us carrying a spear. The\nmen of war were on either hand, and the mules followed with the\nmerchandise. There were forty camels in the caravan, and the mules were\ntwice forty in number.\n\n‘We went from the country of the Tartars into the country of those who\ncurse the Moon. We saw the Gryphons guarding their gold on the white\nrocks, and the scaled Dragons sleeping in their caves. As we passed over\nthe mountains we held our breath lest the snows might fall on us, and\neach man tied a veil of gauze before his eyes. As we passed through the\nvalleys the Pygmies shot arrows at us from the hollows of the trees, and\nat night-time we heard the wild men beating on their drums. When we came\nto the Tower of Apes we set fruits before them, and they did not harm us.\nWhen we came to the Tower of Serpents we gave them warm milk in howls of\nbrass, and they let us go by. Three times in our journey we came to the\nbanks of the Oxus. We crossed it on rafts of wood with great bladders of\nblown hide. The river-horses raged against us and sought to slay us.\nWhen the camels saw them they trembled.\n\n‘The kings of each city levied tolls on us, but would not suffer us to\nenter their gates. They threw us bread over the walls, little\nmaize-cakes baked in honey and cakes of fine flour filled with dates.\nFor every hundred baskets we gave them a bead of amber.\n\n‘When the dwellers in the villages saw us coming, they poisoned the wells\nand fled to the hill-summits. We fought with the Magadae who are born\nold, and grow younger and younger every year, and die when they are\nlittle children; and with the Laktroi who say that they are the sons of\ntigers, and paint themselves yellow and black; and with the Aurantes who\nbury their dead on the tops of trees, and themselves live in dark caverns\nlest the Sun, who is their god, should slay them; and with the Krimnians\nwho worship a crocodile, and give it earrings of green glass, and feed it\nwith butter and fresh fowls; and with the Agazonbae, who are dog-faced;\nand with the Sibans, who have horses’ feet, and run more swiftly than\nhorses. A third of our company died in battle, and a third died of want.\nThe rest murmured against me, and said that I had brought them an evil\nfortune. I took a horned adder from beneath a stone and let it sting me.\nWhen they saw that I did not sicken they grew afraid.\n\n‘In the fourth month we reached the city of Illel. It was night-time\nwhen we came to the grove that is outside the walls, and the air was\nsultry, for the Moon was travelling in Scorpion. We took the ripe\npomegranates from the trees, and brake them, and drank their sweet\njuices. Then we lay down on our carpets, and waited for the dawn.\n\n‘And at dawn we rose and knocked at the gate of the city. It was wrought\nout of red bronze, and carved with sea-dragons and dragons that have\nwings. The guards looked down from the battlements and asked us our\nbusiness. The interpreter of the caravan answered that we had come from\nthe island of Syria with much merchandise. They took hostages, and told\nus that they would open the gate to us at noon, and bade us tarry till\nthen.\n\n‘When it was noon they opened the gate, and as we entered in the people\ncame crowding out of the houses to look at us, and a crier went round the\ncity crying through a shell. We stood in the market-place, and the\nnegroes uncorded the bales of figured cloths and opened the carved chests\nof sycamore. And when they had ended their task, the merchants set forth\ntheir strange wares, the waxed linen from Egypt and the painted linen\nfrom the country of the Ethiops, the purple sponges from Tyre and the\nblue hangings from Sidon, the cups of cold amber and the fine vessels of\nglass and the curious vessels of burnt clay. From the roof of a house a\ncompany of women watched us. One of them wore a mask of gilded leather.\n\n‘And on the first day the priests came and bartered with us, and on the\nsecond day came the nobles, and on the third day came the craftsmen and\nthe slaves. And this is their custom with all merchants as long as they\ntarry in the city.\n\n‘And we tarried for a moon, and when the moon was waning, I wearied and\nwandered away through the streets of the city and came to the garden of\nits god. The priests in their yellow robes moved silently through the\ngreen trees, and on a pavement of black marble stood the rose-red house\nin which the god had his dwelling. Its doors were of powdered lacquer,\nand bulls and peacocks were wrought on them in raised and polished gold.\nThe tilted roof was of sea-green porcelain, and the jutting eaves were\nfestooned with little bells. When the white doves flew past, they struck\nthe bells with their wings and made them tinkle.\n\n‘In front of the temple was a pool of clear water paved with veined onyx.\nI lay down beside it, and with my pale fingers I touched the broad\nleaves. One of the priests came towards me and stood behind me. He had\nsandals on his feet, one of soft serpent-skin and the other of birds’\nplumage. On his head was a mitre of black felt decorated with silver\ncrescents. Seven yellows were woven into his robe, and his frizzed hair\nwas stained with antimony.\n\n‘After a little while he spake to me, and asked me my desire.\n\n‘I told him that my desire was to see the god.\n\n‘“The god is hunting,” said the priest, looking strangely at me with his\nsmall slanting eyes.\n\n‘“Tell me in what forest, and I will ride with him,” I answered.\n\n‘He combed out the soft fringes of his tunic with his long pointed nails.\n“The god is asleep,” he murmured.\n\n‘“Tell me on what couch, and I will watch by him,” I answered.\n\n‘“The god is at the feast,” he cried.\n\n‘“If the wine be sweet I will drink it with him, and if it be bitter I\nwill drink it with him also,” was my answer.\n\n‘He bowed his head in wonder, and, taking me by the hand, he raised me\nup, and led me into the temple.\n\n‘And in the first chamber I saw an idol seated on a throne of jasper\nbordered with great orient pearls. It was carved out of ebony, and in\nstature was of the stature of a man. On its forehead was a ruby, and\nthick oil dripped from its hair on to its thighs. Its feet were red with\nthe blood of a newly-slain kid, and its loins girt with a copper belt\nthat was studded with seven beryls.\n\n‘And I said to the priest, “Is this the god?” And he answered me, “This\nis the god.”\n\n‘“Show me the god,” I cried, “or I will surely slay thee.” And I touched\nhis hand, and it became withered.\n\n‘And the priest besought me, saying, “Let my lord heal his servant, and I\nwill show him the god.”\n\n‘So I breathed with my breath upon his hand, and it became whole again,\nand he trembled and led me into the second chamber, and I saw an idol\nstanding on a lotus of jade hung with great emeralds. It was carved out\nof ivory, and in stature was twice the stature of a man. On its forehead\nwas a chrysolite, and its breasts were smeared with myrrh and cinnamon.\nIn one hand it held a crooked sceptre of jade, and in the other a round\ncrystal. It ware buskins of brass, and its thick neck was circled with a\ncircle of selenites.\n\n‘And I said to the priest, “Is this the god?”\n\n‘And he answered me, “This is the god.”\n\n‘“Show me the god,” I cried, “or I will surely slay thee.” And I touched\nhis eyes, and they became blind.\n\n‘And the priest besought me, saying, “Let my lord heal his servant, and I\nwill show him the god.”\n\n‘So I breathed with my breath upon his eyes, and the sight came back to\nthem, and he trembled again, and led me into the third chamber, and lo!\nthere was no idol in it, nor image of any kind, but only a mirror of\nround metal set on an altar of stone.\n\n‘And I said to the priest, “Where is the god?”\n\n‘And he answered me: “There is no god but this mirror that thou seest,\nfor this is the Mirror of Wisdom. And it reflecteth all things that are\nin heaven and on earth, save only the face of him who looketh into it.\nThis it reflecteth not, so that he who looketh into it may be wise. Many\nother mirrors are there, but they are mirrors of Opinion. This only is\nthe Mirror of Wisdom. And they who possess this mirror know everything,\nnor is there anything hidden from them. And they who possess it not have\nnot Wisdom. Therefore is it the god, and we worship it.” And I looked\ninto the mirror, and it was even as he had said to me.\n\n‘And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a valley\nthat is but a day’s journey from this place have I hidden the Mirror of\nWisdom. Do but suffer me to enter into thee again and be thy servant,\nand thou shalt be wiser than all the wise men, and Wisdom shall be thine.\nSuffer me to enter into thee, and none will be as wise as thou.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Love is better than Wisdom,’ he cried,\n‘and the little Mermaid loves me.’\n\n‘Nay, but there is nothing better than Wisdom,’ said the Soul.\n\n‘Love is better,’ answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the\ndeep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd after the second year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of\nthe sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep\nand said, ‘Why dost thou call to me?’\n\nAnd the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I\nhave seen marvellous things.’\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head\nupon his hand and listened.\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, ‘When I left thee, I turned my face to the\nSouth and journeyed. From the South cometh everything that is precious.\nSix days I journeyed along the highways that lead to the city of Ashter,\nalong the dusty red-dyed highways by which the pilgrims are wont to go\ndid I journey, and on the morning of the seventh day I lifted up my eyes,\nand lo! the city lay at my feet, for it is in a valley.\n\n‘There are nine gates to this city, and in front of each gate stands a\nbronze horse that neighs when the Bedouins come down from the mountains.\nThe walls are cased with copper, and the watch-towers on the walls are\nroofed with brass. In every tower stands an archer with a bow in his\nhand. At sunrise he strikes with an arrow on a gong, and at sunset he\nblows through a horn of horn.\n\n‘When I sought to enter, the guards stopped me and asked of me who I was.\nI made answer that I was a Dervish and on my way to the city of Mecca,\nwhere there was a green veil on which the Koran was embroidered in silver\nletters by the hands of the angels. They were filled with wonder, and\nentreated me to pass in.\n\n‘Inside it is even as a bazaar. Surely thou shouldst have been with me.\nAcross the narrow streets the gay lanterns of paper flutter like large\nbutterflies. When the wind blows over the roofs they rise and fall as\npainted bubbles do. In front of their booths sit the merchants on silken\ncarpets. They have straight black beards, and their turbans are covered\nwith golden sequins, and long strings of amber and carved peach-stones\nglide through their cool fingers. Some of them sell galbanum and nard,\nand curious perfumes from the islands of the Indian Sea, and the thick\noil of red roses, and myrrh and little nail-shaped cloves. When one\nstops to speak to them, they throw pinches of frankincense upon a\ncharcoal brazier and make the air sweet. I saw a Syrian who held in his\nhands a thin rod like a reed. Grey threads of smoke came from it, and\nits odour as it burned was as the odour of the pink almond in spring.\nOthers sell silver bracelets embossed all over with creamy blue turquoise\nstones, and anklets of brass wire fringed with little pearls, and tigers’\nclaws set in gold, and the claws of that gilt cat, the leopard, set in\ngold also, and earrings of pierced emerald, and finger-rings of hollowed\njade. From the tea-houses comes the sound of the guitar, and the\nopium-smokers with their white smiling faces look out at the passers-by.\n\n‘Of a truth thou shouldst have been with me. The wine-sellers elbow\ntheir way through the crowd with great black skins on their shoulders.\nMost of them sell the wine of Schiraz, which is as sweet as honey. They\nserve it in little metal cups and strew rose leaves upon it. In the\nmarket-place stand the fruitsellers, who sell all kinds of fruit: ripe\nfigs, with their bruised purple flesh, melons, smelling of musk and\nyellow as topazes, citrons and rose-apples and clusters of white grapes,\nround red-gold oranges, and oval lemons of green gold. Once I saw an\nelephant go by. Its trunk was painted with vermilion and turmeric, and\nover its ears it had a net of crimson silk cord. It stopped opposite one\nof the booths and began eating the oranges, and the man only laughed.\nThou canst not think how strange a people they are. When they are glad\nthey go to the bird-sellers and buy of them a caged bird, and set it free\nthat their joy may be greater, and when they are sad they scourge\nthemselves with thorns that their sorrow may not grow less.\n\n‘One evening I met some negroes carrying a heavy palanquin through the\nbazaar. It was made of gilded bamboo, and the poles were of vermilion\nlacquer studded with brass peacocks. Across the windows hung thin\ncurtains of muslin embroidered with beetles’ wings and with tiny\nseed-pearls, and as it passed by a pale-faced Circassian looked out and\nsmiled at me. I followed behind, and the negroes hurried their steps and\nscowled. But I did not care. I felt a great curiosity come over me.\n\n‘At last they stopped at a square white house. There were no windows to\nit, only a little door like the door of a tomb. They set down the\npalanquin and knocked three times with a copper hammer. An Armenian in a\ncaftan of green leather peered through the wicket, and when he saw them\nhe opened, and spread a carpet on the ground, and the woman stepped out.\nAs she went in, she turned round and smiled at me again. I had never\nseen any one so pale.\n\n‘When the moon rose I returned to the same place and sought for the\nhouse, but it was no longer there. When I saw that, I knew who the woman\nwas, and wherefore she had smiled at me.\n\n‘Certainly thou shouldst have been with me. On the feast of the New Moon\nthe young Emperor came forth from his palace and went into the mosque to\npray. His hair and beard were dyed with rose-leaves, and his cheeks were\npowdered with a fine gold dust. The palms of his feet and hands were\nyellow with saffron.\n\n‘At sunrise he went forth from his palace in a robe of silver, and at\nsunset he returned to it again in a robe of gold. The people flung\nthemselves on the ground and hid their faces, but I would not do so. I\nstood by the stall of a seller of dates and waited. When the Emperor saw\nme, he raised his painted eyebrows and stopped. I stood quite still, and\nmade him no obeisance. The people marvelled at my boldness, and\ncounselled me to flee from the city. I paid no heed to them, but went\nand sat with the sellers of strange gods, who by reason of their craft\nare abominated. When I told them what I had done, each of them gave me a\ngod and prayed me to leave them.\n\n‘That night, as I lay on a cushion in the tea-house that is in the Street\nof Pomegranates, the guards of the Emperor entered and led me to the\npalace. As I went in they closed each door behind me, and put a chain\nacross it. Inside was a great court with an arcade running all round.\nThe walls were of white alabaster, set here and there with blue and green\ntiles. The pillars were of green marble, and the pavement of a kind of\npeach-blossom marble. I had never seen anything like it before.\n\n‘As I passed across the court two veiled women looked down from a balcony\nand cursed me. The guards hastened on, and the butts of the lances rang\nupon the polished floor. They opened a gate of wrought ivory, and I\nfound myself in a watered garden of seven terraces. It was planted with\ntulip-cups and moonflowers, and silver-studded aloes. Like a slim reed\nof crystal a fountain hung in the dusky air. The cypress-trees were like\nburnt-out torches. From one of them a nightingale was singing.\n\n‘At the end of the garden stood a little pavilion. As we approached it\ntwo eunuchs came out to meet us. Their fat bodies swayed as they walked,\nand they glanced curiously at me with their yellow-lidded eyes. One of\nthem drew aside the captain of the guard, and in a low voice whispered to\nhim. The other kept munching scented pastilles, which he took with an\naffected gesture out of an oval box of lilac enamel.\n\n‘After a few moments the captain of the guard dismissed the soldiers.\nThey went back to the palace, the eunuchs following slowly behind and\nplucking the sweet mulberries from the trees as they passed. Once the\nelder of the two turned round, and smiled at me with an evil smile.\n\n‘Then the captain of the guard motioned me towards the entrance of the\npavilion. I walked on without trembling, and drawing the heavy curtain\naside I entered in.\n\n‘The young Emperor was stretched on a couch of dyed lion skins, and a\ngerfalcon perched upon his wrist. Behind him stood a brass-turbaned\nNubian, naked down to the waist, and with heavy earrings in his split\nears. On a table by the side of the couch lay a mighty scimitar of\nsteel.\n\n‘When the Emperor saw me he frowned, and said to me, “What is thy name?\nKnowest thou not that I am Emperor of this city?” But I made him no\nanswer.\n\n‘He pointed with his finger at the scimitar, and the Nubian seized it,\nand rushing forward struck at me with great violence. The blade whizzed\nthrough me, and did me no hurt. The man fell sprawling on the floor, and\nwhen he rose up his teeth chattered with terror and he hid himself behind\nthe couch.\n\n‘The Emperor leapt to his feet, and taking a lance from a stand of arms,\nhe threw it at me. I caught it in its flight, and brake the shaft into\ntwo pieces. He shot at me with an arrow, but I held up my hands and it\nstopped in mid-air. Then he drew a dagger from a belt of white leather,\nand stabbed the Nubian in the throat lest the slave should tell of his\ndishonour. The man writhed like a trampled snake, and a red foam bubbled\nfrom his lips.\n\n‘As soon as he was dead the Emperor turned to me, and when he had wiped\naway the bright sweat from his brow with a little napkin of purfled and\npurple silk, he said to me, “Art thou a prophet, that I may not harm\nthee, or the son of a prophet, that I can do thee no hurt? I pray thee\nleave my city to-night, for while thou art in it I am no longer its\nlord.”\n\n‘And I answered him, “I will go for half of thy treasure. Give me half\nof thy treasure, and I will go away.”\n\n‘He took me by the hand, and led me out into the garden. When the\ncaptain of the guard saw me, he wondered. When the eunuchs saw me, their\nknees shook and they fell upon the ground in fear.\n\n‘There is a chamber in the palace that has eight walls of red porphyry,\nand a brass-sealed ceiling hung with lamps. The Emperor touched one of\nthe walls and it opened, and we passed down a corridor that was lit with\nmany torches. In niches upon each side stood great wine-jars filled to\nthe brim with silver pieces. When we reached the centre of the corridor\nthe Emperor spake the word that may not be spoken, and a granite door\nswung back on a secret spring, and he put his hands before his face lest\nhis eyes should be dazzled.\n\n‘Thou couldst not believe how marvellous a place it was. There were huge\ntortoise-shells full of pearls, and hollowed moonstones of great size\npiled up with red rubies. The gold was stored in coffers of\nelephant-hide, and the gold-dust in leather bottles. There were opals\nand sapphires, the former in cups of crystal, and the latter in cups of\njade. Round green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of\nivory, and in one corner were silk bags filled, some with\nturquoise-stones, and others with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped\nwith purple amethysts, and the horns of brass with chalcedonies and\nsards. The pillars, which were of cedar, were hung with strings of\nyellow lynx-stones. In the flat oval shields there were carbuncles, both\nwine-coloured and coloured like grass. And yet I have told thee but a\ntithe of what was there.\n\n‘And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face he\nsaid to me: “This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is\nthine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel\ndrivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure\nto whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall\nbe done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should\nsee that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay.”\n\n‘But I answered him, “The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also\nis thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As\nfor me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but\nthat little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand.”\n\n‘And the Emperor frowned. “It is but a ring of lead,” he cried, “nor has\nit any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my\ncity.”\n\n‘“Nay,” I answered, “but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I\nknow what is written within it, and for what purpose.”\n\n‘And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, “Take all the\ntreasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine\nalso.”\n\n‘And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave\nthat is but a day’s journey from this place have, I hidden the Ring of\nRiches. It is but a day’s journey from this place, and it waits for thy\ncoming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world.\nCome therefore and take it, and the world’s riches shall be thine.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Love is better than Riches,’ he cried,\n‘and the little Mermaid loves me.’\n\n‘Nay, but there is nothing better than Riches,’ said the Soul.\n\n‘Love is better,’ answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the\ndeep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd after the third year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of the\nsea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and\nsaid, ‘Why dost thou call to me?’\n\nAnd the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I\nhave seen marvellous things.’\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head\nupon his hand and listened.\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, ‘In a city that I know of there is an inn that\nstandeth by a river. I sat there with sailors who drank of two\ndifferent-coloured wines, and ate bread made of barley, and little salt\nfish served in bay leaves with vinegar. And as we sat and made merry,\nthere entered to us an old man bearing a leathern carpet and a lute that\nhad two horns of amber. And when he had laid out the carpet on the\nfloor, he struck with a quill on the wire strings of his lute, and a girl\nwhose face was veiled ran in and began to dance before us. Her face was\nveiled with a veil of gauze, but her feet were naked. Naked were her\nfeet, and they moved over the carpet like little white pigeons. Never\nhave I seen anything so marvellous; and the city in which she dances is\nbut a day’s journey from this place.’\n\nNow when the young Fisherman heard the words of his Soul, he remembered\nthat the little Mermaid had no feet and could not dance. And a great\ndesire came over him, and he said to himself, ‘It is but a day’s journey,\nand I can return to my love,’ and he laughed, and stood up in the shallow\nwater, and strode towards the shore.\n\nAnd when he had reached the dry shore he laughed again, and held out his\narms to his Soul. And his Soul gave a great cry of joy and ran to meet\nhim, and entered into him, and the young Fisherman saw stretched before\nhim upon the sand that shadow of the body that is the body of the Soul.\n\nAnd his Soul said to him, ‘Let us not tarry, but get hence at once, for\nthe Sea-gods are jealous, and have monsters that do their bidding.’\n\n * * * * *\n\nSo they made haste, and all that night they journeyed beneath the moon,\nand all the next day they journeyed beneath the sun, and on the evening\nof the day they came to a city.\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she\ndances of whom thou didst speak to me?’\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, ‘It is not this city, but another.\nNevertheless let us enter in.’ So they entered in and passed through the\nstreets, and as they passed through the Street of the Jewellers the young\nFisherman saw a fair silver cup set forth in a booth. And his Soul said\nto him, ‘Take that silver cup and hide it.’\n\nSo he took the cup and hid it in the fold of his tunic, and they went\nhurriedly out of the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman\nfrowned, and flung the cup away, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou\ntell me to take this cup and hide it, for it was an evil thing to do?’\n\nBut his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’\n\nAnd on the evening of the second day they came to a city, and the young\nFisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she dances of whom\nthou didst speak to me?’\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, ‘It is not this city, but another.\nNevertheless let us enter in.’ So they entered in and passed through the\nstreets, and as they passed through the Street of the Sellers of Sandals,\nthe young Fisherman saw a child standing by a jar of water. And his Soul\nsaid to him, ‘Smite that child.’ So he smote the child till it wept, and\nwhen he had done this they went hurriedly out of the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone a league from the city the young Fisherman\ngrew wroth, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou tell me to smite the\nchild, for it was an evil thing to do?’\n\nBut his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’\n\nAnd on the evening of the third day they came to a city, and the young\nFisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she dances of whom\nthou didst speak to me?’\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, ‘It may be that it is in this city, therefore\nlet us enter in.’\n\nSo they entered in and passed through the streets, but nowhere could the\nyoung Fisherman find the river or the inn that stood by its side. And\nthe people of the city looked curiously at him, and he grew afraid and\nsaid to his Soul, ‘Let us go hence, for she who dances with white feet is\nnot here.’\n\nBut his Soul answered, ‘Nay, but let us tarry, for the night is dark and\nthere will be robbers on the way.’\n\nSo he sat him down in the market-place and rested, and after a time there\nwent by a hooded merchant who had a cloak of cloth of Tartary, and bare a\nlantern of pierced horn at the end of a jointed reed. And the merchant\nsaid to him, ‘Why dost thou sit in the market-place, seeing that the\nbooths are closed and the bales corded?’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman answered him, ‘I can find no inn in this city,\nnor have I any kinsman who might give me shelter.’\n\n‘Are we not all kinsmen?’ said the merchant. ‘And did not one God make\nus? Therefore come with me, for I have a guest-chamber.’\n\nSo the young Fisherman rose up and followed the merchant to his house.\nAnd when he had passed through a garden of pomegranates and entered into\nthe house, the merchant brought him rose-water in a copper dish that he\nmight wash his hands, and ripe melons that he might quench his thirst,\nand set a bowl of rice and a piece of roasted kid before him.\n\nAnd after that he had finished, the merchant led him to the\nguest-chamber, and bade him sleep and be at rest. And the young\nFisherman gave him thanks, and kissed the ring that was on his hand, and\nflung himself down on the carpets of dyed goat’s-hair. And when he had\ncovered himself with a covering of black lamb’s-wool he fell asleep.\n\nAnd three hours before dawn, and while it was still night, his Soul waked\nhim and said to him, ‘Rise up and go to the room of the merchant, even to\nthe room in which he sleepeth, and slay him, and take from him his gold,\nfor we have need of it.’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman rose up and crept towards the room of the\nmerchant, and over the feet of the merchant there was lying a curved\nsword, and the tray by the side of the merchant held nine purses of gold.\nAnd he reached out his hand and touched the sword, and when he touched it\nthe merchant started and awoke, and leaping up seized himself the sword\nand cried to the young Fisherman, ‘Dost thou return evil for good, and\npay with the shedding of blood for the kindness that I have shown thee?’\n\nAnd his Soul said to the young Fisherman, ‘Strike him,’ and he struck him\nso that he swooned and he seized then the nine purses of gold, and fled\nhastily through the garden of pomegranates, and set his face to the star\nthat is the star of morning.\n\nAnd when they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman beat\nhis breast, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou bid me slay the\nmerchant and take his gold? Surely thou art evil.’\n\nBut his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’\n\n‘Nay,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘I may not be at peace, for all that\nthou hast made me to do I hate. Thee also I hate, and I bid thee tell me\nwherefore thou hast wrought with me in this wise.’\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, ‘When thou didst send me forth into the world\nthou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love\nthem.’\n\n‘What sayest thou?’ murmured the young Fisherman.\n\n‘Thou knowest,’ answered his Soul, ‘thou knowest it well. Hast thou\nforgotten that thou gavest me no heart? I trow not. And so trouble not\nthyself nor me, but be at peace, for there is no pain that thou shalt not\ngive away, nor any pleasure that thou shalt not receive.’\n\nAnd when the young Fisherman heard these words he trembled and said to\nhis Soul, ‘Nay, but thou art evil, and hast made me forget my love, and\nhast tempted me with temptations, and hast set my feet in the ways of\nsin.’\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, ‘Thou hast not forgotten that when thou didst\nsend me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart. Come, let us go to\nanother city, and make merry, for we have nine purses of gold.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman took the nine purses of gold, and flung them\ndown, and trampled on them.\n\n‘Nay,’ he cried, ‘but I will have nought to do with thee, nor will I\njourney with thee anywhere, but even as I sent thee away before, so will\nI send thee away now, for thou hast wrought me no good.’ And he turned\nhis back to the moon, and with the little knife that had the handle of\ngreen viper’s skin he strove to cut from his feet that shadow of the body\nwhich is the body of the Soul.\n\nYet his Soul stirred not from him, nor paid heed to his command, but said\nto him, ‘The spell that the Witch told thee avails thee no more, for I\nmay not leave thee, nor mayest thou drive me forth. Once in his life may\na man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth back his Soul must keep it\nwith him for ever, and this is his punishment and his reward.’\n\nAnd the young Fisherman grew pale and clenched his hands and cried, ‘She\nwas a false Witch in that she told me not that.’\n\n‘Nay,’ answered his Soul, ‘but she was true to Him she worships, and\nwhose servant she will be ever.’\n\nAnd when the young Fisherman knew that he could no longer get rid of his\nSoul, and that it was an evil Soul and would abide with him always, he\nfell upon the ground weeping bitterly.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd when it was day the young Fisherman rose up and said to his Soul, ‘I\nwill bind my hands that I may not do thy bidding, and close my lips that\nI may not speak thy words, and I will return to the place where she whom\nI love has her dwelling. Even to the sea will I return, and to the\nlittle bay where she is wont to sing, and I will call to her and tell her\nthe evil I have done and the evil thou hast wrought on me.’\n\nAnd his Soul tempted him and said, ‘Who is thy love, that thou shouldst\nreturn to her? The world has many fairer than she is. There are the\ndancing-girls of Samaris who dance in the manner of all kinds of birds\nand beasts. Their feet are painted with henna, and in their hands they\nhave little copper bells. They laugh while they dance, and their\nlaughter is as clear as the laughter of water. Come with me and I will\nshow them to thee. For what is this trouble of thine about the things of\nsin? Is that which is pleasant to eat not made for the eater? Is there\npoison in that which is sweet to drink? Trouble not thyself, but come\nwith me to another city. There is a little city hard by in which there\nis a garden of tulip-trees. And there dwell in this comely garden white\npeacocks and peacocks that have blue breasts. Their tails when they\nspread them to the sun are like disks of ivory and like gilt disks. And\nshe who feeds them dances for their pleasure, and sometimes she dances on\nher hands and at other times she dances with her feet. Her eyes are\ncoloured with stibium, and her nostrils are shaped like the wings of a\nswallow. From a hook in one of her nostrils hangs a flower that is\ncarved out of a pearl. She laughs while she dances, and the silver rings\nthat are about her ankles tinkle like bells of silver. And so trouble\nnot thyself any more, but come with me to this city.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but closed his lips with\nthe seal of silence and with a tight cord bound his hands, and journeyed\nback to the place from which he had come, even to the little bay where\nhis love had been wont to sing. And ever did his Soul tempt him by the\nway, but he made it no answer, nor would he do any of the wickedness that\nit sought to make him to do, so great was the power of the love that was\nwithin him.\n\nAnd when he had reached the shore of the sea, he loosed the cord from his\nhands, and took the seal of silence from his lips, and called to the\nlittle Mermaid. But she came not to his call, though he called to her\nall day long and besought her.\n\nAnd his Soul mocked him and said, ‘Surely thou hast but little joy out of\nthy love. Thou art as one who in time of death pours water into a broken\nvessel. Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought is given to thee in\nreturn. It were better for thee to come with me, for I know where the\nValley of Pleasure lies, and what things are wrought there.’\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but in a cleft of the rock\nhe built himself a house of wattles, and abode there for the space of a\nyear. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he\ncalled to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did\nshe rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he\nfind her though he sought for her in the caves and in the green water, in\nthe pools of the tide and in the wells that are at the bottom of the\ndeep.\n\nAnd ever did his Soul tempt him with evil, and whisper of terrible\nthings. Yet did it not prevail against him, so great was the power of\nhis love.\n\nAnd after the year was over, the Soul thought within himself, ‘I have\ntempted my master with evil, and his love is stronger than I am. I will\ntempt him now with good, and it may be that he will come with me.’\n\nSo he spake to the young Fisherman and said, ‘I have told thee of the joy\nof the world, and thou hast turned a deaf ear to me. Suffer me now to\ntell thee of the world’s pain, and it may be that thou wilt hearken. For\nof a truth pain is the Lord of this world, nor is there any one who\nescapes from its net. There be some who lack raiment, and others who\nlack bread. There be widows who sit in purple, and widows who sit in\nrags. To and fro over the fens go the lepers, and they are cruel to each\nother. The beggars go up and down on the highways, and their wallets are\nempty. Through the streets of the cities walks Famine, and the Plague\nsits at their gates. Come, let us go forth and mend these things, and\nmake them not to be. Wherefore shouldst thou tarry here calling to thy\nlove, seeing she comes not to thy call? And what is love, that thou\nshouldst set this high store upon it?’\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered it nought, so great was the power of his\nlove. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he\ncalled to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did\nshe rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he\nfind her, though he sought for her in the rivers of the sea, and in the\nvalleys that are under the waves, in the sea that the night makes purple,\nand in the sea that the dawn leaves grey.\n\nAnd after the second year was over, the Soul said to the young Fisherman\nat night-time, and as he sat in the wattled house alone, ‘Lo! now I have\ntempted thee with evil, and I have tempted thee with good, and thy love\nis stronger than I am. Wherefore will I tempt thee no longer, but I pray\nthee to suffer me to enter thy heart, that I may be one with thee even as\nbefore.’\n\n‘Surely thou mayest enter,’ said the young Fisherman, ‘for in the days\nwhen with no heart thou didst go through the world thou must have much\nsuffered.’\n\n‘Alas!’ cried his Soul, ‘I can find no place of entrance, so compassed\nabout with love is this heart of thine.’\n\n‘Yet I would that I could help thee,’ said the young Fisherman.\n\nAnd as he spake there came a great cry of mourning from the sea, even the\ncry that men hear when one of the Sea-folk is dead. And the young\nFisherman leapt up, and left his wattled house, and ran down to the\nshore. And the black waves came hurrying to the shore, bearing with them\na burden that was whiter than silver. White as the surf it was, and like\na flower it tossed on the waves. And the surf took it from the waves,\nand the foam took it from the surf, and the shore received it, and lying\nat his feet the young Fisherman saw the body of the little Mermaid. Dead\nat his feet it was lying.\n\nWeeping as one smitten with pain he flung himself down beside it, and he\nkissed the cold red of the mouth, and toyed with the wet amber of the\nhair. He flung himself down beside it on the sand, weeping as one\ntrembling with joy, and in his brown arms he held it to his breast. Cold\nwere the lips, yet he kissed them. Salt was the honey of the hair, yet\nhe tasted it with a bitter joy. He kissed the closed eyelids, and the\nwild spray that lay upon their cups was less salt than his tears.\n\nAnd to the dead thing he made confession. Into the shells of its ears he\npoured the harsh wine of his tale. He put the little hands round his\nneck, and with his fingers he touched the thin reed of the throat.\nBitter, bitter was his joy, and full of strange gladness was his pain.\n\nThe black sea came nearer, and the white foam moaned like a leper. With\nwhite claws of foam the sea grabbled at the shore. From the palace of\nthe Sea-King came the cry of mourning again, and far out upon the sea the\ngreat Tritons blew hoarsely upon their horns.\n\n‘Flee away,’ said his Soul, ‘for ever doth the sea come nigher, and if\nthou tarriest it will slay thee. Flee away, for I am afraid, seeing that\nthy heart is closed against me by reason of the greatness of thy love.\nFlee away to a place of safety. Surely thou wilt not send me without a\nheart into another world?’\n\nBut the young Fisherman listened not to his Soul, but called on the\nlittle Mermaid and said, ‘Love is better than wisdom, and more precious\nthan riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. The fires\ncannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it. I called on thee at\ndawn, and thou didst not come to my call. The moon heard thy name, yet\nhadst thou no heed of me. For evilly had I left thee, and to my own hurt\nhad I wandered away. Yet ever did thy love abide with me, and ever was\nit strong, nor did aught prevail against it, though I have looked upon\nevil and looked upon good. And now that thou art dead, surely I will die\nwith thee also.’\n\nAnd his Soul besought him to depart, but he would not, so great was his\nlove. And the sea came nearer, and sought to cover him with its waves,\nand when he knew that the end was at hand he kissed with mad lips the\ncold lips of the Mermaid, and the heart that was within him brake. And\nas through the fulness of his love his heart did break, the Soul found an\nentrance and entered in, and was one with him even as before. And the\nsea covered the young Fisherman with its waves.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd in the morning the Priest went forth to bless the sea, for it had\nbeen troubled. And with him went the monks and the musicians, and the\ncandle-bearers, and the swingers of censers, and a great company.\n\nAnd when the Priest reached the shore he saw the young Fisherman lying\ndrowned in the surf, and clasped in his arms was the body of the little\nMermaid. And he drew back frowning, and having made the sign of the\ncross, he cried aloud and said, ‘I will not bless the sea nor anything\nthat is in it. Accursed be the Sea-folk, and accursed be all they who\ntraffic with them. And as for him who for love’s sake forsook God, and\nso lieth here with his leman slain by God’s judgment, take up his body\nand the body of his leman, and bury them in the corner of the Field of\nthe Fullers, and set no mark above them, nor sign of any kind, that none\nmay know the place of their resting. For accursed were they in their\nlives, and accursed shall they be in their deaths also.’\n\nAnd the people did as he commanded them, and in the corner of the Field\nof the Fullers, where no sweet herbs grew, they dug a deep pit, and laid\nthe dead things within it.\n\nAnd when the third year was over, and on a day that was a holy day, the\nPriest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds\nof the Lord, and speak to them about the wrath of God.\n\nAnd when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed\nhimself before the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange\nflowers that never had been seen before. Strange were they to look at,\nand of curious beauty, and their beauty troubled him, and their odour was\nsweet in his nostrils. And he felt glad, and understood not why he was\nglad.\n\nAnd after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance\nthat was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again\nbehind the veil of veils, he began to speak to the people, desiring to\nspeak to them of the wrath of God. But the beauty of the white flowers\ntroubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils, and there came\nanother word into his lips, and he spake not of the wrath of God, but of\nthe God whose name is Love. And why he so spake, he knew not.\n\nAnd when he had finished his word the people wept, and the Priest went\nback to the sacristy, and his eyes were full of tears. And the deacons\ncame in and began to unrobe him, and took from him the alb and the\ngirdle, the maniple and the stole. And he stood as one in a dream.\n\nAnd after that they had unrobed him, he looked at them and said, ‘What\nare the flowers that stand on the altar, and whence do they come?’\n\nAnd they answered him, ‘What flowers they are we cannot tell, but they\ncome from the corner of the Fullers’ Field.’ And the Priest trembled,\nand returned to his own house and prayed.\n\nAnd in the morning, while it was still dawn, he went forth with the monks\nand the musicians, and the candle-bearers and the swingers of censers,\nand a great company, and came to the shore of the sea, and blessed the\nsea, and all the wild things that are in it. The Fauns also he blessed,\nand the little things that dance in the woodland, and the bright-eyed\nthings that peer through the leaves. All the things in God’s world he\nblessed, and the people were filled with joy and wonder. Yet never again\nin the corner of the Fullers’ Field grew flowers of any kind, but the\nfield remained barren even as before. Nor came the Sea-folk into the bay\nas they had been wont to do, for they went to another part of the sea.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STAR-CHILD\n\n\n TO\n MISS MARGOT TENNANT\n [MRS. ASQUITH]\n\nONCE upon a time two poor Woodcutters were making their way home through\na great pine-forest. It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The\nsnow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the\nfrost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they\npassed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging\nmotionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.\n\nSo cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to\nmake of it.\n\n‘Ugh!’ snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with his tail\nbetween his legs, ‘this is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn’t the\nGovernment look to it?’\n\n‘Weet! weet! weet!’ twittered the green Linnets, ‘the old Earth is dead\nand they have laid her out in her white shroud.’\n\n‘The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress,’\nwhispered the Turtle-doves to each other. Their little pink feet were\nquite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a\nromantic view of the situation.\n\n‘Nonsense!’ growled the Wolf. ‘I tell you that it is all the fault of\nthe Government, and if you don’t believe me I shall eat you.’ The Wolf\nhad a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good\nargument.\n\n‘Well, for my own part,’ said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher,\n‘I don’t care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is\nso, and at present it is terribly cold.’\n\nTerribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived inside\nthe tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other’s noses to keep themselves\nwarm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their holes, and did not\nventure even to look out of doors. The only people who seemed to enjoy\nit were the great horned Owls. Their feathers were quite stiff with\nrime, but they did not mind, and they rolled their large yellow eyes, and\ncalled out to each other across the forest, ‘Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! Tu-whit!\nTu-whoo! what delightful weather we are having!’\n\nOn and on went the two Woodcutters, blowing lustily upon their fingers,\nand stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the caked snow. Once\nthey sank into a deep drift, and came out as white as millers are, when\nthe stones are grinding; and once they slipped on the hard smooth ice\nwhere the marsh-water was frozen, and their faggots fell out of their\nbundles, and they had to pick them up and bind them together again; and\nonce they thought that they had lost their way, and a great terror seized\non them, for they knew that the Snow is cruel to those who sleep in her\narms. But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches\nover all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at\nlast they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in the\nvalley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they dwelt.\n\nSo overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and\nthe Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and the Moon like a\nflower of gold.\n\nYet, after that they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered\ntheir poverty, and one of them said to the other, ‘Why did we make merry,\nseeing that life is for the rich, and not for such as we are? Better\nthat we had died of cold in the forest, or that some wild beast had\nfallen upon us and slain us.’\n\n‘Truly,’ answered his companion, ‘much is given to some, and little is\ngiven to others. Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is there\nequal division of aught save of sorrow.’\n\nBut as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange thing\nhappened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful star. It\nslipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other stars in its\ncourse, and, as they watched it wondering, it seemed to them to sink\nbehind a clump of willow-trees that stood hard by a little sheepfold no\nmore than a stone’s-throw away.\n\n‘Why! there is a crook of gold for whoever finds it,’ they cried, and\nthey set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold.\n\nAnd one of them ran faster than his mate, and outstripped him, and forced\nhis way through the willows, and came out on the other side, and lo!\nthere was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow. So he hastened\ntowards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon it, and it was a\ncloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with stars, and wrapped in many\nfolds. And he cried out to his comrade that he had found the treasure\nthat had fallen from the sky, and when his comrade had come up, they sat\nthem down in the snow, and loosened the folds of the cloak that they\nmight divide the pieces of gold. But, alas! no gold was in it, nor\nsilver, nor, indeed, treasure of any kind, but only a little child who\nwas asleep.\n\nAnd one of them said to the other: ‘This is a bitter ending to our hope,\nnor have we any good fortune, for what doth a child profit to a man? Let\nus leave it here, and go our way, seeing that we are poor men, and have\nchildren of our own whose bread we may not give to another.’\n\nBut his companion answered him: ‘Nay, but it were an evil thing to leave\nthe child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor as thou\nart, and have many mouths to feed, and but little in the pot, yet will I\nbring it home with me, and my wife shall have care of it.’\n\nSo very tenderly he took up the child, and wrapped the cloak around it to\nshield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill to the\nvillage, his comrade marvelling much at his foolishness and softness of\nheart.\n\nAnd when they came to the village, his comrade said to him, ‘Thou hast\nthe child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meet that we should\nshare.’\n\nBut he answered him: ‘Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor thine, but\nthe child’s only,’ and he bade him Godspeed, and went to his own house\nand knocked.\n\nAnd when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had returned\nsafe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and took\nfrom his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the snow off his boots,\nand bade him come in.\n\nBut he said to her, ‘I have found something in the forest, and I have\nbrought it to thee to have care of it,’ and he stirred not from the\nthreshold.\n\n‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘Show it to me, for the house is bare, and we\nhave need of many things.’ And he drew the cloak back, and showed her\nthe sleeping child.\n\n‘Alack, goodman!’ she murmured, ‘have we not children of our own, that\nthou must needs bring a changeling to sit by the hearth? And who knows\nif it will not bring us bad fortune? And how shall we tend it?’ And she\nwas wroth against him.\n\n‘Nay, but it is a Star-Child,’ he answered; and he told her the strange\nmanner of the finding of it.\n\nBut she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke angrily, and\ncried: ‘Our children lack bread, and shall we feed the child of another?\nWho is there who careth for us? And who giveth us food?’\n\n‘Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them,’ he\nanswered.\n\n‘Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?’ she asked. ‘And is it\nnot winter now?’\n\nAnd the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold.\n\nAnd a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made\nher tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: ‘Wilt thou not close the\ndoor? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold.’\n\n‘Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a bitter\nwind?’ he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but crept closer to\nthe fire.\n\nAnd after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes were\nfull of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child in her arms,\nand she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed where the youngest of\ntheir own children was lying. And on the morrow the Woodcutter took the\ncurious cloak of gold and placed it in a great chest, and a chain of\namber that was round the child’s neck his wife took and set it in the\nchest also.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSo the Star-Child was brought up with the children of the Woodcutter, and\nsat at the same board with them, and was their playmate. And every year\nhe became more beautiful to look at, so that all those who dwelt in the\nvillage were filled with wonder, for, while they were swarthy and\nblack-haired, he was white and delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were\nlike the rings of the daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of\na red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water,\nand his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not.\n\nYet did his beauty work him evil. For he grew proud, and cruel, and\nselfish. The children of the Woodcutter, and the other children of the\nvillage, he despised, saying that they were of mean parentage, while he\nwas noble, being sprang from a Star, and he made himself master over\nthem, and called them his servants. No pity had he for the poor, or for\nthose who were blind or maimed or in any way afflicted, but would cast\nstones at them and drive them forth on to the highway, and bid them beg\ntheir bread elsewhere, so that none save the outlaws came twice to that\nvillage to ask for alms. Indeed, he was as one enamoured of beauty, and\nwould mock at the weakly and ill-favoured, and make jest of them; and\nhimself he loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie\nby the well in the priest’s orchard and look down at the marvel of his\nown face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness.\n\nOften did the Woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say: ‘We did not\ndeal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left desolate, and have\nnone to succour them. Wherefore art thou so cruel to all who need pity?’\n\nOften did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the love of\nliving things, saying to him: ‘The fly is thy brother. Do it no harm.\nThe wild birds that roam through the forest have their freedom. Snare\nthem not for thy pleasure. God made the blind-worm and the mole, and\neach has its place. Who art thou to bring pain into God’s world? Even\nthe cattle of the field praise Him.’\n\nBut the Star-Child heeded not their words, but would frown and flout, and\ngo back to his companions, and lead them. And his companions followed\nhim, for he was fair, and fleet of foot, and could dance, and pipe, and\nmake music. And wherever the Star-Child led them they followed, and\nwhatever the Star-Child bade them do, that did they. And when he pierced\nwith a sharp reed the dim eyes of the mole, they laughed, and when he\ncast stones at the leper they laughed also. And in all things he ruled\nthem, and they became hard of heart even as he was.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNow there passed one day through the village a poor beggar-woman. Her\ngarments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from the rough\nroad on which she had travelled, and she was in very evil plight. And\nbeing weary she sat her down under a chestnut-tree to rest.\n\nBut when the Star-Child saw her, he said to his companions, ‘See! There\nsitteth a foul beggar-woman under that fair and green-leaved tree. Come,\nlet us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-favoured.’\n\nSo he came near and threw stones at her, and mocked her, and she looked\nat him with terror in her eyes, nor did she move her gaze from him. And\nwhen the Woodcutter, who was cleaving logs in a haggard hard by, saw what\nthe Star-Child was doing, he ran up and rebuked him, and said to him:\n‘Surely thou art hard of heart and knowest not mercy, for what evil has\nthis poor woman done to thee that thou shouldst treat her in this wise?’\n\nAnd the Star-Child grew red with anger, and stamped his foot upon the\nground, and said, ‘Who art thou to question me what I do? I am no son of\nthine to do thy bidding.’\n\n‘Thou speakest truly,’ answered the Woodcutter, ‘yet did I show thee pity\nwhen I found thee in the forest.’\n\nAnd when the woman heard these words she gave a loud cry, and fell into a\nswoon. And the Woodcutter carried her to his own house, and his wife had\ncare of her, and when she rose up from the swoon into which she had\nfallen, they set meat and drink before her, and bade her have comfort.\n\nBut she would neither eat nor drink, but said to the Woodcutter, ‘Didst\nthou not say that the child was found in the forest? And was it not ten\nyears from this day?’\n\nAnd the Woodcutter answered, ‘Yea, it was in the forest that I found him,\nand it is ten years from this day.’\n\n‘And what signs didst thou find with him?’ she cried. ‘Bare he not upon\nhis neck a chain of amber? Was not round him a cloak of gold tissue\nbroidered with stars?’\n\n‘Truly,’ answered the Woodcutter, ‘it was even as thou sayest.’ And he\ntook the cloak and the amber chain from the chest where they lay, and\nshowed them to her.\n\nAnd when she saw them she wept for joy, and said, ‘He is my little son\nwhom I lost in the forest. I pray thee send for him quickly, for in\nsearch of him have I wandered over the whole world.’\n\nSo the Woodcutter and his wife went out and called to the Star-Child, and\nsaid to him, ‘Go into the house, and there shalt thou find thy mother,\nwho is waiting for thee.’\n\nSo he ran in, filled with wonder and great gladness. But when he saw her\nwho was waiting there, he laughed scornfully and said, ‘Why, where is my\nmother? For I see none here but this vile beggar-woman.’\n\nAnd the woman answered him, ‘I am thy mother.’\n\n‘Thou art mad to say so,’ cried the Star-Child angrily. ‘I am no son of\nthine, for thou art a beggar, and ugly, and in rags. Therefore get thee\nhence, and let me see thy foul face no more.’\n\n‘Nay, but thou art indeed my little son, whom I bare in the forest,’ she\ncried, and she fell on her knees, and held out her arms to him. ‘The\nrobbers stole thee from me, and left thee to die,’ she murmured, ‘but I\nrecognised thee when I saw thee, and the signs also have I recognised,\nthe cloak of golden tissue and the amber chain. Therefore I pray thee\ncome with me, for over the whole world have I wandered in search of thee.\nCome with me, my son, for I have need of thy love.’\n\nBut the Star-Child stirred not from his place, but shut the doors of his\nheart against her, nor was there any sound heard save the sound of the\nwoman weeping for pain.\n\nAnd at last he spoke to her, and his voice was hard and bitter. ‘If in\nvery truth thou art my mother,’ he said, ‘it had been better hadst thou\nstayed away, and not come here to bring me to shame, seeing that I\nthought I was the child of some Star, and not a beggar’s child, as thou\ntellest me that I am. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thee no\nmore.’\n\n‘Alas! my son,’ she cried, ‘wilt thou not kiss me before I go? For I\nhave suffered much to find thee.’\n\n‘Nay,’ said the Star-Child, ‘but thou art too foul to look at, and rather\nwould I kiss the adder or the toad than thee.’\n\nSo the woman rose up, and went away into the forest weeping bitterly, and\nwhen the Star-Child saw that she had gone, he was glad, and ran back to\nhis playmates that he might play with them.\n\nBut when they beheld him coming, they mocked him and said, ‘Why, thou art\nas foul as the toad, and as loathsome as the adder. Get thee hence, for\nwe will not suffer thee to play with us,’ and they drave him out of the\ngarden.\n\nAnd the Star-Child frowned and said to himself, ‘What is this that they\nsay to me? I will go to the well of water and look into it, and it shall\ntell me of my beauty.’\n\nSo he went to the well of water and looked into it, and lo! his face was\nas the face of a toad, and his body was sealed like an adder. And he\nflung himself down on the grass and wept, and said to himself, ‘Surely\nthis has come upon me by reason of my sin. For I have denied my mother,\nand driven her away, and been proud, and cruel to her. Wherefore I will\ngo and seek her through the whole world, nor will I rest till I have\nfound her.’\n\nAnd there came to him the little daughter of the Woodcutter, and she put\nher hand upon his shoulder and said, ‘What doth it matter if thou hast\nlost thy comeliness? Stay with us, and I will not mock at thee.’\n\nAnd he said to her, ‘Nay, but I have been cruel to my mother, and as a\npunishment has this evil been sent to me. Wherefore I must go hence, and\nwander through the world till I find her, and she give me her\nforgiveness.’\n\nSo he ran away into the forest and called out to his mother to come to\nhim, but there was no answer. All day long he called to her, and, when\nthe sun set he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves, and the birds and\nthe animals fled from him, for they remembered his cruelty, and he was\nalone save for the toad that watched him, and the slow adder that crawled\npast.\n\nAnd in the morning he rose up, and plucked some bitter berries from the\ntrees and ate them, and took his way through the great wood, weeping\nsorely. And of everything that he met he made inquiry if perchance they\nhad seen his mother.\n\nHe said to the Mole, ‘Thou canst go beneath the earth. Tell me, is my\nmother there?’\n\nAnd the Mole answered, ‘Thou hast blinded mine eyes. How should I know?’\n\nHe said to the Linnet, ‘Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees,\nand canst see the whole world. Tell me, canst thou see my mother?’\n\nAnd the Linnet answered, ‘Thou hast clipt my wings for thy pleasure. How\nshould I fly?’\n\nAnd to the little Squirrel who lived in the fir-tree, and was lonely, he\nsaid, ‘Where is my mother?’\n\nAnd the Squirrel answered, ‘Thou hast slain mine. Dost thou seek to slay\nthine also?’\n\nAnd the Star-Child wept and bowed his head, and prayed forgiveness of\nGod’s things, and went on through the forest, seeking for the\nbeggar-woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the\nforest and went down into the plain.\n\nAnd when he passed through the villages the children mocked him, and\nthrew stones at him, and the carlots would not suffer him even to sleep\nin the byres lest he might bring mildew on the stored corn, so foul was\nhe to look at, and their hired men drave him away, and there was none who\nhad pity on him. Nor could he hear anywhere of the beggar-woman who was\nhis mother, though for the space of three years he wandered over the\nworld, and often seemed to see her on the road in front of him, and would\ncall to her, and run after her till the sharp flints made his feet to\nbleed. But overtake her he could not, and those who dwelt by the way did\never deny that they had seen her, or any like to her, and they made sport\nof his sorrow.\n\nFor the space of three years he wandered over the world, and in the world\nthere was neither love nor loving-kindness nor charity for him, but it\nwas even such a world as he had made for himself in the days of his great\npride.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd one evening he came to the gate of a strong-walled city that stood by\na river, and, weary and footsore though he was, he made to enter in. But\nthe soldiers who stood on guard dropped their halberts across the\nentrance, and said roughly to him, ‘What is thy business in the city?’\n\n‘I am seeking for my mother,’ he answered, ‘and I pray ye to suffer me to\npass, for it may be that she is in this city.’\n\nBut they mocked at him, and one of them wagged a black beard, and set\ndown his shield and cried, ‘Of a truth, thy mother will not be merry when\nshe sees thee, for thou art more ill-favoured than the toad of the marsh,\nor the adder that crawls in the fen. Get thee gone. Get thee gone. Thy\nmother dwells not in this city.’\n\nAnd another, who held a yellow banner in his hand, said to him, ‘Who is\nthy mother, and wherefore art thou seeking for her?’\n\nAnd he answered, ‘My mother is a beggar even as I am, and I have treated\nher evilly, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass that she may give me her\nforgiveness, if it be that she tarrieth in this city.’ But they would\nnot, and pricked him with their spears.\n\nAnd, as he turned away weeping, one whose armour was inlaid with gilt\nflowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, came up and\nmade inquiry of the soldiers who it was who had sought entrance. And\nthey said to him, ‘It is a beggar and the child of a beggar, and we have\ndriven him away.’\n\n‘Nay,’ he cried, laughing, ‘but we will sell the foul thing for a slave,\nand his price shall be the price of a bowl of sweet wine.’\n\nAnd an old and evil-visaged man who was passing by called out, and said,\n‘I will buy him for that price,’ and, when he had paid the price, he took\nthe Star-Child by the hand and led him into the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone through many streets they came to a little\ndoor that was set in a wall that was covered with a pomegranate tree.\nAnd the old man touched the door with a ring of graved jasper and it\nopened, and they went down five steps of brass into a garden filled with\nblack poppies and green jars of burnt clay. And the old man took then\nfrom his turban a scarf of figured silk, and bound with it the eyes of\nthe Star-Child, and drave him in front of him. And when the scarf was\ntaken off his eyes, the Star-Child found himself in a dungeon, that was\nlit by a lantern of horn.\n\nAnd the old man set before him some mouldy bread on a trencher and said,\n‘Eat,’ and some brackish water in a cup and said, ‘Drink,’ and when he\nhad eaten and drunk, the old man went out, locking the door behind him\nand fastening it with an iron chain.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd on the morrow the old man, who was indeed the subtlest of the\nmagicians of Libya and had learned his art from one who dwelt in the\ntombs of the Nile, came in to him and frowned at him, and said, ‘In a\nwood that is nigh to the gate of this city of Giaours there are three\npieces of gold. One is of white gold, and another is of yellow gold, and\nthe gold of the third one is red. To-day thou shalt bring me the piece\nof white gold, and if thou bringest it not back, I will beat thee with a\nhundred stripes. Get thee away quickly, and at sunset I will be waiting\nfor thee at the door of the garden. See that thou bringest the white\ngold, or it shall go ill with thee, for thou art my slave, and I have\nbought thee for the price of a bowl of sweet wine.’ And he bound the\neyes of the Star-Child with the scarf of figured silk, and led him\nthrough the house, and through the garden of poppies, and up the five\nsteps of brass. And having opened the little door with his ring he set\nhim in the street.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd the Star-Child went out of the gate of the city, and came to the wood\nof which the Magician had spoken to him.\n\nNow this wood was very fair to look at from without, and seemed full of\nsinging birds and of sweet-scented flowers, and the Star-Child entered it\ngladly. Yet did its beauty profit him little, for wherever he went harsh\nbriars and thorns shot up from the ground and encompassed him, and evil\nnettles stung him, and the thistle pierced him with her daggers, so that\nhe was in sore distress. Nor could he anywhere find the piece of white\ngold of which the Magician had spoken, though he sought for it from morn\nto noon, and from noon to sunset. And at sunset he set his face towards\nhome, weeping bitterly, for he knew what fate was in store for him.\n\nBut when he had reached the outskirts of the wood, he heard from a\nthicket a cry as of some one in pain. And forgetting his own sorrow he\nran back to the place, and saw there a little Hare caught in a trap that\nsome hunter had set for it.\n\nAnd the Star-Child had pity on it, and released it, and said to it, ‘I am\nmyself but a slave, yet may I give thee thy freedom.’\n\nAnd the Hare answered him, and said: ‘Surely thou hast given me freedom,\nand what shall I give thee in return?’\n\nAnd the Star-Child said to it, ‘I am seeking for a piece of white gold,\nnor can I anywhere find it, and if I bring it not to my master he will\nbeat me.’\n\n‘Come thou with me,’ said the Hare, ‘and I will lead thee to it, for I\nknow where it is hidden, and for what purpose.’\n\nSo the Star-Child went with the Hare, and lo! in the cleft of a great\noak-tree he saw the piece of white gold that he was seeking. And he was\nfilled with joy, and seized it, and said to the Hare, ‘The service that I\ndid to thee thou hast rendered back again many times over, and the\nkindness that I showed thee thou hast repaid a hundred-fold.’\n\n‘Nay,’ answered the Hare, ‘but as thou dealt with me, so I did deal with\nthee,’ and it ran away swiftly, and the Star-Child went towards the city.\n\nNow at the gate of the city there was seated one who was a leper. Over\nhis face hung a cowl of grey linen, and through the eyelets his eyes\ngleamed like red coals. And when he saw the Star-Child coming, he struck\nupon a wooden bowl, and clattered his bell, and called out to him, and\nsaid, ‘Give me a piece of money, or I must die of hunger. For they have\nthrust me out of the city, and there is no one who has pity on me.’\n\n‘Alas!’ cried the Star-Child, ‘I have but one piece of money in my\nwallet, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me, for I am his\nslave.’\n\nBut the leper entreated him, and prayed of him, till the Star-Child had\npity, and gave him the piece of white gold.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd when he came to the Magician’s house, the Magician opened to him, and\nbrought him in, and said to him, ‘Hast thou the piece of white gold?’\nAnd the Star-Child answered, ‘I have it not.’ So the Magician fell upon\nhim, and beat him, and set before him an empty trencher, and said, ‘Eat,’\nand an empty cup, and said, ‘Drink,’ and flung him again into the\ndungeon.\n\nAnd on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, ‘If to-day thou\nbringest me not the piece of yellow gold, I will surely keep thee as my\nslave, and give thee three hundred stripes.’\n\nSo the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the\npiece of yellow gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at sunset he sat\nhim down and began to weep, and as he was weeping there came to him the\nlittle Hare that he had rescued from the trap.\n\nAnd the Hare said to him, ‘Why art thou weeping? And what dost thou seek\nin the wood?’\n\nAnd the Star-Child answered, ‘I am seeking for a piece of yellow gold\nthat is hidden here, and if I find it not my master will beat me, and\nkeep me as a slave.’\n\n‘Follow me,’ cried the Hare, and it ran through the wood till it came to\na pool of water. And at the bottom of the pool the piece of yellow gold\nwas lying.\n\n‘How shall I thank thee?’ said the Star-Child, ‘for lo! this is the\nsecond time that you have succoured me.’\n\n‘Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,’ said the Hare, and it ran away\nswiftly.\n\nAnd the Star-Child took the piece of yellow gold, and put it in his\nwallet, and hurried to the city. But the leper saw him coming, and ran\nto meet him, and knelt down and cried, ‘Give me a piece of money or I\nshall die of hunger.’\n\nAnd the Star-Child said to him, ‘I have in my wallet but one piece of\nyellow gold, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me and keep\nme as his slave.’\n\nBut the leper entreated him sore, so that the Star-Child had pity on him,\nand gave him the piece of yellow gold.\n\nAnd when he came to the Magician’s house, the Magician opened to him, and\nbrought him in, and said to him, ‘Hast thou the piece of yellow gold?’\nAnd the Star-Child said to him, ‘I have it not.’ So the Magician fell\nupon him, and beat him, and loaded him with chains, and cast him again\ninto the dungeon.\n\nAnd on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, ‘If to-day thou\nbringest me the piece of red gold I will set thee free, but if thou\nbringest it not I will surely slay thee.’\n\nSo the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the\npiece of red gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at evening he sat\nhim down and wept, and as he was weeping there came to him the little\nHare.\n\nAnd the Hare said to him, ‘The piece of red gold that thou seekest is in\nthe cavern that is behind thee. Therefore weep no more but be glad.’\n\n‘How shall I reward thee?’ cried the Star-Child, ‘for lo! this is the\nthird time thou hast succoured me.’\n\n‘Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,’ said the Hare, and it ran away\nswiftly.\n\nAnd the Star-Child entered the cavern, and in its farthest corner he\nfound the piece of red gold. So he put it in his wallet, and hurried to\nthe city. And the leper seeing him coming, stood in the centre of the\nroad, and cried out, and said to him, ‘Give me the piece of red money, or\nI must die,’ and the Star-Child had pity on him again, and gave him the\npiece of red gold, saying, ‘Thy need is greater than mine.’ Yet was his\nheart heavy, for he knew what evil fate awaited him.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBut lo! as he passed through the gate of the city, the guards bowed down\nand made obeisance to him, saying, ‘How beautiful is our lord!’ and a\ncrowd of citizens followed him, and cried out, ‘Surely there is none so\nbeautiful in the whole world!’ so that the Star-Child wept, and said to\nhimself, ‘They are mocking me, and making light of my misery.’ And so\nlarge was the concourse of the people, that he lost the threads of his\nway, and found himself at last in a great square, in which there was a\npalace of a King.\n\nAnd the gate of the palace opened, and the priests and the high officers\nof the city ran forth to meet him, and they abased themselves before him,\nand said, ‘Thou art our lord for whom we have been waiting, and the son\nof our King.’\n\nAnd the Star-Child answered them and said, ‘I am no king’s son, but the\nchild of a poor beggar-woman. And how say ye that I am beautiful, for I\nknow that I am evil to look at?’\n\nThen he, whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet\ncrouched a lion that had wings, held up a shield, and cried, ‘How saith\nmy lord that he is not beautiful?’\n\nAnd the Star-Child looked, and lo! his face was even as it had been, and\nhis comeliness had come back to him, and he saw that in his eyes which he\nhad not seen there before.\n\nAnd the priests and the high officers knelt down and said to him, ‘It was\nprophesied of old that on this day should come he who was to rule over\nus. Therefore, let our lord take this crown and this sceptre, and be in\nhis justice and mercy our King over us.’\n\nBut he said to them, ‘I am not worthy, for I have denied the mother who\nbare me, nor may I rest till I have found her, and known her forgiveness.\nTherefore, let me go, for I must wander again over the world, and may not\ntarry here, though ye bring me the crown and the sceptre.’ And as he\nspake he turned his face from them towards the street that led to the\ngate of the city, and lo! amongst the crowd that pressed round the\nsoldiers, he saw the beggar-woman who was his mother, and at her side\nstood the leper, who had sat by the road.\n\nAnd a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he ran over, and kneeling down\nhe kissed the wounds on his mother’s feet, and wet them with his tears.\nHe bowed his head in the dust, and sobbing, as one whose heart might\nbreak, he said to her: ‘Mother, I denied thee in the hour of my pride.\nAccept me in the hour of my humility. Mother, I gave thee hatred. Do\nthou give me love. Mother, I rejected thee. Receive thy child now.’\nBut the beggar-woman answered him not a word.\n\nAnd he reached out his hands, and clasped the white feet of the leper,\nand said to him: ‘Thrice did I give thee of my mercy. Bid my mother\nspeak to me once.’ But the leper answered him not a word.\n\nAnd he sobbed again and said: ‘Mother, my suffering is greater than I can\nbear. Give me thy forgiveness, and let me go back to the forest.’ And\nthe beggar-woman put her hand on his head, and said to him, ‘Rise,’ and\nthe leper put his hand on his head, and said to him, ‘Rise,’ also.\n\nAnd he rose up from his feet, and looked at them, and lo! they were a\nKing and a Queen.\n\nAnd the Queen said to him, ‘This is thy father whom thou hast succoured.’\n\nAnd the King said, ‘This is thy mother whose feet thou hast washed with\nthy tears.’ And they fell on his neck and kissed him, and brought him\ninto the palace and clothed him in fair raiment, and set the crown upon\nhis head, and the sceptre in his hand, and over the city that stood by\nthe river he ruled, and was its lord. Much justice and mercy did he show\nto all, and the evil Magician he banished, and to the Woodcutter and his\nwife he sent many rich gifts, and to their children he gave high honour.\nNor would he suffer any to be cruel to bird or beast, but taught love and\nloving-kindness and charity, and to the poor he gave bread, and to the\nnaked he gave raiment, and there was peace and plenty in the land.\n\nYet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the\nfire of his testing, for after the space of three years he died. And he\nwho came after him ruled evilly.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 873-0.txt or 873-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/8/7/873\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part\nof this license, apply to copying and distributing Project\nGutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm\nconcept and trademark. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Miscellaneous Aphorisms; The Soul of Man, by\nOscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Miscellaneous Aphorisms; The Soul of Man\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: September 22, 2010 [eBook #33979]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISCELLANEOUS APHORISMS; THE SOUL\nOF MAN***\n\n\nE-text prepared by Marc D\'Hooghe (http://www.freeliterature.org)\n\n\n\nSEBASTIAN MELMOTH\n\n[OSCAR WILDE]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon\nArthur L. Humphreys\n1911\n\n\n\n(Miscellaneous aphorisms, followed by The Soul of Man.)\n\n\n\nThe mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.\n\nWomen are made to be loved, not to be understood.\n\nIt is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and\nwhat one shouldn\'t. Moren than half of modern culture depends on what\none shouldn\'t read.\n\nWomen, as someone says, love with their ears, just as men love with\ntheir eyes, if they ever love at all.\n\nIt is better to be beautiful than to be good, but it is better to be\ngood than to be ugly.\n\nNothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion.\n\nMisfortunes one can endure, they come from outside, they are accidents.\nBut to suffer for one\'s faults--ah! there is the sting of life.\n\nBeauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fall away\nlike sand, creeds follow one another, but what is beautiful is a joy for\nall seasons, a possession for all eternity.\n\nQuestions are never indiscreet; answers sometimes are.\n\nTwenty years of romance make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years\nof marriage make her something like a public building.\n\nThe only thing that one really knows about human nature is that it\nchanges.\n\nAnyone can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a\nvery fine nature to sympathise with a friend\'s success.\n\nSelfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to\nlive as one wishes to live: and unselfishness is letting other people\'s\nlives alone, not interfering with them.\n\nA man who does not think for himself does not think at all.\n\nNowadays people seem to look on life as a speculation. It is not a\nspeculation. It is a sacrament. Its ideal is love. Its purification is\nsacrifice.\n\nIn old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his neighbour. In\nfact, to be a bit better than one\'s neighbour was considered excessively\nvulgar and middle class. Nowadays, with our modern mania for morality,\neveryone has to pose as a paragon of purity, incorruptibility, and all\nthe other seven deadly virtues. And what is the result? You all go over\nlike ninepins--one after the other.\n\nAll sympathy is fine, but sympathy with suffering is the least fine\nmode.\n\nIf you pretend to be good the world takes you very seriously. If you\npretend to be bad it doesn\'t. Such is the astounding stupidity of\noptimism.\n\nIt is most dangerous nowadays for a husband to pay any attention to his\nwife in public. It always makes people think that he beats her when\nthey\'re alone. The world has grown so suspicious of anything that looks\nlike a happy married life.\n\nActors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in\ntragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or\nshed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men and women are\nforced to perform parts for which they have no qualifications. The world\nis a stage, but the play is badly cast.\n\nMen know life too early; women know life too late-that is the difference\nbetween men and women.\n\nHe who stands most remote from his age is he who mirrors it best.\n\nThere is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and\nthat is not being talked about.\n\nLife is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves\nand fibres and slowly built-up cells, in which thought hides itself and\npassion has its dreams.\n\nMan is a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex,\nmultiform creature that bears within itself strange legacies of thought\nand passion, and whose very flesh is tainted with the monstrous maladies\nof the dead.\n\nAs long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter she\nis perfectly satisfied.\n\nThere is always something infinitely mean about other people\'s\ntragedies.\n\nPublic and private life are different things. They have different laws\nand move on different lines.\n\nWhen one is placed in the position of guardian one has to adopt a very\nhigh moral tone on all subjects. It\'s one\'s duty to do so.\n\nI have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married\nshould know either everything or nothing.\n\nAn engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or\nunpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be\nallowed to arrange for herself.\n\nIf the lower classes don\'t set us a good example what on earth is the\nuse of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral\nresponsibility.\n\nIf a woman cannot make her mistakes charming she is only a female.\n\nThe world was made for men and not for women.\n\nIt is always with the best intentions that the worst work is done.\n\nIf you wish to understand others you must intensify your own\nindividualism.\n\nWhy do you talk so trivially about life? Because I think that life is\nfar too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it.\n\nWhat a pity that in life we only get our lessons when they are of no use\nto us.\n\nIt is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.\n\nRelations are simply a tedious pack of people who haven\'t got the\nremotest knowledge of how to live nor the smallest instinct about when\nto die.\n\nCharity creates a multitude of sins.\n\nMy experience is that as soon as people are old enough to know better\nthey don\'t know anything at all.\n\nTruth is a very complex thing and politics is a very complex business.\nThere are wheels within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to\npeople that one must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to\ncompromise. Everyone does.\n\nMen can love what is beneath them--things unworthy, stained,\ndishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our worship\nwe lose everything.\n\nThe proper basis for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding.\n\nThe one advantage of playing with fire is that one never gets even\nsinged. It is the people who don\'t know how to play with it who get\nburned up.\n\nThere are moments when one has to choose between living one\'s own life\nfully, entirely, completely, or dragging out some false, shallow,\ndegrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands.\n\nWhen one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one\namuses other people. It is excessively boring.\n\nRomance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the\nunemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic.\n\nAn acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a\nreal friendship. It starts in the right manner.\n\nThe truths of metaphysics are the truths of masks.\n\nScience can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no\nfuture before it in this world.\n\nThe happy people of the world have their value, but only the negative\nvalue of foils. They throw up and emphasise the beauty and the\nfascination of the unhappy.\n\nIn this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one\nwants, and the other is getting it. The last is much the worst--the last\nis a real tragedy.\n\nDisobedience in the eyes of anyone who has read history is man\'s\noriginal virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been\nmade--through disobedience and rebellion.\n\nIt is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes\nlife too full of terrors.\n\nComfort is the only thing our civilisation can give us.\n\nPolitics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is not fashionable to\nflirt till one is forty or to be romantic till one is forty-five, so we\npoor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have nothing open to us\nbut politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems to me to have\nbecome simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their\nfellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more ... becoming.\n\nOne\'s past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be\njudged.\n\nIn a very ugly and sensible age the arts borrow, not from life, but from\neach other.\n\nIt is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good advice is\nfatal.\n\nSecrets from other people\'s wives are a necessary luxury in modern life.\nSo, at least, I am told at the club by people who are bald enough to\nknow better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She\ninvariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things.\nThey discover everything except the obvious.\n\nLife holds the mirror up to art, and either reproduces some strange type\nimagined by painter or sculptor or realises in fact what has been\ndreamed in fiction.\n\nI feel sure that if I lived in the country for six months I should\nbecome so unsophisticated that no one would take the slightest notice of\nme.\n\nTo recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It is\nlike advising a man who is starving to eat less.\n\nA thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.\n\nI am always saying what I shouldn\'t say; in fact, I usually say what I\nreally think--a great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be\nmisunderstood.\n\nExperience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.\n\nThe true perfection of man lies, not in what man has, but in what man\nis.\n\nThe basis of every scandal is an absolute immoral certainty.\n\nPeople talk so much about the beauty of confidence. They seem to\nentirely ignore the much more subtle beauty of doubt. To believe is very\ndull. To doubt is intensely engrossing. To be on the alert is to live,\nto be lulled into security is to die.\n\nEvery effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one\nmust be a mediocrity.\n\nIt is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names\nto things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions, my one\nquarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in\nliterature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled\nto use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.\n\nA high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either\none\'s health or one\'s happiness.\n\nThere are terrible temptations that it requires strength--strength and\ncourage--to yield to. To stake all one\'s life on one throw--whether the\nstake be power or pleasure I care not--there is no weakness in that.\nThere is a horrible, a terrible, courage.\n\nNowadays it is only the unreadable that occurs.\n\nAll charming people are spoiled. It is the secret of their attraction.\n\nThere is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally,\nI have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling,\nI suppose.\n\nAll men are monsters. The only thing to do is to feed the wretches well.\nA good cook does wonders.\n\nThere is no such thing as an omen.\n\nDestiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.\n\nCrying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.\n\nLove art for its own sake and then all things that you need will be\nadded to you. This devotion to beauty and to the creation of beautiful\nthings is the test of all great civilisations; it is what makes the life\nof each citizen a sacrament and not a speculation.\n\nIt is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always\nanswering one.\n\nIt takes a thoroughly good woman to do a thoroughly stupid thing.\n\nWith a proper background women can do anything.\n\nChiromancy is a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to be\nencouraged, except in a \'tête-à-tête.\'\n\nOne should never take sides in anything. Taking sides is the beginning\nof sincerity, and earnestness follows shortly afterwards, and the human\nbeing becomes a bore.\n\nThe work of art is beautiful by being what art never has been; and to\nmeasure it by the standard of the past is to measure it by a standard on\nthe reflection of which its real perfection depends.\n\nThere are three kinds of despots. There is the despot who tyrannises\nover the body. There is the despot who tyrannises over the soul. There\nis the despot who tyrannises over soul and body alike. The first is\ncalled the prince. The second is called the pope. The third is called\nthe people.\n\nCostume is a growth, an evolution, and a most important, perhaps the\nmost important, sign of the manners, customs, and mode of life of each\ncentury.\n\nI really don\'t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic\nto be in love, but there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal.\nWhy, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement\nis all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.\n\nWhat consoles one nowadays is not repentance but pleasure. Repentance is\nquite out of date.\n\nIdeals are dangerous things. Realities are better. They wound, but they\nare better.\n\nUnless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow.\n\nShallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that\nare great are destroyed by their own plenitude.\n\nAn eternal smile is much more wearisome than a perpetual frown. The one\nsweeps away all possibilities, the other suggests a thousand.\n\nTo disagree with three-fourths of England on all points is one of the\nfirst elements of vanity, which is a deep source of consolation in all\nmoments of spiritual doubt.\n\nWomen live by their emotions and for them, they have no philosophy of\nlife.\n\nAs long as war is regarded as wicked it will always have a fascination.\nWhen it is looked upon as vulgar it will cease to be popular.\n\nThere is only one thing worse than injustice, and that is justice\nwithout her sword in her hand. When right is not might it is evil.\n\nWe spend our days, each one of us, in looking for the secret of life.\nWell, the secret of life is in art.\n\nThe truth isn\'t quite the sort of thing that one tells to a nice, sweet,\nrefined girl.\n\nIf one plays good music people don\'t listen, and if one plays bad music\npeople don\'t talk.\n\nHow fond women are of doing dangerous things. It is one of the qualities\nin them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world\nas long as other people are looking on.\n\nEnglishwomen conceal their feelings till after they are married. They\nshow them then.\n\nModeration is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.\n\nActions are the first tragedy in life, words are the second. Words are\nperhaps the worst. Words are merciless.\n\nLife is terrible. It rules us, we do not rule it.\n\nIn art there is no such thing as a universal truth. A truth in art is\nthat whose contradictory is also true.\n\nOne\'s days are too brief to take the burden of another\'s sorrows on\none\'s shoulders. Each man lives his own life, and pays his own price for\nliving it. The only pity is that one has to pay so often for a single\nfault. One has to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with\nman Destiny never closes her accounts.\n\nPleasure is Nature\'s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we\nare always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.\n\nThe people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow\npeople. What they call their loyalty and their fidelity I call either\nthe lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.\n\nBetter to take pleasure in a rose than to put its root under a\nmicroscope.\n\nOf Shakespeare it may be said that he was the first to see the dramatic\nvalue of doublets and that a climax may depend on a crinoline.\n\nPlain women are always jealous of their husbands; beautiful women never\nare! They never have time. They are always so occupied in being jealous\nof other people\'s husbands.\n\nWhat between the duties expected of one during one\'s lifetime and the\nduties exacted from one after one\'s death land has ceased to be either a\nprofit or a pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from\nkeeping it up.\n\nA man who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who moralises is\ninvariably plain. There is nothing in the whole world so unbecoming to a\nwoman as a nonconformist conscience. And most women know it, I am glad\nto say.\n\nIt was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is mightier\nthan the paving-stone and can be made as offensive as a brickbat.\n\nA map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even\nglancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is\nalways landing. And when Humanity lands there it looks out, and, seeing\na better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.\n\nWhat is the difference between scandal and gossip? Oh! gossip is\ncharming! History is merely gossip, but scandal is gossip made tedious\nby morality.\n\nAll beautiful things belong to the same age.\n\nIt is personalities, not principles, that move the age.\n\nModern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at. At least, some of\nthem are. But they are quite impossible to live with; they are too\nclever, too assertive, too intellectual. Their meaning is too obvious\nand their method too clearly defined. One exhausts what they have to say\nin a very short time, and then they become as tedious as one\'s\nrelations.\n\nTo know nothing about our great men is one of the necessary elements of\nEnglish education.\n\nThe truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very\ntedious if it were either and modern literature a complete\nimpossibility.\n\nYou may laugh, but it is a great thing to come across a woman who\nthoroughly understands one.\n\nThe majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and exaggerated\naltruism.\n\nThe number of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is\nperfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one\'s clean\nlinen in public.\n\nThe chief thing that makes life a failure from the artistic point of\nview is the thing that lends to life its sordid security--the fact that\none can never repeat exactly the same emotion.\n\nWe teach people how to remember, we never teach them how to grow.\n\nVulgar habit that is people have nowadays of asking one, after one has\ngiven them an idea, whether one is serious or not. Nothing is serious\nexcept passion. The intellect is not a serious thing and never has been.\nIt is an instrument on which one plays, that is all. The only serious\nform of intellect I know is the British intellect, and on the British\nintellect the illiterate always plays the drum.\n\nIt is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either\ncharming or tedious.\n\nIt is only the modern that ever become old-fashioned.\n\nIt is only the Philistine who seeks to estimate a personality by the\nvulgar test of production.\n\nMusical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be\nperfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely\ndeaf.\n\nNothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow\nold-fashioned quite suddenly.\n\nThe fact of a man being a poisoner is nothing against his prose. The\ndomestic virtues are not the true basis of art.\n\nTo the philosopher women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just\nas men represent the triumph of mind over morals.\n\nThe only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so\ncompletely that he loses all possible interest in life.\n\nThe only horrible thing in the world is \'ennui.\' That is the one sin for\nwhich there is no forgiveness.\n\nFrench songs I cannot possibly allow. People always seem to think that\nthey are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh,\nwhich is worse.\n\nIt has often been made a subject of reproach against artists and men of\nletters that they are lacking in wholeness and completeness of nature.\nAs a rule this must necessarily be so. That very concentration of vision\nand inversity of purpose which is the characteristic of the artistic\ntemperament is in itself a mode of limitation. To those who are\npreoccupied with the beauty of form nothing else seems of so much\nimportance.\n\nThe work of art is to dominate the spectator. The spectator is not to\ndominate the work of art.\n\nOne should sympathise with the joy, the beauty, the colour of life. The\nless said about life\'s sores the better.\n\nYou can\'t make people good by act of Parliament--that is something.\n\nArt creates an incomparable and unique effect, and having done so passes\non to other things. Nature, on the other hand, forgetting that imitation\ncan be made the sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating the effect\nuntil we all become absolutely wearied of it.\n\nIt is perfectly monstrous the way people go about nowadays saying things\nagainst one behind one\'s back that are absolutely and entirely true.\n\nA true artist takes no notice whatever of the public. The public are to\nhim non-existent.\n\nOne should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who\nwould tell one that would tell one anything.\n\nNothing is so aggravating as calmness. There is something positively\nbrutal about the good temper of most modern men. I wonder we women stand\nit as well as we do.\n\nThe truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible. Bad habit, by the\nway, makes one very unpopular at the club ... with the older members.\nThey call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.\n\nMy own business always bores me to death. I prefer other people\'s.\n\nDon\'t be led astray into the paths of virtue--that is the worst of\nwomen. They always want one to be good. And if we are good, when they\nmeet us they don\'t love us at all. They like to find us quite\nirretrievably bad and to leave us quite unattractively good.\n\nMen are such cowards. They outrage every law in the world and are afraid\nof the world\'s tongue.\n\nWicked women bother one. Good women bore one. That is the only\ndifference between them.\n\nTo know the principles of the highest art is to know the principles of\nall the arts.\n\nI don\'t believe in the existence of Puritan women. I don\'t think there\nis a woman in the world who would not be a little flattered if one made\nlove to her. It is that which makes women so irresistibly adorable.\n\nWhen I am in trouble eating is the only thing that consoles me. Indeed,\nwhen I am in really great trouble, as anyone who knows me intimately\nwill tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink.\n\nWhen one is going to lead an entirely new life one requires regular and\nwholesome meals.\n\nThe soul is born old, but grows young. That is the comedy of life. The\nbody is born young, and grows old. That is life\'s tragedy.\n\nOne can survive everything nowadays except death, and live down anything\nexcept a good reputation.\n\nThe past is of no importance. The present is of no importance. It is\nwith the future that we have to deal. For the past is what men should\nnot have been. The present is what men ought not to be. The future is\nwhat artists are.\n\nMen become old, but they never become good.\n\nBy persistently remaining single a man converts himself into a permanent\npublic temptation. Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads\nweaker vessels astray.\n\nI think that in practical life there is something about success, actual\nsuccess, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is\nscrupulous always.\n\nEvery man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons.\nWhat this century worships is wealth. The god of this century is wealth.\nTo succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.\n\nI love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don\'t\ninterest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.\n\nModeration is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than\nenough is as good as a feast.\n\nThe English can\'t stand a man who is always saying he is in the right,\nbut they are very fond of a man who admits he has been in the wrong. It\nis one of the best things in them.\n\nLife is simply a \'mauvais quart d\'heure\' made up of exquisite moments.\n\nThere is the same world for all of us, and good and evil, sin and\ninnocence, go through it hand in hand. To shut one\'s eyes to half of\nlife that one may live securely is as though one blinded oneself that\none might walk with more safety in a land of pit and precipice.\n\nMarried men are horribly tedious when they are good husbands and\nabominably conceited when they are not.\n\nBetween men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion,\nenmity, worship, love, but no friendship.\n\nEverybody is clever nowadays. You can\'t go anywhere without meeting\nclever people. This has become an absolute public nuisance.\n\nI don\'t think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far\nas he can, and that is not far, is it?\n\nI am not quite sure that I quite know what pessimism really means. All I\ndo know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot\nbe lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy,\nthat is the explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation\nof the next.\n\nI do not approve of anything that that tampers with natural arrogance.\nIgnorance is like a delicate exotic fruit: touch it, and the blossom is\ngone.\n\nThe whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately,\nin England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it\ndid it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably\nlead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.\n\nNo woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so\ncalculating.\n\nEmotion for the sake of emotion is the aim of art, and emotion for the\nsake of emotion is the aim of life and of that practical organisation of\nlife that we call society.\n\nMen of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to\nthe influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than\nancient, history supplies us with many most painful examples of what I\nrefer to. If it were not so, indeed, history would be quite unreadable.\n\nI am not in favour of long engagements. They give people the opportunity\nof finding out each other\'s character before marriage, which I think is\nnever advisable.\n\nIt is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life\nhe has been speaking nothing but the truth.\n\nThe two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of\nprofile.\n\nThirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women\nwho have of their own free choice remained thirty-five for years.\n\nNever speak disrespectfully of society. Only people who can\'t get into\nit do that.\n\nIt is always painful to part with people whom one has known for a very\nbrief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with\nequanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has\njust been introduced is almost unbearable.\n\nTo be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.\n\nOne is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his\ntemper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of\nreason.\n\nThe essence of thought, as the essence of life, is growth.\n\nWhat people call insincerity is simply a method by which we can multiply\nour personalities.\n\nIn a temple everyone should be serious except the thing that is\nworshipped.\n\nWe are never more true to ourselves than when we are inconsistent.\n\nThere is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom\none has ceased to love.\n\nIntellectual generalities are always interesting, but generalities in\nmorals mean absolutely nothing.\n\nTo be in society is merely a bore, but to be out of it simply a tragedy.\n\nWe live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities.\n\nOne should never make one\'s début with a scandal. One should reserve\nthat to give an interest to one\'s old age.\n\nWhat man has sought for is, indeed, neither pain nor pleasure, but\nsimply life. Man has sought to live intensely, fully, perfectly. When he\ncan do so without exercising restraint on others, or suffering it ever,\nand his activities are all pleasurable to him, he will be saner,\nhealthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure is nature\'s test, her\nsign of approval. When man is happy he is in harmony with himself and\nhis environment.\n\nSociety often forgives the criminal, it never forgives the dreamer.\n\nIt is so easy for people to have sympathy with suffering. It is so\ndifficult for them to have sympathy with thought.\n\nConversation should touch on everything, but should concentrate itself\non nothing.\n\nThere is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that\nno one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the\npriest, that gives us absolution.\n\nThere are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating--people\nwho know absolutely everything and people who know absolutely nothing.\n\nThe public is wonderfully tolerant; it forgives everything except\ngenius.\n\nLife makes us pay too high a price for its wares, and we purchase the\nmeanest of its secrets at a cost that is monstrous and infinite.\n\nThis horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think\nthe Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that\nthere has been since that terrible thing they called the Higher\nEducation of Women was invented.\n\nOnce a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully\neffeminate, does he not? And I don\'t like that. It makes men so very\nattractive.\n\nExperience is a question of instinct about life.\n\nWhat is true about art is true about life.\n\nOne can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.\n\nI like men who have a future and women who have a past.\n\nWomen, as some witty Frenchman put it, inspire us with the desire to do\nmasterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out.\n\nIn matters of grave importance style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.\n\nThe only way to behave to a woman, is to make love to her if she is\npretty and to someone else if she is plain.\n\nWomen give to men the very gold of their lives. Possibly; but they\ninvariably want it back in such very small change.\n\nDefine women as a sex? Sphinxes without secrets.\n\nWhat do you call a bad man? The sort of man who admires innocence.\n\nWhat do you call a bad woman? Oh! the sort of woman a man never gets\ntired of.\n\nOne can resist everything except temptation.\n\nDon\'t let us go to life for our fulfilment or our experience. It is a\nthing narrowed by circumstances, incoherent in its utterance, and\nwithout that fine correspondence or form and spirit which is the only\nthing that can satisfy the artistic and critical temperament.\n\nIt is a dangerous thing to reform anyone.\n\nOne can always know at once whether a man has home claims upon his life\nor not. I have noticed a very, very sad expression in the eyes of so\nmany married men.\n\nA mother who doesn\'t part with a daughter every season has no real\naffection.\n\nTo be good is to be in harmony with oneself. Discord is to be forced to\nbe in harmony with others.\n\nA really grand passion is comparatively rare nowadays. It is the\nprivilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the\nidle classes in a country.\n\nThere is no secret of life. Life\'s aim, if it has one, is simply to be\nalways looking for temptations. There are not nearly enough of them; I\nsometimes pass a whole day without coming across a single one. It is\nquite dreadful. It makes one so nervous about the future.\n\nAll thought is immoral. Its very essence is destruction. If you think of\nanything you kill it; nothing survives being thought of.\n\nWhat is truth? In matters of religion it is simply the opinion that has\nsurvived. In matters of science it is the ultimate sensation. In matters\nof art it is one\'s last mood.\n\nIt is so easy to convert others. It is so difficult to convert oneself.\n\nA little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is\nabsolutely fatal.\n\nLife cheats us with shadows, like a puppet-master. We ask it for\npleasure. It gives it to us, with bitterness and disappointment in its\ntrain. We come across some noble grief that we think will lend the\npurple dignity of tragedy to our days, but it passes away from us, and\nthings less noble take its place, and on some grey, windy dawn, or\nodorous eve of silence and of silver, we find ourselves looking with\ncallous wonder, or dull heart of stone, at the tress of gold-flecked\nhair that we had once so wildly worshipped and so madly kissed.\n\nThere are two ways of disliking art One is to dislike it and the other\nto like it rationally.\n\nThere is nothing sane about the worship of beauty. It is too splendid to\nbe sane. Those of whose lives it forms the dominant note will always\nseem to the world to be mere visionaries.\n\nI am afraid that good people do a great deal of harm in this world.\nCertainly the greatest harm they do is that they make badness of such\nextraordinary importance.\n\nA sentimentalist is a man who sees an absurd value in everything and\ndoesn\'t know the marked price of any single thing.\n\nPunctuality is the thief of time.\n\nSelf-culture is the true ideal for man.\n\nThere\'s nothing in the world like the devotion of a married woman. It\'s\na thing no married man knows anything about.\n\nNo woman should have a memory. Memory in a woman is the beginning of\ndowdiness. One can always tell from a woman\'s bonnet whether she has got\na memory or not.\n\nThere are things that are right to say but that may be said at the wrong\ntime and to the wrong people.\n\nThe meaning of any beautiful created thing is, at least, as much in the\nsoul of him who looks at it as it was in his soul who wrought it. Nay,\nit is rather the beholder who lends to the beautiful thing its myriad\nmeanings, and makes it marvellous for us, and sets it in some new\nrelation to the age, so that it becomes a vital portion of our lives and\na symbol of what we pray for, or perhaps of what, having prayed for, we\nfear that we may receive.\n\nThe Renaissance was great because it sought to solve no social problem,\nand busied itself not about such things, but suffered the individual to\ndevelop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had great and\nindividual artists and great and individual men.\n\nIn England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so\ndreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.\n\nWhen one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself, and one ends by\ndeceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.\n\nThe secret of life is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming.\n\nNo artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.\n\nThe development of the race depends on the development of the\nindividual, and where self-culture has ceased to be the ideal the\nintellectual standard is instantly lowered and often ultimately lost.\n\nAn idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at\nall.\n\nTo elope is cowardly; it is running away from danger, and danger has\nbecome so rare in modern life.\n\nWhen a man is old enough to do wrong he should be old enough to do right\nalso.\n\nThe Book of Life begins with a man and a woman in a garden. It ends with\nRevelations.\n\nIn married life three is company and two is none.\n\nOut of ourselves we can never pass, nor can there be in creation what in\nthe creator was not.\n\nDon\'t tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one\nknows that life has exhausted him.\n\nWhen a woman marries again it is because she detested her first husband.\nWhen a man marries again it is because he adored his first wife. Women\ntry their luck; men risk theirs.\n\nThe highest criticism really is the record of one\'s own soul. It is more\nfascinating than history, as it is concerned simply with oneself. It is\nmore delightful than philosophy, as its subject is concrete and not\nabstract, real and not vague. It is the only civilised form of\nautobiography, as it deals, not with the events, but with the thoughts\nof one\'s life, not with life\'s physical accidents of deed or\ncircumstance, but with the spiritual moods and imaginative passions of\nthe mind.\n\nTo know anything about oneself one must know all about others.\n\nDuty is what one expects from others, it is not what one does oneself.\n\nAfter a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one\'s own relations.\n\nTalk to every woman as if you loved her and to every man as if he bored\nyou, and at the end of your first season you will have the reputation of\npossessing the most perfect social tact.\n\nMan--poor, awkward, reliable, necessary man--belongs to a sex that has\nbeen rational for millions and millions of years. He can\'t help himself;\nit is in his race. The history of women is very different. They have\nalways been picturesque protests against the mere existence of\ncommon-sense; they saw its dangers from the first.\n\nMore marriages are ruined nowadays by the common-sense of the husband\nthan by anything else. How can a woman be expected to be happy with a\nman who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly rational\nbeing.\n\nIt is very vulgar to talk about one\'s business. Only people like\nstock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner-parties.\n\nIt is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don\'t mind hard work\nwhen there is no definite object of any kind.\n\nTo do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most\ndifficult and the most intellectual. To Plato, with his passion for\nwisdom, this was the noblest form of energy.\n\nTo Aristotle, with his passion for knowledge, this was the noblest form\nof energy also. It was to this that the passion for holiness led the\nsaint and the mystic of mediæval days.\n\nYouth! There is nothing like it. It is absurd to talk of the ignorance\nof youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen now with any\nrespect are persons much younger than myself. They seem in front of me.\nLife has revealed to them her latest wonder.\n\nRomance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an\nart.\n\nI adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex.\n\nThere is nothing like youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to life. The\nold are in life\'s lumber-room. But youth is the lord of life. Youth has\na kingdom waiting for it. Everyone is born a king, and most people die\nin exile--like most kings.\n\nAll crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.\n\nSociety, civilised society at least, is never very ready to believe\nanything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. It\ninstinctively feels that manners are of more importance than morals, and\nin its opinion the highest respectability is of much less value than the\npossession of a good chef. And, after all, it is a very poor consolation\nto be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner or poor wine is\nirreproachable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot\natone for half-cold entrees.\n\nWhile, in the opinion of society, contemplation is the gravest thing of\nwhich any citizen can be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture\nit is the proper occupation of man.\n\nLife is terribly deficient in form. Its catastrophes happen in the wrong\nway and to the wrong people. There is a grotesque horror about its\ncomedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce. One is always\nwounded when one approaches it. Things last either too long or not long\nenough.\n\nIf a woman wants to hold a man she has merely to appeal to what is worst\nin him.\n\nWe are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.\n\nBeauty has as many meanings as man has moods. It is the symbol of\nsymbols. It reveals everything, because it expresses nothing. When it\nshows us itself it shows us the whole fiery-coloured world.\n\nMen always want to be a woman\'s first love. That is their clumsy vanity.\nWomen have a more subtle instinct about things. What they like is to be\na man\'s last romance.\n\nAnything approaching to the free play of the mind is practically unknown\namongst us. People cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful\nbut the stupid who are our shame. There is no sin except stupidity.\n\nOne regrets the loss even of one\'s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets\nthem the most. They are such an essential part of one\'s personality.\n\nIt is through art, and through art only, that we can realise our\nperfection; through art and through art only, that we can shield\nourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.\n\nA man who can dominate a London dinner-table can dominate the world. The\nfuture belongs to the dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.\n\nIt often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an\ninartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their\nabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of\nstyle. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an\nimpression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,\nhowever, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses\nour lives. If these elements of beauty are real the whole thing simply\nappeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no\nlonger the actors but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both.\nWe watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthrals us.\n\nWhen a woman finds out that her husband is absolutely indifferent to\nher, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy or wears very smart bonnets\nthat some other woman\'s husband has to pay for.\n\nIt is immoral to use private property in order to alleviate the horrible\nevils that result from the institution of private property.\n\nIt is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever\nreally shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than\nwe fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour-that is all.\n\nIt is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist\'s life is that he\ncannot realise his ideal. But the true tragedy that dogs the steps of\nmost artists is that they realise their ideal too absolutely. For when\nthe ideal is realised it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and\nbecomes simply a new starting-point for an ideal that is other than\nitself.\n\nPeople who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others\nhave. The only difference is that their moods are rather meaningless.\n\nIt is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A\nman who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent\na pleasure.\n\nGood women have such a limited view of life, their horizon is so small,\ntheir interests so petty. The fact is they are not modern, and to be\nmodern is the only thing worth being nowadays.\n\nDiscontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation.\n\nMen marry because they are tired, women because they are curious. Both\nare disappointed.\n\nAll men are married women\'s property. That is the only true definition\nof what married women\'s property really is.\n\nI am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good\npeople at a moment\'s notice. As a man sows so let him reap.\n\nNothing refines but the intellect.\n\nIt is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the\nfirst time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful\nposition, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the\nkind.\n\nThe man who regards his past is a man who deserves to have no future to\nlook forward to.\n\nJust as it is only by contact with the art of foreign nations that the\nart of a country gains that individual and separate life that we call\nnationality, so, by curious inversion, it is only by intensifying his\nown personality that the critic can interpret the personality of others;\nand the more strongly this personality enters into the interpretation\nthe more real the interpretation becomes, the more satisfying, the more\nconvincing, and the more true.\n\nMan is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask,\nand he will tell you the truth.\n\nAll women become like their mothers: that is their tragedy. No man does:\nthat is his.\n\nWomen are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel, and\nusually in wild revolt against herself.\n\nOne should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.\n\nNo man came across two ideal things. Few come across one.\n\nTo become the spectator of one\'s own life is to escape the suffering of\nlife.\n\nThe state is to make what is useful. The individual is to make what is\nbeautiful.\n\nA community is infinitely more brutalised by the habitual employment of\npunishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.\n\nThe systems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human\nnature and not on its growth and development.\n\nJealousy, which is an extraordinary source of crime in modern life, is\nan emotion closely bound up with our conceptions of property, and under\nsocialism and individualism will die out. It is remarkable that in\ncommunistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.\n\nAll art is immoral.\n\nHe to whom the present is the only thing that is present knows nothing\nof the age in which he lives. To realise the nineteenth century one must\nrealise every century that has preceded it and that has contributed to\nits making.\n\nFew parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them.\nThe old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.\n\nThe history of woman is the history of the worst form of tyranny the\nworld has ever known; the tyranny of the weak over the strong. It is the\nonly tyranny that lasts.\n\nThe happiness of a married man depends on the people he has not married.\n\nThere is no one type for man. There are as many perfections as there are\nimperfect men. And while to the claims of charity a man may yield and\nyet be free, to the claims of conformity no man may yield and remain\nfree at all.\n\nA practical scheme is either a scheme that is already in existence or a\nscheme that could be carried out under existing conditions.\n\nAll imitation in morals and in life is wrong.\n\nThe world has been made by fools that wise men may live in it.\n\nWomen love us for our defects. If we have enough of them they will\nforgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.\n\nSociety is a necessary thing. No man has any real success in this world\nunless he has got women to back him--and women rule society. If you have\nnot got women on your side you are quite over. You might just as well be\na barrister or a stockbroker or a journalist at once.\n\nThe worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been\ndecried; men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and\nsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are\nconscious of sharing with the less highly organised forms of existence.\nBut it is probable the true nature of the senses has never been\nunderstood, and that they have remained savage and animal merely because\nthe world has sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by\npain instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of\nwhich a fine instinct for beauty will be the dominant characteristic.\n\nWomen appreciate cruelty more than anything else. They have wonderfully\nprimitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves,\nlooking for their master all the same. They love being dominated.\n\nThose who try to lead the people can only do so by following the mob. It\nis through the voice of one crying in the wilderness that the way of the\ngods must be prepared.\n\nCircumstances are the lashes laid on to us by life. Some of us have to\nreceive them with bared ivory backs, and others are permitted to keep on\na coat--that is the only difference.\n\nCriticism is itself an art.... It is no more to be judged by any low\nstandard of imitation or resemblance than is the work of poet or\nsculptor. The critic occupies the same relation to the work of art that\nhe criticises as the artist does to the visible world of form and colour\nor the unseen world of passion and thought. He does not even require for\nthe perfection of his art the finest materials. Anything will serve his\npurpose.\n\nIt is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. In\nthe sphere of actual life that is, of course, obvious. Anybody can make\nhistory, only a great man can write it.\n\nIf we lived long enough to see the results of our actions it may be that\nthose who call themselves good would be filled with a wild remorse and\nthose whom the world calls evil stirred with a noble joy. Each little\nthing that we do passes into the great machine of life, which may grind\nour virtues to powder and make them worthless or transform our sins into\nelements of a new civilisation more marvellous and more splendid than\nany that has gone before.\n\nChildren begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge\nthem, sometimes they forgive them.\n\nWe live in an age that reads too much to be wise and that thinks too\nmuch to be beautiful.\n\nOne should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its\ndetails. Details are always vulgar.\n\nIt will be a marvellous thing--the true personality of man--when we see\nit. It will grow naturally and simply flowerlike, or as a tree grows. It\nwill not be at discord. It will never argue or dispute. It will not\nprove things. It will know everything, and yet it will not busy itself\nabout knowledge. It will have wisdom. Its value will not be measured by\nmaterial things. It will have nothing, and yet it will have everything,\nand whatever one takes from it it will still have, so rich it will be.\nIt will not be always meddling with others or asking them to be like\nitself. It will love them because they will be different. And yet, while\nit will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing\nhelps us, by being what it is. The personality of man will be very\nwonderful. It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.\n\nCynicism is merely the art of seeing things as they are instead of as\nthey ought to be.\n\nThree addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen.\n\nIf one doesn\'t talk about a thing it has never happened. It is simply\nexpression that gives reality to things.\n\nNo man is able who is unable to get on, just as no woman is clever who\ncan\'t succeed in obtaining that worst and most necessary of evils, a\nhusband.\n\nThe one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know\nwhen the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon\nas the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue\nit. If they were allowed their way every comedy would have a tragic\nending and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly\nartificial, but they have no sense of art.\n\nEach time that one loves is the only time that one has ever loved.\nDifference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely\nintensifies it.\n\nThe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but\nself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of\nthe rich.\n\nHuman life is the one thing worth investigating. Compared to it there is\nnothing else of any value. It is true that as one watches life in its\ncurious crucible of pain and pleasure one cannot wear over one\'s face a\nmask of glass nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and\nmaking the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen\ndreams. There are poisons so subtle that to know their properties one\nhas to sicken of them. There are maladies so strange that one has to\npass through them if one seeks to understand their nature. And yet what\na great reward one receives! How wonderful the whole world becomes to\none! To note the curious, hard logic of passion and the emotional,\ncoloured life of the intellect--to observe where they meet, and where\nthey separate, at what point they are in unison and at what point they\nare in discord--there is a delight in that! What matter what the cost\nis? One can never pay too high a price for any sensation.\n\nThere is only one class in the community that thinks more about money\nthan the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think of nothing else.\nThat is the misery of being poor.\n\nTo live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist--that is\nall.\n\nPersonality is a very mysterious thing. A man cannot always be estimated\nby what he does. He may keep the law, and yet be worthless. He may break\nthe law, and yet be fine. He may be bad without ever doing anything bad.\nHe may commit a sin against society, and yet realise through that sin\nhis true perfection.\n\nMediæval art is charming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can\nuse them in fiction, of course; but then the only things that one can\nuse in fiction are the only things that one has ceased to use in fact.\n\nMan is complete in himself.\n\nWhat is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value\nof nothing.\n\nIt\'s the old, old story. Love--well, not at first sight--but love at the\nend of the season, which is so much more satisfactory.\n\nNo nice girl should ever waltz with such particularly younger sons! It\nlooks so fast!\n\nGood resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws.\nTheir origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give\nus now and then some of those luxurious, sterile emotions that have a\ncertain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for them. They\nare simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account.\n\nWhat is the difference between literature and journalism? Journalism is\nunreadable and literature is unread.\n\nI hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked\nand being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.\n\nMy husband is a sort of promissory note; I am tired of meeting him.\n\nConscience makes egotists of us all.\n\nNever trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman\nover thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they\nhave a history.\n\nThere is a fatality about good resolutions-they are always made too\nlate.\n\nWe can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of\nlife is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.\n\nAnybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That\nis the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely\nuncivilised. Civilisation is not by any means an easy thing to attain\nto. There are only two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being\ncultured, the other by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity\nof being either, so they stagnate.\n\nWhat nonsense people talk about happy marriages! A man can be happy with\nany woman so long as he does not love her.\n\nThe things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. That is\nthe fatality of faith and the lesson of romance.\n\nIn the common world of fact the wicked are not punished nor the good\nrewarded. Success is given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak.\n\nNothing should be able to harm a man except himself. Nothing should be\nable to rob a man at all. What a man really has is what is in him. What\nis outside of him should be a matter of no importance.\n\nModern morality consists in accepting the standard of one\'s age. I\nconsider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age\nis a form of the grossest immorality.\n\nPerplexity and mistrust fan affection into passion, and so bring about\nthose beautiful tragedies that alone make life worth living. Women once\nfelt this, while men did not, and so women once ruled the world.\n\nSin is a thing that writes itself across a man\'s, face. It cannot be\nconcealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such\nthings.\n\nIf a wretched man has a vice it shows itself in the lines of his mouth,\nthe drop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even.\n\nThere are sins whose fascination is more in the memory than in the doing\nof them, strange triumphs that gratify the pride more than the passions\nand give to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than they\nbring or can ever bring to the senses.\n\nNo civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever\nknows what a pleasure is.\n\nAs for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is\narrested. If you want to mar a nature you have merely to reform it.\n\nSocialism itself will be of value simply because it will lead to\nindividualism.\n\nSome years ago people went about the country saying that property has\nduties. It is perfectly true. Property not merely has duties, but has so\nmany duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore. If\nproperty had simply pleasures we could stand it, but its duties make it\nunbearable.\n\nIt is through joy that the individualism of the future will develop\nitself. Christ made no attempt to reconstruct society, and consequently\nthe individualism that He preached to man could be realised only through\npain or in solitude.\n\nMost people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the\nprose of life. To have ruined oneself over poetry is an honour.\n\nThe only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad\nartists. Good artists exist simply on what they make, and consequently\nare perfectly uninteresting in what they are.\n\nWhat are the virtues? Nature, Renan tells us, cares little about\nchastity, and it may be that it is to the shame of the Magdalen, and not\nto their own purity, that the Lucretias of modern life owe their freedom\nfrom stain. Charity, as even those of whose religion it makes a formal\npart have been compelled to acknowledge, creates a multitude of evils.\nThe mere existence of conscience, that faculty of which people prate so\nmuch nowadays, and are so ignorantly proud, is a sign of our imperfect\ndevelopment. It must be merged in instinct before we become fine.\nSelf-denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress, and\nself-sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage, part of that\nold worship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of the\nworld, and which even now makes its victims day by day and has its\naltars in the land. Virtues! Who knows what the virtues are? Not you.\nNot I. Not anyone. It is well for our vanity that we slay the criminal,\nfor if we suffered him to live he might show us what we had gained by\nhis crime. It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his\nmartyrdom. He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest.\n\nNowadays all the married men live like bachelors and all the bachelors\nlike married men.\n\nThe higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so\nsadly.\n\nThe world is perfectly packed with good women. To know them is a\nmiddle-class education.\n\nHesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of\nphysical weakness in the old.\n\nOur husbands never appreciate anything in us. We have to go to others\nfor that.\n\nMost women in London nowadays seem to furnish their rooms with nothing\nbut orchids, foreigners and French novels.\n\nThe canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of\nart. Form is absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a\nceremony as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere\ncharacter of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such\nplays delightful to us. Is sincerity such a terrible thing? I think not.\nIt is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.\n\nThe tragedy of old age is not that one is old but that one is young.\n\nA great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all\ncreatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse\ntheir rhymes are the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having\npublished a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible.\nHe lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry\nthat they dare not realise.\n\nBeing adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its\ngods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for\nthem.\n\nIf a man treats life artistically his brain is his heart.\n\nThe \'Peerage\' is the one book a young man about town should know\nthoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever\ndone.\n\nThe world has always laughed at its own tragedies, that being the only\nway in which it has been able to bear them. Consequently whatever the\nworld has treated seriously belongs to the comedy side of things.\n\nThe only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint\nhas a past and every sinner has a future.\n\nWhat is termed sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the\nworld would stagnate or grow old or becomes colourless. By its curiosity\nit increases the experience of the race. Through its intensified\nassertion of individualism it saves us from the commonplace. In its\nrejection of the current notions about morality it is one with the\nhigher ethics.\n\nFormerly we used to canonise our heroes. The modern method is to\nvulgarise them. Cheap editions of great books may be delightful, but\ncheap editions of great men are absolutely detestable.\n\nIndividualism does not come to man with any claims upon him at all. It\ncomes naturally and inevitably out of man. It is the point to which all\ndevelopment tends. It is the differentiation to which all organisms\ngrow. It is the perfection that is inherent in every mode of life and\ntoward which every mode of life quickens. Individualism exercises no\ncompulsion over man. On the contrary, it says to man that he should\nsuffer no compulsion to be exercised over him. It does not try to force\npeople to be good. It knows that people are good when they are let\nalone. Man will develop individualism out of himself. Man is now so\ndeveloping individualism. To ask whether individualism is practical is\nlike asking whether evolution is practical. Evolution is the law of\nlife, and there is no evolution except towards individualism.\n\nThe longer I live the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough\nfor our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, \'les\ngrand pères ont toujours tort.\'\n\nNo woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have\nanything to say but they say it charmingly.\n\nHumanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world\'s original sin. If\nthe cave men had known how to laugh history would have been different.\n\nI wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most\npremature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not\nrational.\n\nThought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.\n\nTo get into the best society nowadays one has either to feed people,\namuse people, or shock people--that is all.\n\nYou should never try to understand women. Women are pictures, men are\nproblems. If you want to know what a woman really means--which, by the\nway, is always a dangerous thing to do--look at her, don\'t listen to\nher.\n\nOrdinary women never appeal to one\'s imagination. They are limited to\ntheir century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds\nas easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is\nno mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and\nchatter at tea parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped\nsmile and their fashionable mauve.\n\nDon\'t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary\ncharm in them--sometimes.\n\nTo have been well brought up is a great drawback nowadays. It shuts one\nout from so much.\n\nThe people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there\nhave been some--have always insisted on living on long after I had\nceased to care for them or they to care for me. They have become stout\nand tedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for reminiscences.\nThat awful memory of women! What a fearful thing it is! And what an\nutter intellectual stagnation it reveals!\n\nExaminations are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a\ngentleman he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman whatever\nhe knows is bad for him.\n\nCredit is the capital of a younger son, and he can live charmingly on\nit.\n\nThe object of art is not simply truth but complex beauty. Art itself is\nreally a form of exaggeration, and selection, which is the very spirit\nof art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over-emphasis.\n\nThe popular cry of our time is: \'Let us return to Life and Nature, they\nwill recreate Art for us and send the red blood coursing through her\nveins; they will shoe her feet with swiftness and make her hand strong.\'\nBut, alas! we are mistaken in our amiable and well-meant efforts. Nature\nis always behind the age. And as for life, she is the solvent that\nbreaks up Art, the enemy that lays waste her house.\n\nThere are only two kinds of women--the plain and the coloured. The plain\nwomen are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for\nrespectability you have merely to take them down to supper. The other\nwomen are very charming. They commit one mistake, however--they paint in\norder to try and look young.\n\nThe way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it\non the tight-rope. When the verities become acrobats we can judge them.\n\nLife imitates art far more than art imitates life.... The Greeks with\ntheir quick, artistic instinct understood this, and set in the bride\'s\nchamber the statue of Hermes or of Apollo, that she might bear children\nas lovely as the works of art that she looked at in her rapture or her\npain. They knew that life gains from art not merely spirituality, depth\nof thought and feeling, soul-turmoil or soul-peace, but that she can\nform herself on the very lines and colours of art, and can reproduce the\ndignity of Pheidias as well as the grace of Praxiteles. Hence came this\nobjection to realism. They disliked it on purely social grounds. They\nfelt that it inevitably makes people ugly, and they were perfectly\nright.\n\nFaithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of\nthe intellect--simply a confession of failure.\n\nThere are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid\nthat others might pick them up.\n\nWhat a fuss people make about fidelity! Why, even in love it is purely a\nquestion for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young\nmen want to be faithful and are not; old men want to be faithless and\ncannot--that is all one can say.\n\nModernity of form and modernity of subject-matter are entirely and\nabsolutely wrong. We have mistaken the common livery of the age for the\nvesture of the muses, and spent our days in the sordid streets and\nhideous suburbs of our vile cities when we should be out on the hillside\nwith Apollo. Certainly we are a degraded race, and have sold our\nbirthright for a mess of facts.\n\nNothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the\nsenses but the soul.\n\nI can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is\nsomething unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.\n\nThose who live in marble or on painted panel know of life but a single\nexquisite instant, eternal, indeed, in its beauty but limited to one\nnote of passion or one mood of calm. Those whom the poet makes live have\ntheir myriad emotions of joy and terror, of courage and despair, of\npleasure and of suffering. The seasons come and go in glad or saddening\npageant, and with winged or leaden feet the years pass by before them.\nThey have their youth and their manhood, they are children, and they\ngrow old. It is always dawn for St Helena as Veronese saw her at the\nwindow. Through the still morning air the angels bring her the symbol of\nGod\'s pain. The cool breezes of the morning lift the gilt threads from\nher brow. On that little hill by the city of Florence, where the lovers\nof Giorgione are lying, it is always the solstice of noon--of noon made\nso languorous by summer suns that hardly can the slim, naked girl dip\ninto the marble tank the round bubble of clear glass, and the long\nfingers of the lute player rest idly upon the chords. It is twilight\nalways for the dancing nymphs whom Corot set free among the silver\npoplars of France. In eternal twilight they move, those frail,\ndiaphanous figures, whose tremulous, white feet seem not to touch the\ndew-drenched grass they tread on. But those who walk in epos, drama, or\nromance see through the labouring months the young moons wax and wane,\nand watch the night from evening into morning star, and from sunrise\ninto sun-setting can note the shifting day with all its gold and shadow.\nFor them, as for us, the flowers bloom and wither, and the earth, that\ngreen-tressed goddess, as Coleridge calls her, alters her raiment for\ntheir pleasure. The statue is concentrated to one moment of perfection.\nThe image stained upon the canvas possesses no spiritual element of\ngrowth or change. If they know nothing of death it is because they know\nlittle of life, for the secrets of life and death belong to those, and\nto those only, whom the sequence of time affects, and who possess not\nmerely the present but the future, and can rise or fall from a past of\nglory or of shame. Movement, that problem of the visible arts, can be\ntruly realised by literature alone. It is literature that shows us the\nbody in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest.\n\nBehind every exquisite thing that exists there is something tragic.\nWorlds have to be in travail that the merest flower may blow.\n\nBeauty is a form of genius--is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs\nno explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like\nsunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark water of that silver\nshell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned, it has its divine right\nof sovereignty.\n\nThe only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it and\nyour soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to\nitself.\n\nWomen spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever.\n\nHe\'s sure to be a wonderful success. He thinks like a Tory and talks\nlike a Radical, and that\'s so important nowadays.\n\nNowadays to be intelligible is to be found out.\n\nWe make gods of men and they leave us. Others make brutes of them and\nthey fawn and are faithful.\n\nThe husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes.\n\nTo me beauty is the Wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do\nnot judge by appearances.\n\nThe true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.\n\nThe thoroughly well-informed man is the modern ideal. And the mind of\nthe thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a\nbric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above\nits proper value.\n\nWomen have no appreciation of good looks in men--at least good women\nhave none.\n\nTo influence a person is to give him one\'s own soul. He does not think\nhis natural thoughts or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are\nnot real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are\nborrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else\'s music, an actor of a part\nthat has not been written for him.\n\nThose who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the\nfaithless who know love\'s tragedies.\n\nAn artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his\nown life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were\nmeant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of\nbeauty.\n\nA man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got\none who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and\nconsequently they all appreciate me.\n\nThe value of an idea has nothing whatever to do with the sincerity of\nthe man who expresses it.\n\nI like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no\nprinciples better than anything else in the world.\n\nHe who would lead a Christ-like life is he who is perfectly and\nabsolutely himself. He may be a great poet, or a great man of science;\nor a young student at the university, or one who watches sheep upon a\nmoor; or a maker of dramas, like Shakespeare, or a thinker about God,\nlike Spinoza; or a child who plays in a garden, or a fisherman who\nthrows his nets into the sea. It does not matter what he is as long as\nhe realises the perfection of the soul that is within him.\n\nThe aim of life is self-development. To realise one\'s nature\nperfectly--that is what each of us is here for.\n\nThere is no such thing as a good influence. All influence is\nimmoral--immoral from the scientific point of view.\n\nWords have not merely music as sweet as that of viol and lute, colour as\nrich and vivid as any that makes lovely for us the canvas of the\nVenetian or the Spaniard, and plastic form no less sure and certain than\nthat which reveals itself in marble or in bronze, but thought and\npassion and spirituality are theirs also--are theirs, indeed, alone.\n\nThere is nothing so absolutely pathetic as a really fine paradox. The\npun is the clown among jokes, the well-turned paradox is the polished\ncomedian, and the highest comedy verges upon tragedy, just as the\nkeenest edge of tragedy is often tempered by a subtle humour. Our minds\nare shot with moods as a fabric is shot with colours, and our moods\noften seem inappropriate. Everything that is true is inappropriate.\n\nThe longer one studies life and literature the more strongly one feels\nthat behind everything that is wonderful stands the individual, and that\nit is not the moment that makes the man but the man who creates the age.\n\nTo know the vintage and quality of a wine one need not drink the whole\ncask.\n\nIt is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts\nlonger than beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such\npains to over-educate ourselves.\n\nThe ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit\nat their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory they\nare at least spared the knowledge of defeat.\n\nTo have a capacity for a passion, and not to realise it is to make\noneself incomplete and limited.\n\nEven in actual life egotism is not without its attractions. When people\ntalk to us about others they are usually dull. When they talk to us\nabout themselves they are nearly always interesting, and if one could\nshut them up when they become wearisome as easily as one can shut up a\nbook of which one has grown wearied they would be perfect absolutely.\n\nEvery great man nowadays has his disciples and it is invariably Judas\nwho writes the biography.\n\nArt finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. She is\nnot to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. She is a veil\nrather than a mirror. She has flowers that no forest knows of, birds\nthat no woodland possesses. She makes and unmakes many worlds, and can\ndraw the moon from heaven with a scarlet thread. Hers are the \'forms\nmore real than living man,\' and hers the great archetypes, of which\nthings that have existence are but unfinished copies. Nature has, in her\neyes, no laws, no uniformity. She can work miracles at her will, and\nwhen she calls monsters from the deep they come. She can bid the\nalmond-tree blossom in winter and send the snow upon the ripe cornfield.\nAt her word the frost lays its silver finger on the burning mouth of\nJune, and the winged lions creep out from the hollows of the Lydian\nhills. The dryads peer from the thicket as she passes by, and the brown\nfauns smile strangely at her when she comes near them. She has\nhawk-faced gods that worship her, and the centaurs gallop at her side.\n\nIn literature mere egotism is delightful.\n\nIf we live for aims we blunt our emotions. If we live for aims we live\nfor one minute, for one day, for one year, instead of for every minute,\nevery day, every year. The moods of one\'s life are life\'s beauties. To\nyield to all one\'s moods is to really live.\n\nMany a young man starts in life with a natural gift for exaggeration\nwhich, if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic surroundings, or by the\nimitations of the best models, might grow into something really great\nand wonderful. But, as a rule, he comes to nothing. He either falls into\ncareless habits of accuracy or takes to frequenting the society of the\naged and the well-informed. Both things are equally fatal to his\nimagination.\n\nThe spirit of an age may be best expressed in the abstract ideal arts,\nfor the spirit itself is abstract and ideal.\n\nAs for believing things, I can believe anything provided that it is\nquite incredible.\n\n\'Know thyself\' was written over the portal of the antique world. Over\nthe portal of the new world \'Be thyself\' shall be written. And the\nmessage of Christ to man was simply: \'Be thyself.\' That is the secret of\nChrist.\n\nLondon is full of women who trust their husbands. One can always\nrecognise them, they look so thoroughly unhappy.\n\nFor those who are not artists, and to whom there is no mode of life but\nthe actual life of fact, pain is the only door to perfection.\n\nThe English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity\nis talking to it.\n\nMen always fall into the absurdity of endeavouring to develop the mind,\nto push it violently forward in this direction or in that. The mind\nshould be receptive, a harp waiting to catch the winds, a pool ready to\nbe ruffled, not a bustling busybody for ever trotting about on the\npavement looking for a new bun shop.\n\nThere is nothing more beautiful than to forget, except, perhaps, to be\nforgotten.\n\nAll bad art comes from returning to life and nature, and elevating them\ninto ideals. Life and nature may sometimes be used as part of art\'s\nrough material, but before they are of any real service to art they must\nbe translated into artistic conventions. The moment art surrenders its\nimaginative medium it surrenders everything. As a method realism is a\ncomplete failure, and the two things that every artist should avoid are\nmodernity of form and modernity of subject-matter.\n\nMen may have women\'s minds just as women may have the minds of men.\n\nLondon is too full of fogs and serious people. Whether the fogs produce\nthe serious people or whether the serious people produce the fogs I\ndon\'t know.\n\nHow marriage ruins a man! It\'s as demoralising as cigarettes, and far\nmore expensive.\n\nHe must be quite respectable. One has never heard his name before in the\nwhole course of one\'s life, which speaks volumes for a man nowadays.\n\nLiterature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it\nto its purpose.\n\nAs long as a thing is useful or necessary to us or affects us in any\nway, either for pain or pleasure, or appeals strongly to our sympathies\nor is a vital part of the environment in which we live, it is outside\nthe proper sphere of art.\n\nI couldn\'t have a scene in this bonnet: it is far too fragile. A harsh\nword would ruin it.\n\nMusic creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant and fills\none with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one\'s tears.\n\nNothing is so fatal to personality as deliberation.\n\nI adore London dinner parties. The clever people never listen and the\nstupid people never talk.\n\nLearned conversation is either the affection of the ignorant or the\nprofession of the mentally unemployed.\n\nThe Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there,\nthere have been either so many people that I have not been able to see\nthe pictures--which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not\nbeen able to see the people--which was worse.\n\nAll art is quite useless.\n\nBeauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins.\nIntellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration and destroys the harmony\nof any face. The moment one sits down to think one becomes all nose or\nall forehead or something horrid.\n\nThe one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception\nabsolutely necessary for both parties.\n\nSecrecy seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious\nor marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides\nit.\n\nConceit is one of the greatest of the virtues, yet how few people\nrecognise it as a thing to aim at and to strive after. In conceit many a\nman and woman has found salvation, yet the average person goes on\nall-fours grovelling after modesty.\n\nIt is difficult not to be unjust to what one loves.\n\nHumanity will always love Rousseau for having confessed his sins not to\na friend but to the world.\n\nJust as those who do not love Plato more than truth cannot pass beyond\nthe threshold of the Academe, so those who do not love beauty more than\ntruth never know the inmost shrine of art.\n\nThere is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction: the\nsort of fatality that seems to dog, through history, the faltering steps\nof kings. It is better not to be different from one\'s fellows.\n\nTo be born, or at any rate bred, in a handbag, whether it had handles or\nnot, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of\nfamily life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French\nRevolution.\n\nVice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.\n\nThere must be a new Hedonism that shall recreate life and save it from\nthat harsh, uncomely Puritanism that is having, in our own day, its\ncurious revival. It must have its service of the intellect, certainly,\nyet it must never accept any theory or system that will involve the\nsacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, is to\nbe experience itself and not the fruits of experience, bitter or sweet\nas they may be. Of the æstheticism that deadens the senses, as of the\nvulgar profligacy that dulls them, it is to know nothing. But it is to\nteach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is\nitself but a moment.\n\nArt never expresses anything but itself. It has an independent life,\njust as thought has, and develops purely on its own lines. It is not\nnecessarily realistic in an age of realism nor spiritual in an age of\nfaith. So far from being the creation of its time it is usually in\ndirect opposition to it, and the only history that it preserves for us\nis the history of its own progress.\n\nPeople who mean well always do badly. They are like the ladies who wear\nclothes that don\'t fit them in order to show their piety. Good\nintentions are invariably ungrammatical.\n\nMan can believe the impossible, but man can never believe the\nimprobable.\n\nWhen art is more varied nature will, no doubt, be more varied also.\n\nIf a man is sufficiently imaginative to produce evidence in support of a\nlie he might just as well speak the truth at once.\n\nThe ancient historians gave us delightful fiction in the form of fact;\nthe modern novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of\nfiction.\n\nNature is no great mother who has home us. She is our own creation. It\nis in our brain that she quickens to life. Things are because we see\nthem, and what we see and how we see it depends on the arts that have\ninfluenced us. To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing.\nOne does not see anything until one sees its beauty.\n\nThe proper school to learn art in is not life but art.\n\nI won\'t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the world\'s voice,\nor the voice of society. They matter a good deal. They matter far too\nmuch.\n\nI wouldn\'t marry a man with a future before him for anything under the\nsun.\n\nI am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly, but\nI don\'t see any chance of it just at present.\n\nModern memoirs are generally written by people who have entirely lost\ntheir memories and have never done anything worth recording.\n\nEducation is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to\ntime that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.\n\nWomen are like minors, they live upon their expectations.\n\nTwisted minds are as natural to some people as twisted bodies.\n\nIt is the very passions about whose origin we deceive ourselves that\ntyrannise most strongly over us. Our weakest motives are those of whose\nnature we are conscious. It often happens that when we think we are\nexperimenting on others we are really experimenting on ourselves.\n\nWhenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing it is always from the\nnoblest motives.\n\nI thought I had no heart. I find I have, and a heart doesn\'t suit me.\nSomehow it doesn\'t go with modern dress. It makes one look old, and it\nspoils one\'s career at critical moments.\n\nI don\'t play accurately--anyone can play accurately--but I play with\nwonderful expression. As far as the piano is concerned sentiment is my\nforte. I keep science for life.\n\nI delight in men over seventy. They always offer one the devotion of a\nlifetime.\n\nEverybody who is incapable of learning has taken to teaching--that is\nreally what our enthusiasm for education has come to.\n\nNature hates mind.\n\nFrom the point of view of form the type of all the arts is the art of\nthe musician. From the point of view of feeling the actor\'s craft is the\ntype.\n\nWhere we differ from each other is purely in accidentals--in dress,\nmanner, tone of voice, religious opinions, personal appearance, tricks\nof habit, and the like.\n\nThe more we study art the less we care for Nature. What art really\nreveals to us is Nature\'s lack of design, her curious crudities, her\nextraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition.... It is\nfortunate for us, however, that nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we\nshould have had no art at all. Art is our spirited protest, our gallant\nattempt to teach Nature her proper place. As for the infinite variety of\nnature, that is a pure myth. It is not to be found in Nature herself. It\nresides in the imagination or fancy or cultivated blindness of the man\nwho looks at her.\n\nFacts are not merely finding a footing-place in history but they are\nusurping the domain of fancy and have invaded the kingdom of romance.\nTheir chilling touch is over everything. They are vulgarising mankind.\n\nOrdinary people wait till life discloses to them its secrets, but to the\nfew, to the elect, the mysteries of life are revealed before the veil is\ndrawn away. Sometimes this is the effect of art, and chiefly of the art\nof literature which deals immediately with the passions and the\nintellect. But now and then a complex personality takes the place and\nassumes the office of art, is, indeed, in its way a real work of art,\nLife having its elaborate masterpieces just as poetry has, or sculpture,\nor painting.\n\nThinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it\njust as they die of any other disease.\n\nA cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite\nand it leaves one unsatisfied.\n\nThe aim of the liar is simply to charm, to delight, to give pleasure. He\nis the very basis of civilised society.\n\nIt is quite a mistake to believe, as many people do, that the mind shows\nitself in the face. Vice may sometimes write itself in lines and changes\nof contour, but that is all. Our faces are really masks given to us to\nconceal our minds with.\n\nWhat on earth should we men do going about with purity and innocence? A\ncarefully thought-out buttonhole is much more effective.\n\nThe only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the\ncaprice lasts a little longer.\n\nPeople say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so,\nbut at least it is not so superficial as thought is.\n\nIt is the spectator and not life that art really mirrors.\n\nNowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.\n\nConscience and cowardice are really the same things. Conscience is the\ntrade name of the firm--that is all.\n\nIn every sphere of life form is the beginning of things. The rhythmic,\nharmonious gestures of dancing convey, Plato tells us, both rhythm and\nharmony into the mind. Forms are the food of faith, cried Newman, in one\nof those great moments of sincerity that make us admire and know the\nman. He was right, though he may not have known how terribly right he\nwas. The creeds are believed not because they are rational but because\nthey are repeated. Yes; form is everything. It is the secret of life.\nFind expression for a sorrow and it will become dear to you. Find\nexpression for a joy and you intensify its ecstasy. Do you wish to love?\nUse love\'s litany and the words will create the yearning from which the\nworld fancies that they spring. Have you a grief that corrodes your\nheart? Learn its utterance from Prince Hamlet and Queen Constance and\nyou will find that mere expression is a mode of consolation and that\nform, which is the birth of passion, is also the death of pain. And so,\nto return to the sphere of art, it is form that creates not merely the\ncritical temperament but also the æsthetic instinct that reveals to one\nall things under the condition of beauty. Start with the worship of form\nand there is no secret in art that will not be revealed to you.\n\nIt is only the intellectually lost who ever argue.\n\nNowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common-sense, and\ndiscover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are\none\'s mistakes.\n\nLady Henry Wotton was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if\nthey had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was\nusually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned,\nshe had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque but only\nsucceeded in being untidy.\n\nThose who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.\n\nWith an evening coat and a white tie anybody, even a stockbroker, can\ngain a reputation for being civilised.\n\nThere is nothing so interesting as telling a good man or woman how bad\none has been. It is intellectually fascinating. One of the greatest\npleasures of having been wicked is that one has so much to say to the\ngood.\n\nLaws are made in order that people in authority may not remember them,\njust as marriages are made in order that the divorce court may not play\nabout idly.\n\nTo get back one\'s youth one has merely to repeat one\'s follies.\n\nNever marry a woman with straw-coloured hair. They are so sentimental.\n\nThe reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all\nafraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think\nthat we are generous because we credit our neighbours with the\npossession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to us. We\npraise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good\nqualities in the high-wayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets.\nI have the greatest contempt for optimism.\n\nArt begins with abstract decoration, with purely imaginative and\npleasureable work dealing with what is unreal and non-existent. This is\nthe first stage. Then life becomes fascinated with this new wonder, and\nasks to be admitted into the charmed circle. Art takes life as part of\nher rough material, recreates it and refashions it in fresh form; is\nabsolutely indifferent to facts; invents, imagines, dreams, and keeps\nbetween herself and reality the impenetrable barrier of beautiful style,\nof decorative or ideal treatment. The third stage is when Life gets the\nupper hand and drives Art out into the wilderness. This is the true\ndecadence, and it is from this that we are now suffering.\n\nGood intentions have been the ruin of the world. The only people who\nhave achieved anything have been those who have had no intentions at\nall.\n\nI never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere\nwith what charming people do.\n\nYou know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to\nmarriage is that it makes one unselfish, and unselfish people are\ncolourless--they lack individuality. Still there are certain\ntemperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their\negotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more\nthan one life. They become more highly organised, and to be highly\norganised is, I should fancy, the object of man\'s existence. Besides,\nevery experience is of value, and whatever one may say against marriage\nit is certainly an experience.\n\nThose who read the symbol do so at their peril.\n\nI never talk during music--at least not during good music. If anyone\nhears bad music it is one\'s duty to drown it in conversation.\n\nWhen critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.\n\nFaith is the most plural thing I know. We are all supposed to believe in\nthe same thing in different ways. It is like eating out of the same dish\nwith different coloured spoons.\n\nExperience is of no ethical value. It is merely the name men give to\ntheir mistakes. Moralists have, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of\nwarning, have claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation\nof character, have praised it as something that teaches us what to\nfollow and shows us what to avoid. But there is no motive power in\nexperience. It is as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All\nthat it really demonstrates is that our future will be the same as our\npast and that the sin we have done once, and with loathing, we shall do\nmany times, and with joy.\n\nSensations are the details that build up the stories of our lives.\n\nNo artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an\nunpardonable mannerism of style.\n\nShe looks like an \'edition de luxe\' of a wicked French novel meant\nspecially for the English market.\n\nI never knew what terror was before; I know it now. It is as if a hand\nof ice were laid upon one\'s heart. It is as if one\'s heart were beating\nitself to death in some empty hollow.\n\nWe can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not\nadmire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one\nadmires it intensely.\n\nNo artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be\nproved.\n\nOne knows so well the popular idea of health. The English country\ngentleman galloping along after a fox--the unspeakable in pursuit of the\nuneatable.\n\nPeople seldom tell the truths that are worth telling. We ought to choose\nour truths as carefully as we choose our lies and to select our virtues\nwith as much thought as we bestow upon the selection of our enemies.\n\nSoul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they are! There is\nanimalism in the soul, and the body has its moments of spirituality. The\nsenses can refine and the intellect can degrade. Who can say where the\nfleshly impulse ceases or the psychical impulse begins? How shallow are\nthe arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how\ndifficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Is the\nsoul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or is the body really in the\nsoul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter is\na mystery, and the unison of spirit with matter is a mystery also.\n\nThose who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the\ncultivated. For these there is hope.\n\nThere is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well\nwritten or badly written-that is all.\n\nMarriage is a sort of forcing house. It brings strange sins to fruit,\nand sometimes strange renunciations.\n\nThe moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist,\nbut the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect\nmedium.\n\nA sense of duty is like some horrible disease. It destroys the tissues\nof the mind, as certain complaints destroy the tissues of the body. The\ncatechism has a great deal to answer for.\n\nThey are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.\n\nThose who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without\nbeing charming. This is a fault.\n\nFew people have sufficient strength to resist the preposterous claims of\northodoxy.\n\nShe wore far too much rouge last night and not quite enough clothes.\nThat is always a sign of despair in a woman.\n\nA virtue is like a city set upon a hill--it cannot be hid. We can\nconceal our vices if we care to--for a time at least--but a virtue will\nout.\n\nCan\'t make out how you stand London society. The thing has gone to the\ndogs: a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing.\n\nYou don\'t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure,\nunadulterated country life. They get up early because they have so much\nto do, and go to bed early because they have so little to think about.\n\nNothing is so fatal to a personality as the keeping of promises, unless\nit be telling the truth.\n\nWho cares whether Mr Ruskin\'s views on Turner are sound or not? What\ndoes it matter? That mighty and majestic prose of his, so fervid and so\nfiery coloured in its noble eloquence, so rich in its elaborate\nsymphonic music, so sure and certain, at its best, in subtle choice of\nword and epithet, is, at least, as great a work of art as any of those\nwonderful sunsets that bleach or rot on their corrupted canvases in\nEngland\'s gallery--greater, indeed, one is apt to think at times, not\nmerely because its equal beauty is more enduring but on account of the\nfuller variety of its appeal--soul speaking to soul in those long,\ncadenced lines, not through form and colour alone, though through these,\nindeed, completely and without loss, but with intellectual and emotional\nutterance, with lofty passion and with loftier thought, with imaginative\ninsight and with poetic aim--greater, I always think, even as literature\nis the greater art.\n\nLaughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far\nthe best ending for one.\n\nMrs Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a\nnew scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park\nevery afternoon at 5.30. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the\nsorrow of her life at present is that she can\'t manage to have enough of\nthem.\n\nThe world divides actions into three classes: good actions, bad actions\nthat you may do, and bad actions that you may not do. If you stick to\nthe good actions you are respected by the good. If you stick to the bad\nactions that you may do you are respected by the bad. But if you perform\nthe bad actions that no one may do then the good and the bad set upon\nyou and you are lost indeed.\n\nI choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their\ngood characters, and my enemies for their good intellects.\n\nThe artist is the creator of beautiful things.\n\nTo me the word \'natural\' means all that is middle class, all that is of\nthe essence of Jingoism, all that is colourless and without form and\nvoid. It might be a beautiful word, but it is the most debased coin in\nthe currency of language.\n\nI pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably\nnever be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment\'s\nsolitude.\n\nIt is only when we have learned to love forgetfulness that we have\nlearned the art of living.\n\nTo reveal art and conceal the artist is art\'s aim.\n\nThe world taken \'en masse\' is a monster, crammed with prejudices, packed\nwith prepossessions, cankered with what it calls virtues, a Puritan, a\nprig. And the art of life is the art of defiance. To defy--that is what\nwe ought to live for, instead of living, as we do, to acquiesce.\n\nSome resemblance the creative work of the critic will have to the work\nthat has stirred him to creation, but it will be such resemblance as\nexists, not between nature and the mirror that the painter of landscape\nor figure may be supposed to hold up to her, but between nature and the\nwork of the decorative artist. Just as on the flowerless carpets of\nPersia tulip and rose blossom indeed, and are lovely to look on, though\nthey are not reproduced in visible shape or line; just as the pearl and\npurple of the sea shell is echoed in the church of St Mark at Venice;\njust as the vaulted ceiling of the wondrous chapel at Ravenna is made\ngorgeous by the gold and green and sapphire of the peacock\'s tail,\nthough the birds of Juno fly not across it; so the critic reproduces the\nwork that he criticises in a mode that is never imitative, and part of\nwhose charm may really consist in the rejection of resemblance, and\nshows us in this way not merely the meaning but also the mystery of\nbeauty, and by transforming each art into literature solves once for all\nthe problem of art\'s unity.\n\nDiversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,\ncomplex, and vital.\n\n\nNothing is more painful to me than to come across virtue in a person in\nwhom I have never suspected its existence. It is like finding a needle\nin a bundle of hay. It pricks you. If we have virtue we should warn\npeople of it.\n\nThe critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material\nhis impression of beautiful things.\n\nHopper is one of nature\'s gentlemen--the worst type of gentleman I\nknow.\n\nIf one intends to be good one must take it up as a profession. It is\nquite the most engrossing one in the world.\n\nI like Wagner\'s music better than anybody\'s. It is so loud that one can\ntalk the whole time without other people hearing what one says.\n\nAll art is at once surface and symbol.\n\nChildhood is one long career of innocent eavesdropping, of hearing what\none ought not to hear.\n\nThe highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.\n\nThe only things worth saying are those that we forget, just as the only\nthings worth doing are those that the world is surprised at.\n\nMaturity is one long career of saying what one ought not to say. That is\nthe art of conversation.\n\nVirtue is generally merely a form of deficiency, just as vice is an\nassertion of intellect.\n\nPeople teach in order to conceal their ignorance, as people smile in\norder to conceal their tears.\n\nTo be unnatural is often to be great. To be natural is generally to be\nstupid.\n\nTo lie finely is an art, to tell the truth is to act according to\nnature.\n\nPeople who talk sense are like people who break stones in the road: they\ncover one with dust and splinters.\n\nJesus said to man: You have a wonderful personality. Develop it. Be\nyourself. Don\'t imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or\npossessing external things. Your perfection is inside of you. If only\nyou could realise that you would not want to be rich. Ordinary riches\ncan be stolen from a man, real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of\nyour soul there are infinitely precious things that may not be taken\nfrom you. Try to so shape your life that external things will not harm\nyou, and try also to get rid of personal property. It involves sordid\npreoccupation, endless industry, continual wrong. Personal property\nhinders individualism at every step.\n\nWhen Jesus talks about the poor He simply means personalities, just as\nwhen He talks about the rich He simply means people who have not\ndeveloped their personalities.\n\nAn echo is often more beautiful than the voice it repeats.\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nTHE SOUL OF MAN\n\n\nThe chief advantage that would result from the establishment of\nSocialism is, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from\nthat sordid necessity of living for others which, in the present\ncondition of things, presses so hardly upon almost everybody. In fact,\nscarcely anyone at all escapes.\n\nNow and then, in the course of the century, a great man of science, like\nDarwin; a great poet, like Keats; a fine critical spirit, like M, Renan;\na supreme artist, like Flaubert, has been able to isolate himself, to\nkeep himself out of reach of the clamorous claims of others, to stand\n\'under the shelter of the wall,\' as Plato puts it, and so to realise the\nperfection of what was in him, to his own incomparable gain, and to the\nincomparable and lasting gain of the whole world. These, however, are\nexceptions. The majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and\nexaggerated altruism--are forced, indeed, so to spoil them. They find\nthemselves surrounded by hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by\nhideous starvation. It is inevitable that they should be strongly moved\nby all this. The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man\'s\nintelligence; and, as I pointed out some time ago in an article on the\nfunction of criticism, it is much more easy to have sympathy with\nsuffering than it is to have sympathy with thought. Accordingly, with\nadmirable, though misdirected intentions, they very seriously and very\nsentimentally set themselves to the task of remedying the evils that\nthey see. But their remedies do not cure the disease: they merely\nprolong it. Indeed, their remedies are part of the disease.\n\nThey try to solve the problem of poverty, for instance, by keeping the\npoor alive; or, in the case of a very advanced school, by amusing the\npoor.\n\nBut this is not a solution: it is an aggravation of the difficulty. The\nproper aim is to try and reconstruct society on such a basis that\npoverty will be impossible. And the altruistic virtues have really\nprevented the carrying out of this aim. Just as the worst slave-owners\nwere those who were kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of\nthe system being realised by those who suffered from it, and understood\nby those who contemplated it, so, in the present state of things in\nEngland, the people who do most harm are the people who try to do most\ngood; and at last we have had the spectacle of men who have really\nstudied the problem and know the life-educated men who live in the East\nEnd--coming forward and imploring the community to restrain its\naltruistic impulses of charity, benevolence, and the like. They do so on\nthe ground that such charity degrades and demoralises. They are\nperfectly right. Charity creates a multitude of sins.\n\nThere is also this to be said. It is immoral to use private property in\norder to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution\nof private property. It is both immoral and unfair.\n\nUnder Socialism all this will, of course, be altered. There will be no\npeople living in fetid dens and fetid rags, and bringing up unhealthy,\nhunger-pinched children in the midst of impossible and absolutely\nrepulsive surroundings. The security of society will not depend, as it\ndoes now, on the state of the weather. If a frost comes we shall not\nhave a hundred thousand men out of work, tramping about the streets in a\nstate of disgusting misery, or whining to their neighbours for alms, or\ncrowding round the doors of loathsome shelters to try and secure a hunch\nof bread and a night\'s unclean lodging. Each member of the society will\nshare in the general prosperity and happiness of the society, and if a\nfrost comes no one will practically be anything the worse.\n\nUpon the other hand, Socialism itself will be of value simply because it\nwill lead to Individualism.\n\nSocialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting\nprivate property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for\ncompetition, will restore society to its proper condition of a\nthoroughly healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each\nmember of the community. It will, in fact, give Life it\'s proper basis\nand its proper environment. But for the full development of Life to its\nhighest mode of perfection, something more is needed. What is needed is\nIndividualism. If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are\nGovernments armed with economic power as they are now with political\npower; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last\nstate of man will be worse than the first. At present, in consequence of\nthe existence of private property, a great many people are enabled to\ndevelop a certain very limited amount of Individualism. They are either\nunder no necessity to work for their living, or are enabled to choose\nthe sphere of activity that is really congenial to them, and gives them\npleasure. These are the poets, the philosophers, the men of science, the\nmen of culture--in a word, the real men, the men who have realised\nthemselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation. Upon\nthe other hand, there are a great many people who, having no private\nproperty of their own, and being always on the brink of sheer\nstarvation, are compelled to do the work of beasts of burden, to do work\nthat is quite uncongenial to them, and to which they are forced by the\nperemptory, unreasonable, degrading Tyranny of want. These are the poor,\nand amongst them there is no grace of manner, or charm of speech, or\ncivilisation, or culture, or refinement in pleasures, or joy of life.\nFrom their collective force Humanity gains much in material prosperity.\nBut it is only the material result that it gains, and the man who is\npoor is in himself absolutely of no importance. He is merely the\ninfinitesimal atom of a force that, so far from regarding him, crushes\nhim: indeed, prefers him crushed, as in that case he is far more\nobedient.\n\nOf course, it might be said that the Individualism generated under\nconditions of private property is not always, or even as a rule, of a\nfine or wonderful type, and that the poor, if they have not culture and\ncharm, have still many virtues. Both these statements would be quite\ntrue. The possession of private property is very often extremely\ndemoralising, and that is, of course, one of the reasons why Socialism\nwants to get rid of the institution. In fact, property is really a\nnuisance. Some years ago people went about the country saying that\nproperty has duties. They said it so often and so tediously that, at\nlast, the Church has begun to say it. One hears it now from every\npulpit. It is perfectly true. Property not merely has duties, but has so\nmany duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore. It\ninvolves endless claims upon one, endless attention to business, endless\nbother. If property had simply pleasures, we could stand it; but its\nduties make it unbearable. In the interest of the rich we must get rid\nof it. The virtues of the poor may be readily admitted, and are much to\nbe regretted. We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity.\nSome of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never\ngrateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and\nrebellious. They are quite right to be so. Charity they feel to be a\nridiculously inadequate mode of partial restitution, or a sentimental\ndole, usually accompanied by some impertinent attempt on the part of the\nsentimentalist to tyrannise over their private lives. Why should they be\ngrateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man\'s table? They should\nbe seated at the board, and are beginning to know it. As for being\ndiscontented, a man who would not be discontented with such surroundings\nand such a low mode of life would be a perfect brute. Disobedience, in\nthe eyes of anyone who has read history, is man\'s original virtue. It is\nthrough disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience\nand through rebellion. Sometimes the poor are praised for being thrifty.\nBut to recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It\nis like advising a man who is starving to eat less. For a town or\ncountry labourer to practise thrift would be absolutely immoral. Man\nshould not be ready to show that he can live like a badly-fed animal. He\nshould decline to live like that, and should either steal or go on the\nrates, which is considered by many to be a form of stealing. As for\nbegging, it is safer to beg than to take, but it is finer to take than\nto beg. No: a poor man who is ungrateful, unthrifty, discontented, and\nrebellious, is probably a real personality, and has much in him. He is\nat any rate a healthy protest. As for the virtuous poor, one can pity\nthem, of course, but one cannot possibly admire them; They have made\nprivate terms with the enemy, and sold their birthright for very bad\npottage. They must also be extraordinarily stupid. I can quite\nunderstand a man accepting laws that protect private property, and admit\nof its accumulation, as long as he himself is able under those\nconditions to realise some form of beautiful and intellectual life. But\nit is almost incredible to me how a man whose life is marred and made\nhideous by such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.\n\nHowever, the explanation is not really difficult to find. It is simply\nthis. Misery and poverty are so absolutely degrading, and exercise such\na paralysing effect over the nature of men, that no class is ever really\nconscious of its own suffering. They have to be told of it by other\npeople, and they often entirely disbelieve them. What is said by great\nemployers of labour against agitators is unquestionably true. Agitators\nare a set of interfering, meddling people, who come down to some\nperfectly contented class of the community, and sow the seeds of\ndiscontent amongst them. That is the reason why agitators are so\nabsolutely necessary. Without them, in our incomplete state, there would\nbe no advance towards civilisation. Slavery was put down in America, not\nin consequence of any action on the part of the slaves, or even any\nexpress desire on their part that they should be free. It was put down\nentirely through the grossly illegal conduct of certain agitators in\nBoston and elsewhere, who were not slaves themselves, nor owners of\nslaves, nor had anything to do with the question really. It was,\nundoubtedly, the Abolitionists who set the torch alight, who began the\nwhole thing. And it is curious to note that from the slaves themselves\nthey received, not merely very little assistance, but hardly any\nsympathy even; and when at the close of the war the slaves found\nthemselves free, found themselves indeed so absolutely free that they\nwere free to starve, many of them bitterly regretted the new state of\nthings. To the thinker, the most tragic fact in the whole of the French\nRevolution is not that Marie Antoinette was killed for being a queen,\nbut that the starved peasant of the Vendée voluntarily went out to die\nfor the hideous cause of feudalism.\n\nIt is clear, then, that no Authoritarian Socialism will do. For while\nunder the present system a very large number of people can lead lives of\na certain amount of freedom and expression and happiness, under an\nindustrial-barrack system, or a system of economic tyranny, nobody would\nbe able to have any such freedom at all. It is to be regretted that a\nportion of our community should be practically in slavery, but to\npropose to solve the problem by enslaving the entire community is\nchildish. Every man must be left quite free to choose his own work. No\nform of compulsion must be exercised over him. If there is, his work\nwill not be good for him, will riot be good in itself, and will not be\ngood for others. And by work I simply mean activity of any kind.\n\nI hardly think that any Socialist, nowadays, would seriously propose\nthat an inspector should call every morning at each house to see that\neach citizen rose up and did manual labour for eight hours. Humanity has\ngot beyond that stage, and reserves such a form of life for the people\nwhom, in a very arbitrary manner, it chooses to call criminals. But I\nconfess that many of the socialistic views that I have come across seem\nto me to be tainted with ideas of authority, if not of actual\ncompulsion. Of course, authority and compulsion are out of the question.\nAll association must be quite voluntary. It is only in voluntary\nassociations that man is fine.\n\nBut it may be asked how Individualism, which is now more or less\ndependent on the existence of private property for its development, will\nbenefit by the abolition of such private property. The answer is very\nsimple. It is true that, under existing conditions, a few men who have\nhad private means of their own, such as Byron, Shelley, Browning, Victor\nHugo, Baudelaire, and others, have been able to realise their\npersonality more or less completely. Not one of these men ever did a\nsingle day\'s work for hire. They were relieved from poverty. They had an\nimmense advantage. The question is whether it would be for the good of\nIndividualism that such an advantage should be taken away. Let us\nsuppose that it is taken away. What happens then to Individualism? How\nwill it benefit?\n\nIt will benefit in this way, under the new conditions Individualism will\nbe far freer, far finer, and far more intensified than it is now. I am\nnot talking of the great imaginatively-realised Individualism of such\npoets as I have mentioned, but of the great actual Individualism latent\nand potential in mankind generally. For the recognition of private\nproperty has really harmed Individualism, and obscured it, by confusing\na man with what he possesses. It has led Individualism entirely astray.\nIt has made gain not growth its aim. So that man thought that the\nimportant thing was to have, and did not know that the important thing\nis to be. The true perfection of man lies, not in what man has, but in\nwhat man is. Private property has crushed true Individualism, and set up\nan Individualism that is false. It has debarred one part of the\ncommunity from being individual by starving them. It has debarred the\nother part of the community from being individual by putting them on the\nwrong road, and encumbering them. Indeed, so completely has man\'s\npersonality been absorbed by his possessions that the English law has\nalways treated offences against a man\'s property with far more severity\nthan offences against his person, and property is still the test of\ncomplete citizenship. The industry necessary for the making of money is\nalso very demoralising. In a community like ours, where property confers\nimmense distinction, social position, honour, respect, titles, and other\npleasant things of the kind, man, being naturally ambitious, makes it\nhis aim to accumulate this property, and goes on wearily and tediously\naccumulating it long after he has got far more than he wants, or can\nuse, or enjoy, or perhaps even know of. Man will kill himself by\noverwork in order to secure property, and really, considering the\nenormous advantages that property brings, one is hardly surprised. One\'s\nregret is that society should be constructed on such a basis that man\nhas been forced into a groove in which he cannot freely develop what is\nwonderful, and fascinating, and delightful in him--in which, in fact, he\nmisses the true pleasure and joy of living. He is also, under existing\nconditions, very insecure. An enormously wealthy merchant may be--often\nis--at every moment of his life at the mercy of things that are not\nunder his control. If the wind blows an extra point or so, or the\nweather suddenly changes, or some trivial thing happens, his ship may go\ndown, his speculations may go wrong, and he finds himself a poor man,\nwith his social position quite gone. Now, nothing should be able to harm\na man except himself. Nothing should be able to rob a man at all. What a\nman really has, is what is in him. What is outside of him should be a\nmatter of no importance.\n\nWith the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true,\nbeautiful, healthy Individualism. Nobody will waste his life in\naccumulating things, and the symbols for things. One will live. To live\nis the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.\n\nIt is a question whether we have ever seen the full expression of a\npersonality, except on the imaginative plane of art. In action, we never\nhave. Cæsar, says Mommsen, was the complete and perfect man. But how\ntragically insecure was Cæsar! Wherever there is a man who exercises\nauthority, there is a man who resists authority. Cæsar was very perfect,\nbut his perfection travelled by too dangerous a road. Marcus Aurelius\nwas the perfect man, says Renan. Yes; the great emperor was a perfect\nman. But how intolerable were the endless claims upon him! He staggered\nunder the burden of the empire. He was conscious how inadequate one man\nwas to bear the weight of that Titan and too vast orb. What I mean by a\nperfect man is one who develops under perfect conditions; one who is not\nwounded, or worried or maimed, or in danger. Most personalities have\nbeen obliged to be rebels. Half their strength has been wasted in\nfriction. Byron\'s personality, for instance, was terribly wasted in its\nbattle with the stupidity, and hypocrisy, and Philistinism of the\nEnglish. Such battles do not always intensify strength: they often\nexaggerate weakness. Byron was never able to give us what he might have\ngiven us. Shelley escaped better. Like Byron, he got out of England as\nsoon as possible. But he was not so well known. If the English had had\nany idea of what a great poet he really was, they would have fallen on\nhim with tooth and nail, and made his life as unbearable to him as they\npossibly could. But he was not a remarkable figure in society, and\nconsequently he escaped, to a certain degree. Still, even in Shelley the\nnote of rebellion is sometimes too strong. The note of the perfect\npersonality is not rebellion, but peace.\n\nIt will be a marvellous thing--the true personality of man--when we see\nit. It will grow naturally and simply, flowerlike, or as a tree grows.\nIt will not be at discord. It will never argue or dispute. It will not\nprove things. It will know everything. And yet it will not busy itself\nabout knowledge. It will have wisdom. Its value will not be measured by\nmaterial things. It will have nothing. And yet it will have everything,\nand whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it he.\nIt will not be always meddling with others, or asking them to be like\nitself. It will love them because they will be different. And yet while\nit will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing\nhelps us, by being what it is. The personality of man will be very\nwonderful. It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.\n\nIn its development it will be assisted by Christianity, if men desire\nthat; but if men do not desire that, it will develop none the less\nsurely. For it will not worry itself about the past, nor care whether\nthings happened or did not happen. Nor will it admit any laws but its\nown laws; nor any authority but its own authority. Yet it will love\nthose who sought to intensity it, and speak often of them. And of these\nChrist was one.\n\n\'Know thyself\' was written over the portal of the antique world. Over\nthe portal of the new world, \'Be thyself\' shall be written. And the\nmessage of Christ to man was simply \'Be thyself.\' That is the secret of\nChrist.\n\nWhen Jesus talks about the poor he simply means personalities, just as\nwhen he talks about the rich he simply means people who have not\ndeveloped their personalities. Jesus moved in a community that allowed\nthe accumulation of private property just as ours does, and the gospel\nthat he preached was not that in such a community it is an advantage for\na man to live on scanty, unwholesome food, to wear ragged, unwholesome\nclothes, to sleep in horrid, unwholesome dwellings, and a disadvantage\nfor a man to live under healthy, pleasant, and decent conditions. Such a\nview would have been wrong there and then, and would, of course, be\nstill more wrong now and in England; for as man moves northward the\nmaterial necessities of life become of more vital importance, and our\nsociety is infinitely more complex, and displays far greater extremes of\nluxury and pauperism than any society of the antique world. What Jesus\nmeant, was this. He said to man, \'You have a wonderful personality.\nDevelop it. Be yourself. Don\'t imagine that your perfection lies in\naccumulating or possessing external things. Your perfection is inside of\nyou. If only you could realise that, you would not want to be rich.\nOrdinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the\ntreasury-house of your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that\nmay not be taken from you. And so, try to so shape your life that\nexternal things will not harm you. And try also to get rid of personal\nproperty. It involves sordid preoccupation, endless industry, continual\nwrong. Personal property hinders Individualism at every step. It is to\nbe noted that Jesus never says that impoverished people are necessarily\ngood, or wealthy people necessarily bad. That would not have been true.\nWealthy people are, as a class, better than impoverished people, more\nmoral, more intellectual, more well-behaved. There is only one class in\nthe community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is\nthe poor. The poor can think of nothing else. That is the misery of\nbeing poor. What Jesus does say is that man reaches his perfection, not\nthrough what he has, not even through what he does, but entirely through\nwhat he is. And so the wealthy young man who comes to Jesus is\nrepresented as a thoroughly good citizen, who has broken none of the\nlaws of his state, none of the commandments of his religion. He is quite\nrespectable, in the ordinary sense of that extraordinary word. Jesus\nsays to him, \'You should give up private property. It hinders you from\nrealising your perfection. It is a drag upon you. It is a burden. Your\npersonality does not need it. It is within you, and not outside of you,\nthat you will find what you really are, and what you really want.\' To\nhis own friends he says the same thing. He tells them to be themselves,\nand not to be always worrying about other things. What do other things\nmatter? Man is complete in himself. When they go into the world, the\nworld will disagree with them. That is inevitable. The world hates\nIndividualism. But that is not to trouble them. They are to be calm and\nself-centred. If a man takes their cloak, they are to give him their\ncoat, just to show that material things are of no importance. If people\nabuse them, they are not to answer back. What does it signify? The\nthings people say of a man do not alter a man. He is what he is. Public\nopinion is of no value whatsoever. Even if people employ actual\nviolence, they are not to be violent in turn. That would be to fall to\nthe same low level. After all, even in prison, a man can be quite free.\nHis soul can be free. His personality can be untroubled. He can be at\npeace. And, above all things, they are not to interfere with other\npeople or judge them in any way. Personality is a very mysterious thing.\nA man cannot always be estimated by what he does. He may keep the law,\nand yet be worthless. He may break the law, and yet be fine. He may be\nbad, without ever doing anything bad. He may commit a sin against\nsociety, and yet realise through that sin his true perfection.\n\nThere was a woman who was taken in adultery. We are not told the history\nof her love, but that love must have been very great; for Jesus said\nthat her sins were forgiven her, not because she repented, but because\nher love was so intense and wonderful. Later on, a short time before his\ndeath, as he sat at a feast, the woman came in and poured costly\nperfumes on his hair. His friends tried to interfere with her, and said\nthat it was an extravagance, and that the money that the perfume cost\nshould have been expended on charitable relief of people in want, or\nsomething of that kind. Jesus did not accept that view. He pointed out\nthat the material needs of Man were great and very permanent, but that\nthe spiritual needs of Man were greater still, and that in one divine\nmoment, and by selecting its own mode of expression, a personality might\nmake itself perfect. The world worships the woman, even now, as a saint.\n\nYes; there are suggestive things in Individualism. Socialism annihilates\nfamily life, for instance. With the abolition of private property,\nmarriage in its present form must disappear. This is part of the\nprogramme. Individualism accepts this and makes it fine. It converts the\nabolition of legal restraint into a form of freedom that will help the\nfull development of personality, and make the love of man and woman more\nwonderful, more beautiful, and more ennobling. Jesus knew this. He\nrejected the claims of family life, although they existed in his day and\ncommunity in a very marked form. \'Who is my mother? Who are my\nbrothers?\' he said, when he was told that they wished to speak to him.\nWhen one of his followers asked leave to go and bury his father, \'Let\nthe dead bury the dead,\' was his terrible answer. He would allow no\nclaim whatsoever to be made on personality.\n\nAnd so he who would lead a Christ-like like life is he who is perfectly\nand absolutely himself. He may be a great poet, or a great man of\nscience; or a young student at a University, or one who watches sheep\nupon a moor; or a maker of dramas, like Shakespeare, or a thinker about\nGod, like Spinoza; or a child who plays in a garden, or a fisherman who\nthrows his net into the sea. It does not matter what he is, as long as\nhe realises the perfection of the soul that is within him. All imitation\nin morals and in life is wrong. Through the streets of Jerusalem at the\npresent day crawls one who is mad and carries a wooden cross on his\nshoulders. He is a symbol of the lives that are marred by imitation.\nFather Damien was Christ-like when he went out to live with the lepers,\nbecause in such service he realised fully what was best in him. But he\nwas not more Christ-like than Wagner when he realised his soul in music;\nor than Shelley, when he realised his soul in song. There is no one type\nfor man. There are as many perfections as there are imperfect men. And\nwhile to the claims of charity a man may yield and yet be free, to the\nclaims of conformity no man may yield and remain free at all.\n\nIndividualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to. As a\nnatural result the State must give up all idea of government. It must\ngive it up because, as a wise man once said many centuries before\nChrist, there is such a thing as leaving mankind alone; there is no such\nthing as governing mankind. All modes of government are failures.\nDespotism is unjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably\nmade for better things. Oligarchies are unjust to the many, and\nochlocracies are unjust to the few. High hopes were once formed of\ndemocracy; but democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by\nthe people for the people. It has been found out. I must say that it was\nhigh time, for all authority is quite degrading. It degrades those who\nexercise it, and degrades those over whom it is exercised. When it is\nviolently, grossly, and cruelly used, it produces a good effect, by\ncreating, or at any rate bringing out, the spirit of revolt and\nIndividualism that is to kill it. When it is used with a certain amount\nof kindness, and accompanied by prizes and rewards, it is dreadfully\ndemoralising. People, in that case, are less conscious of the horrible\npressure that is being put on them, and so go through their lives in a\nsort of coarse comfort, like petted animals, without ever realising that\nthey are probably thinking other people\'s thoughts, living by other\npeople\'s standards, wearing practically what one may call other people\'s\nsecond-hand clothes, and never being themselves for a single moment. \'He\nwho would be free,\' says a fine thinker, \'must not conform.\' And\nauthority, by bribing people to conform, produces a very gross kind of\nover-fed barbarism amongst us.\n\nWith authority, punishment will pass away. This will be a great gain--a\ngain, in fact, of incalculable value. As one reads history, not in the\nexpurgated editions written for schoolboys and passmen, but in the\noriginal authorities of each time, one is absolutely sickened, not by\nthe crimes that the wicked have committed, but by the punishments that\nthe good have inflicted; and a community is infinitely more brutalised\nby the habitual employment of punishment, than it is by the occurrence\nof crime. It obviously follows that the more punishment is inflicted the\nmore crime is produced, and most modern legislation has clearly\nrecognised this, and has made it its task to diminish punishment as far\nas it thinks it can. Wherever it has really diminished it, the results\nhave always been extremely good. The less punishment, the less crime.\nWhen there is no punishment at all, crime will either cease to exist,\nor, if it occurs, will be treated by physicians as a very distressing\nform of dementia, to be cured by care and kindness. For what are called\ncriminals nowadays are not criminals at all. Starvation, and not sin, is\nthe parent of modern crime. That indeed is the reason why our criminals\nare, as a class, so absolutely uninteresting from any psychological\npoint of view. They are not marvellous Macbeths and terrible Vautrins.\nThey are merely what ordinary, respectable, commonplace people would be\nif they had not got enough to eat. When private property is abolished\nthere will be no necessity for crime, no demand for it; it will cease to\nexist. Of course, all crimes are not crimes against property, though\nsuch are the crimes that the English law, valuing what a man has more\nthan what a man is, punishes with the harshest and most horrible\nseverity, if we except the crime of murder, and regard death as worse\nthan penal servitude, a point on which our criminals, I believe,\ndisagree. But though a crime may not be against property, it may spring\nfrom the misery and rage and depression produced by our wrong system of\nproperty-holding, and so, when that system is abolished, will disappear.\nWhen each member of the community has sufficient for his wants, and is\nnot interfered with by his neighbour, it will not be an object of any\ninterest to him to interfere with anyone else. Jealousy, which is an\nextraordinary source of crime in modern life, is an emotion closely\nbound up with our conceptions of property, and under Socialism and\nIndividualism will die out. It is remarkable that in communistic tribes\njealousy is entirely unknown.\n\nNow as the State is not to govern, it may be asked what the State is to\ndo. The State is to be a voluntary association that will organise\nlabour, and be the manufacturer and distributor of necessary\ncommodities. The State is to make what is useful. The individual is to\nmake what is beautiful. And as I have mentioned the word labour. I\ncannot help saying that a great deal of nonsense is being written and\ntalked nowadays about the dignity of manual labour. There is nothing\nnecessarily dignified about manual labour at all, and most of it is\nabsolutely degrading. It is mentally and morally injurious to man to do\nanything in which he does not find pleasure, and many forms of labour\nare quite pleasureless activities, and should be regarded as such. To\nsweep a slushy crossing for eight hours on a day when the east wind is\nblowing is a disgusting occupation. To sweep it with mental, moral, or\nphysical dignity seems to me to be impossible. To sweep it with joy\nwould be appalling. Man is made for something better than disturbing\ndirt. All work of that kind should be done by a machine.\n\nAnd I have no doubt that it will be so. Up to the present, man has been,\nto a certain extent, the slave of machinery, and there is something\ntragic in the fact that as soon as man had invented a machine to do his\nwork he began to starve. This, however, is, of course, the result of our\nproperty system and our system of competition. One man owns a machine\nwhich does the work of five hundred men. Five hundred men are, in\nconsequence, thrown out of employment, and, having no work to do, become\nhungry and take to thieving. The one man secures the produce of the\nmachine and keeps it, and has five hundred times as much as he should\nhave, and probably, which is of much more importance, a great deal more\nthan he really wants. Were that machine the property of all, everyone\nwould benefit by it. It would be an immense advantage to the community.\nAll unintellectual labour, all monotonous, dull labour, all labour that\ndeals with dreadful things, and involves unpleasant conditions, must be\ndone by machinery. Machinery must work for us in coal mines, and do all\nsanitary services, and be the stoker of steamers, and clean the streets,\nand run messages on wet days, and do anything that is tedious or\ndistressing. At present machinery competes against man. Under proper\nconditions machinery will serve man. There is no doubt at all that this\nis the future of machinery, and just as trees grow while the country\ngentleman is asleep, so while Humanity will be amusing itself, or\nenjoying cultivated leisure--which, and not labour, is the aim of\nman--or making beautiful things, or reading beautiful things, or simply\ncontemplating the world with admiration and delight, machinery will he\ndoing all the necessary and unpleasant work. The fact is, that\ncivilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless\nthere are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture\nand contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong,\ninsecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the\nmachine, the future of the world depends. And when scientific men are no\nlonger called upon to go down to a depressing East End and distribute\nbad cocoa and worse blankets to starving people, they will have\ndelightful leisure in which to devise wonderful and marvellous things\nfor their own joy and the joy of everyone else. There will be great\nstorages of force for every city, and for every house if required, and\nthis force man will convert into heat, light, or motion, according to\nhis needs. Is this Utopian? A map of the world that does not include\nUtopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country\nat which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it\nlooks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the\nrealisation of Utopias.\n\nNow, I have said that the community by means of organisation of\nmachinery will supply the useful things, and that the beautiful things\nwill be made by the individual. This is not merely necessary, but it is\nthe only possible way by which we can get either the one or the other.\nAn individual who has to make things for the use of others, and with\nreference to their wants and their wishes, does not work with interest,\nand consequently cannot put into his work what is best in him. Upon the\nother hand, whenever a community or a powerful section of a community,\nor a government of any kind, attempts to dictate to the artist what he\nis to do, Art either entirely vanishes, or becomes stereotyped, or\ndegenerates into a low and ignoble form of craft. A work of art is the\nunique result of a unique temperament. Its beauty comes from the fact\nthat the author is what he is. It has nothing to do with the fact that\nother people want what they want. Indeed, the moment that an artist\ntakes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand,\nhe ceases to be an artist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman,\nan honest or a dishonest tradesman. He has no further claim to be\nconsidered as an artist. Art is the most intense mode of Individualism\nthat the world has known. I am inclined to say that it is the only real\nmode of Individualism that the world has known. Crime, which, under\ncertain conditions, may seem to have created Individualism, must take\ncognisance of other people and interfere with them. It belongs to the\nsphere of action. But alone, without any reference to his neighbours,\nwithout any interference, the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and\nif he does not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at\nall.\n\nAnd it is to be noted that it is the fact that Art is this intense form\nof Individualism that makes the public try to exercise over it an\nauthority that is as immoral as it is ridiculous, and as corrupting as\nit is contemptible. It is not quite their fault. The public has always,\nand in every age, been badly brought up. They are continually asking Art\nto be popular, to please their want of taste, to flatter their absurd\nvanity, to tell them what they have been told before, to show them what\nthey ought to be tired of seeing, to amuse them when they feel heavy\nafter eating too much, and to distract their thoughts when they are\nwearied of their own stupidity. Now Art should never try to be popular.\nThe public should try to make itself artistic. There is a very wide\ndifference. If a man of science were told that the results of his\nexperiments, and the conclusions that he arrived at, should be of such a\ncharacter that they would not upset the received popular notions on the\nsubject, or disturb popular prejudice, or hurt the sensibilities of\npeople who knew nothing about science; if a philosopher were told that\nhe had a perfect right to speculate in the highest spheres of thought,\nprovided that he arrived at the same conclusions as were held by those\nwho had never thought in any sphere at all--well, nowadays the man of\nscience and the philosopher would be considerably amused. Yet it is\nreally a very few years since both philosophy and science were subjected\nto brutal popular control, to authority in fact--the authority of\neither the general ignorance of the community, or the terror and greed\nfor power of an ecclesiastical or governmental class. Of course, we have\nto a very great extent got rid of any attempt on the part of the\ncommunity, or the Church, or the Government, to interfere with the\nindividualism of speculative thought, but the attempt to interfere with\nthe individualism of imaginative art still lingers. In fact, it does\nmore than linger; it is aggressive, offensive, and brutalising.\n\nIn England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the\npublic take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have\nbeen able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read\nit, and consequently do not influence it. The public like to insult\npoets because they are individual, but once they have insulted them,\nthey leave them alone. In the case of the novel and the drama, arts in\nwhich the public do take an interest, the result of the exercise of\npopular authority has been absolutely ridiculous. No country produces\nsuch badly-written fiction, such tedious, common work in the novel form,\nsuch silly, vulgar plays as England. It must necessarily be so. The\npopular standard is of such a character that no artist can get to it. It\nis at once too easy and too difficult to be a popular novelist. It is\ntoo easy, because the requirements of the public as far as plot, style,\npsychology, treatment of life, and treatment of literature are concerned\nare within the reach of the very meanest capacity and the most\nuncultivated mind. It is too difficult, because to meet such\nrequirements the artist would have to do violence to his temperament,\nwould have to write not for the artistic joy of writing, but for the\namusement of half-educated people, and so would have to suppress his\nindividualism, forget his culture, annihilate his style, and surrender\neverything that is valuable in him. In the case of the drama, things are\na little better: the theatre-going public like the obvious, it is true,\nbut they do not like the tedious; and burlesque and farcical comedy, the\ntwo most popular forms, are distinct forms of art. Delightful work may\nbe produced under burlesque and farcical conditions, and in work of this\nkind the artist in England is allowed very great freedom. It is when one\ncomes to the higher forms of the drama that the result of popular\ncontrol is seen. The one thing that the public dislike is novelty. Any\nattempt to extend the subject-matter of art is extremely distasteful to\nthe public; and yet the vitality and progress of art depend in a large\nmeasure on the continual extension of subject-matter. The public dislike\nnovelty because they are afraid of it. It represents to them a mode of\nIndividualism, an assertion on the part of the artist that he selects\nhis own subject, and treats it as he chooses. The public are quite right\nin their attitude. Art is Individualism, and Individualism is a\ndisturbing and disintegrating force. Therein lies its immense value. For\nwhat it seeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny\nof habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine. In Art,\nthe public accept what has been, because they cannot alter it, not\nbecause they appreciate it. They swallow their classics whole, and never\ntaste them. They endure them as the inevitable, and as they cannot mar\nthem, they mouth about them. Strangely enough, or not strangely,\naccording to one\'s own views, this acceptance of the classics does a\ngreat deal of harm. The uncritical admiration of the Bible and\nShakespeare in England is an instance of what I mean. With regard to the\nBible, considerations of ecclesiastical authority enter into the matter,\nso that I need not dwell upon the point.\n\nBut in the case of Shakespeare it is quite obvious that the public\nreally see neither the beauties nor the defects of his plays. If they\nsaw the beauties, they would not object to the development of the drama;\nand if they saw the defects, they would not object to the development of\nthe drama either. The fact is, the public make use of the classics of a\ncountry as a means of checking the progress of Art. They degrade the\nclassics into authorities. They use them as bludgeons for preventing the\nfree expression of Beauty in new forms. They are always asking a writer\nwhy he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not\npaint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of\nthem did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist. A fresh\nmode of Beauty is absolutely distasteful to them, and whenever it\nappears they get so angry and bewildered, that they always use two\nstupid expressions--one is that the work of art is grossly\nunintelligible; the other, that the work of art is grossly immoral. What\nthey mean by these words seems to me to be this. When they say a work is\ngrossly unintelligible, they mean that the artist has said or made a\nbeautiful thing that is new; when they describe a work as grossly\nimmoral, they mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing\nthat is true. The former expression has reference to style; the latter\nto subject-matter. But they probably use the words very vaguely, as an\nordinary mob will use ready-made paving-stones. There is not a single\nreal poet or prose-writer of this century, for instance, on whom the\nBritish public have not solemnly conferred diplomas of immorality, and\nthese diplomas practically take the place, with us, of what in France,\nis the formal recognition of an Academy of Letters, and fortunately make\nthe establishment of such an institution quite unnecessary in England.\nOf course, the public are very reckless in their use of the word. That\nthey should have called Wordsworth an immoral poet, was only to be\nexpected. Wordsworth was a poet. But that they should have called\nCharles Kingsley an immoral novelist is extraordinary. Kingsley\'s prose\nwas not of a very fine quality. Still, there is the word, and they use\nit as best they can. An artist is, of course, not disturbed by it. The\ntrue artist is a man who believes absolutely in himself, because he is\nabsolutely himself. But I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of\nart in England that immediately on its appearance was recognised by the\npublic, through their medium, which is the public press, as a work that\nwas quite intelligible and highly moral, he would begin to seriously\nquestion whether in its creation he had really been himself at all, and\nconsequently whether the work was not quite unworthy of him, and either\nof a thoroughly second-rate order, or of no artistic value whatsoever.\n\nPerhaps, however, I have wronged the public in limiting them to such\nwords as \'immoral,\' \'unintelligible,\' \'exotic,\' and \'unhealthy.\' There\nis one other word that they use. That word is \'morbid.\' They do not use\nit often. The meaning of the word is so simple that they are afraid of\nusing it. Still, they use it sometimes, and, now and then, one comes\nacross it in popular newspapers. It is, of course, a ridiculous word to\napply to a work of art. For what is morbidity but a mood of emotion or a\nmode of thought that one cannot express? The public are all morbid,\nbecause the public can never find expression for anything. The artist is\nnever morbid. He expresses everything. He stands outside his subject,\nand through its medium produces incomparable and artistic effects. To\ncall an artist morbid because he deals with morbidity as his\nsubject-matter is as silly as if one called Shakespeare mad because he\nwrote \'King Lear.\'\n\nOn the whole, an artist in England gains something by being attacked.\nHis individuality is intensified. He becomes more completely himself. Of\ncourse, the attacks are very gross, very impertinent, and very\ncontemptible. But then no artist expects grace from the vulgar mind, or\nstyle from the suburban intellect. Vulgarity and stupidity are two very\nvivid facts in modern life. One regrets them, naturally. But there they\nare. They are subjects for study, like everything else. And it is only\nfair to state, with regard to modern journalists, that they always\napologise to one in private for what they have written against one in\npublic.\n\nWithin the last few years two other adjectives, it may be mentioned,\nhave been added to the very limited vocabulary of art-abuse that is at\nthe disposal of the public. One is the word \'unhealthy,\' the other is\nthe word \'exotic.\' The latter merely expresses the rage of the momentary\nmushroom against the immortal, entrancing, and exquisitely lovely\norchid. It is a tribute, but a tribute of no importance. The word\n\'unhealthy,\' however, admits of analysis. It is a rather interesting\nword. In fact, it is so interesting that the people who use it do not\nknow what it means.\n\nWhat does it mean? What is a healthy, or an unhealthy work of art? All\nterms that one applies to a work of art, provided that one applies them\nrationally, have reference to either its style or its subject, or to\nboth together. From the point of view of style, a healthy work of art is\none whose style recognises the beauty of the material it employs, be\nthat material one of words or of bronze, of colour or of ivory, and uses\nthat beauty as a factor in producing the æsthetic effect. From the point\nof view of subject, a healthy work of art is one the choice of whose\nsubject is conditioned by the temperament of the artist, and comes\ndirectly out of it. In fine, a healthy work of art is one that has both\nperfection and personality. Of course, form and substance cannot be\nseparated in a work of art; they are always one. But for purposes of\nanalysis, and setting the wholeness of æsthetic impression aside for a\nmoment, we can intellectually so separate them. An unhealthy work of\nart, on the other hand, is a work whose style is obvious, old-fashioned,\nand common, and whose subject is deliberately chosen, not because the\nartist has any pleasure in it, but because he thinks that the public\nwill pay him for it. In fact, the popular novel that the public calls\nhealthy is always a thoroughly unhealthy production; and what the public\ncall an unhealthy novel is always a beautiful and healthy work of art.\n\nI need hardly say that I am not, for a single moment, complaining that\nthe public and the public press misuse these words. I do not see how,\nwith their lack of comprehension of what Art is, they could possibly use\nthem in the proper sense. I am merely pointing out the misuse; and as\nfor the origin of the misuse and the meaning that lies behind it all,\nthe explanation is very simple. It comes from the barbarous conception\nof authority. It comes from the natural inability of a community\ncorrupted by authority to understand or appreciate Individualism. In a\nword, it comes from that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called\nPublic Opinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to\ncontrol action, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control\nThought or Art.\n\nIndeed, there is much more to be said in favour of the physical force of\nthe public than there is in favour of the public\'s opinion. The former\nmay be fine. The latter must be foolish. It is often said that force is\nno argument. That, however, entirely depends on what one wants to prove.\nMany of the most important problems of the last few centuries, such as\nthe continuance of personal government in England, or of feudalism in\nFrance, have been solved entirely by means of physical force. The very\nviolence of a revolution may make the public grand and splendid for a\nmoment. It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is\nmightier than the paving-stone, and can be made as offensive as the\nbrickbat. They at once sought for the journalist, found him, developed\nhim, and made him their industrious and well-paid servant. It is greatly\nto be regretted, for both their sakes. Behind the barricade there may be\nmuch that is noble and heroic. But what is there behind the\nleading-article but prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle? And when\nthese four are joined together they make a terrible force, and\nconstitute the new authority.\n\nIn old days men had the rack. Now they have the press. That is an\nimprovement certainly. But still it is very bad, and wrong, and\ndemoralising. Somebody--was it Burke?--called journalism the fourth\nestate. That was true at the time, no doubt. But at the present moment\nit really is the only estate. It has eaten up the other three. The Lords\nTemporal say nothing, the Lords Spiritual have nothing to say, and the\nHouse of Commons has nothing to say and says it. We are dominated by\nJournalism. In America the President reigns for four years, and\nJournalism governs for ever and ever. Fortunately in America Journalism\nhas carried its authority to the grossest and most brutal extreme. As a\nnatural consequence it has begun to create a spirit of revolt. People\nare amused by it, or disgusted by it, according to their temperaments.\nBut it is no longer the real force it was. It is not seriously treated.\nIn England, Journalism, not, except in a few well-known instances,\nhaving been carried to such excesses of brutality, is still a great\nfactor, a really remarkable power. The tyranny that it proposes to\nexercise over people\'s private lives seems to me to be quite\nextraordinary. The fact is, that the public have an insatiable curiosity\nto know everything, except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious\nof this, and having tradesman-like habits, supplies their demands. In\ncenturies before ours the public nailed the ears of journalists to the\npump. That was quite hideous. In this century journalists have nailed\ntheir own ears to the keyhole. That is much worse. And what aggravates\nthe mischief is that the journalists who are most to blame are not the\namusing journalists who write for what are called Society papers. The\nharm is done by the serious, thoughtful, earnest journalists, who\nsolemnly, as they are doing at present, will drag before the eyes of the\npublic some incident in the private life of a great statesman, of a man\nwho is a leader of political thought as he is a creator of political\nforce, and invite the public to discuss the incident, to exercise\nauthority in the matter, to give their views, and not merely to give\ntheir views, but to carry them into action, to dictate to the man upon\nall other points, to dictate to his party, to dictate to his country; in\nfact, to make themselves ridiculous, offensive, and harmful. The private\nlives of men and women should not be told to the public. The public have\nnothing to do with them at all. In Prance they manage these things\nbetter. There they do not allow the details of the trials that take\nplace in the divorce courts to be published for the amusement or\ncriticism of the public. All that the public are allowed to know is that\nthe divorce has taken place and was granted on petition of one or other\nor both of the married parties concerned. In France, in fact, they limit\nthe journalist, and allow the artist almost perfect freedom. Here we\nallow absolute freedom to the journalist, and entirely limit the artist.\nEnglish public opinion, that is to say, tries to constrain and impede\nand warp the man who makes things that are beautiful in effect, and\ncompels the journalist to retail things that are ugly, or disgusting, or\nrevolting in fact, so that we have the most serious journalists in the\nworld, and the most indecent newspapers. It is no exaggeration to talk\nof compulsion. There are possibly some journalists who take a real\npleasure in publishing horrible things, or who, being poor, look to\nscandals as forming a sort of permanent basis for an income. But there\nare other journalists, I feel certain, men of education and cultivation,\nwho really dislike publishing these things, who know that it is wrong to\ndo so, and only do it because the unhealthy conditions under which their\noccupation is carried on oblige them to supply the public with what the\npublic wants, and to compete with other journalists in making that\nsupply as full and satisfying to the gross popular appetite as possible.\nIt is a very degrading position for any body of educated men to be\nplaced in, and I have no doubt that most of them feel it acutely.\n\nHowever, let us leave what is really a very sordid side of the subject,\nand return to the question of popular control in the matter of Art, by\nwhich I mean Public Opinion dictating to the artist the form which he is\nto use, the mode in which he is to use it, and the materials with which\nhe is to work. I have pointed out that the arts which have escaped best\nin England are the arts in which the public have not been interested.\nThey are, however, interested in the drama, and as a certain advance has\nbeen made in the drama within the last ten or fifteen years, it is\nimportant to point out that this advance is entirely due to a few\nindividual artists refusing to accept the popular want of taste as their\nstandard, and refusing to regard Art as a mere matter of demand and\nsupply. With his marvellous and vivid personality, with a style that has\nreally a true colour-element in it, with his extraordinary power, not\nover mere mimicry but over imaginative and intellectual creation, Mr\nIrving, had his sole object been to give the public what they wanted,\ncould have produced the commonest plays in the commonest manner, and\nmade as much success and money as a man could possibly desire. But his\nobject was not that. His object was to realise his own perfection as an\nartist, under certain conditions, and in certain forms of Art. At first\nhe appealed to the few; now he has educated the many. He has created in\nthe public both taste and temperament. The public appreciate his\nartistic success immensely. I often wonder, however, whether the public\nunderstand that that success is entirely due to the fact that he did not\naccept their standard, but realised his own. With their standard the\nLyceum would have been a sort of second-rate booth, as some of the\npopular theatres in London are at present. Whether they understand it or\nnot the fact however remains, that taste and temperament have, to a\ncertain extent, been created in the public, and that the public is\ncapable of developing these qualities. The problem then is, why do not\nthe public become more civilised? They have the capacity. What stops\nthem?\n\nThe thing that stops them, it must be said again, is their desire to\nexercise authority over the artist and over works of art. To certain\ntheatres, such as the Lyceum and the Haymarket, the public seem to come\nin a proper mood. In both of these theatres there have been individual\nartists, who have succeeded in creating in their audiences--and every\ntheatre in London has its own audience--the temperament to which Art\nappeals. And what is that temperament? It is the temperament of\nreceptivity. That is all.\n\nIf a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority\nover it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot\nreceive any artistic impression from it at all. The work of art is to\ndominate the spectator: the spectator is not to dominate the work of\nart. The spectator is to be receptive. He is to be the violin on which\nthe master is to play. And the more completely he can suppress his own\nsilly views, his own foolish prejudices, his own absurd ideas of what\nArt should be, or should not be, the more likely he is to understand and\nappreciate the work of art in question. This is, of course, quite\nobvious in the case of the vulgar theatre-going public of English men\nand women. But it is equally true of what are called educated people.\nFor an educated person\'s ideas of Art are drawn naturally from what Art\nhas been, whereas the new work of art is beautiful by being what Art has\nnever been; and to measure it by the standard of the past is to measure\nit by a standard on the rejection of which its real perfection depends.\nA temperament capable of receiving, through an imaginative medium, and\nunder imaginative conditions, new and beautiful impressions, is the only\ntemperament that can appreciate a work of art. And true as this is in\nthe case of the appreciation of sculpture and painting, it is still more\ntrue of the appreciation of such arts as the drama. For a picture and a\nstatue are not at war with Time. They take no count of its succession.\nIn one moment their unity may be apprehended. In the case of literature\nit is different. Time must be traversed before the unity of effect is\nrealised. And so, in the drama, there may occur in the first act of the\nplay something whose real artistic value may not be evident to the\nspectator till the third or fourth act is reached. Is the silly fellow\nto get angry and call out, and disturb the play, and annoy the artists?\nNo, the honest man is to sit quietly, and know the delightful emotions\nof wonder, curiosity, and suspense. He is not to go to the play to lose\na vulgar temper. He is to go to the play to realise an artistic\ntemperament. He is to go to the play to gain an artistic temperament. He\nis not the arbiter of the work of art. He is one who is admitted to\ncontemplate the work of art, and, if the work be fine, to forget in its\ncontemplation all, the egotism that mars him--the egotism of his\nignorance, or the egotism of his information. This point about the drama\nis hardly, I think, sufficiently recognised. I can quite understand that\nwere \'Macbeth\' produced for the first time before a modern London\naudience, many of the people present would strongly and vigorously\nobject to the introduction of the witches in the first act, with their\ngrotesque phrases and their ridiculous words. But when the play is over\none realises that the laughter of the witches in \'Macbeth\' is as\nterrible as the laughter of madness in \'Lear,\' more terrible than the\ndaughter of Iago in the tragedy of the Moor. No spectator of art needs a\nmore perfect mood of receptivity than the spectator of a play. The\nmoment he seeks to exercise authority he becomes the avowed enemy of Art\nand of himself. Art does not mind. It is he who suffers.\n\nWith the novel it is the same thing. Popular authority and the\nrecognition of popular authority are fatal. Thackeray\'s \'Esmond\' is a\nbeautiful work of art because he wrote it to please himself. In his\nother novels, in \'Pendennis,\' in \'Philip,\' in \'Vanity Fair\' even, at\ntimes, he is too conscious of the public, and spoils his work by\nappealing directly to the sympathies of the public, or by directly\nmocking at them. A true artist takes no notice whatever of the public.\nThe public are to him non-existent. He has no poppied or honeyed cakes\nthrough which to give the monster sleep or sustenance. He leaves that to\nthe popular novelist. One incomparable novelist we have now in England,\nMr George Meredith. There are better artists in France, but France has\nno one whose view of life is so large, so varied, so imaginatively true.\nThere are tellers of stories in Russia who have a more vivid sense of\nwhat pain in fiction may be. But to him belongs philosophy in fiction.\nHis people not merely live, but they live in thought. One can see them\nfrom myriad points of view. They are suggestive. There is soul in them\nand around them. They are interpretative and symbolic. And he who made\nthem, those wonderful quickly-moving figures, made them for his own\npleasure, and has never asked the public what they wanted, has never\ncared to know what they wanted, has never allowed the public to dictate\nto him or influence him in any way, but has gone on intensifying his own\npersonality, and producing his own individual work. At first none came\nto him. That did not matter. Then the few came to him. That did not\nchange him. The many have come now. He is still the same. He\'s an\nincomparable novelist.\n\nWith the decorative arts it is not different. The public clung with\nreally pathetic tenacity to what I believe were the direct traditions of\nthe Great Exhibition of international vulgarity, traditions that were so\nappalling that the houses in which people lived were only fit for blind\npeople to live in. Beautiful things began to be made, beautiful colours\ncame from the dyer\'s hand, beautiful patterns from the artist\'s brain,\nand the use of beautiful things and their value and importance were set\nforth. The public were really very indignant. They lost their temper.\nThey said silly things. No one minded. No one was a whit the worse. No\none accepted the authority of public opinion. And now it is almost\nimpossible to enter any modern house without seeing some recognition of\ngood taste, some recognition of the value of lovely surroundings, some\nsign of appreciation of beauty. In fact, people\'s houses are, as a rule,\nquite charming nowadays. People have been to a very great extent\ncivilised. It is only fair to state, however, that the extraordinary\nsuccess of the revolution in house-decoration and furniture and the like\nhas not really been due to the majority of the public developing a very\nfine taste in such matters. It has been chiefly due to the fact that the\ncraftsmen of things so appreciated the pleasure of making what was\nbeautiful, and woke to such a vivid consciousness of the hideousness and\nvulgarity of what the public had previously wanted, that they simply\nstarved the public out. It would be quite impossible at the present\nmoment to furnish a room as rooms were furnished a few years ago,\nwithout going for everything to an auction of second-hand furniture from\nsome third-rate lodging-house. The things are no longer made. However\nthey may object to it, people must nowadays have something charming in\ntheir surroundings. Fortunately for them, their assumption of authority\nin these art-matters came to entire grief.\n\nIt is evident, then, that all authority in such things is bad. People\nsometimes inquire what form of government is most suitable for an artist\nto live under. To this question there is only one answer. The form of\ngovernment that is most suitable to the artist is no government at all.\nAuthority over him and his art is ridiculous. It has been stated that\nunder despotisms artists have produced lovely work. This is not quite\nso. Artists have visited despots, not as subjects to be tyrannised over,\nbut as wandering wonder-makers, as fascinating vagrant personalities, to\nbe entertained and charmed and suffered to be at peace, and allowed to\ncreate. There is this to be said in favour of the despot, that he, being\nan individual, may have culture, while the mob, being a monster, has\nnone. One who is an Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush\nfor a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw\nmud. And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the emperor. In\nfact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all. But\nthere is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all\nauthority is equally bad.\n\nThere are three kinds of despots. There is the despot who tyrannises\nover the body. There is the despot who tyrannises over the soul. There\nis the despot who tyrannises over the soul and body alike. The first is\ncalled the Prince. The second is called the Pope The third is called the\nPeople. The Prince may be cultivated. Many Princes have been. Yet in the\nPrince there is danger. One thinks of Dante at the bitter feast in\nVerona, of Tasso in Ferrara\'s madman\'s cell. It is better for the artist\nnot to live with Princes. The Pope may be cultivated. Many Popes have\nbeen; the bad Popes have been. The bad Popes loved Beauty, almost as\npassionately, nay, with as much passion as the good Popes hated Thought.\nTo the wickedness of the Papacy humanity owes much. The goodness of the\nPapacy owes a terrible debt to humanity. Yet, though the Vatican has\nkept the rhetoric of its thunders, and lost the rod of its lightning, it\nis better for the artist not to live with Popes. It was a Pope who said\nof Cellini to a conclave of Cardinals that common laws and common\nauthority were not made for men such as he; but it was a Pope who thrust\nCellini into prison, and kept him there till he sickened with rage, and\ncreated unreal visions for himself, and saw the gilded sun enter his\nroom, and grew so enamoured of it that he sought to escape, and crept\nout from tower to tower, and falling through dizzy air at dawn, maimed\nhimself, and was by a vine-dresser covered with vine leaves, and carried\nin a cart to one who, loving beautiful things, had care of him. There is\ndanger in Popes. And as for the People, what of them and their\nauthority? Perhaps of them and their authority one has spoken enough.\nTheir authority is a thing blind, deaf, hideous, grotesque, tragic,\namusing, serious, and obscene. It is impossible for the artist to live\nwith the People. All despots bribe. The people bribe and brutalise. Who\ntold them to exercise authority? They were made to live, to listen, and\nto love. Someone has done them a great wrong. They have marred\nthemselves by imitation of their inferiors. They have taken the sceptre\nof the Prince. How should they use it? They have taken the triple tiara\nof the Pope. How should they carry its burden? They are as a clown whose\nheart is broken. They are as a priest whose soul is not yet born. Let\nall who love Beauty pity them. Though they themselves love not Beauty,\nyet let them pity themselves. Who taught them the trick of tyranny?\n\nThere are many other things that one might point out. One might point\nout how the Renaissance was great, because it sought to solve no social\nproblem, and busied itself not about such things, but suffered the\nindividual to develop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had\ngreat and individual artists, and great and individual men. One might\npoint out how Louis XIV., by creating the modern state, destroyed the\nindividualism of the artist, and made things monstrous in their monotony\nof repetition, and contemptible in their conformity to rule, and\ndestroyed throughout all France all those fine freedoms of expression\nthat had made tradition new in beauty, and new modes one with antique\nform. But the past is of no importance. The present is of no importance.\nIt is with the future that we have to deal. For the past is what man\nshould not have been. The present is what man ought not to be. The\nfuture is what artists are.\n\nIt will, of course, be said that such a scheme as is set forth here is\nquite unpractical, and goes against human nature. This is perfectly\ntrue. It is unpractical, and it goes against human nature. This is why\nit is worth carrying out, and that is why one proposes it. For what is a\npractical scheme? A practical scheme is either a scheme that is already\nin existence, or a scheme that could be carried out under existing\nconditions. But it is exactly the existing conditions that one objects\nto; and any scheme that could accept these conditions is wrong and\nfoolish. The conditions will be done away with, and human nature will\nchange. The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that\nit changes. Change is the one quality we can predicate of it. The\nsystems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human nature,\nand not on its growth and development. The error of Louis XIV. was that\nhe thought human nature would always be the same. The result of his\nerror was the French Revolution. It was an admirable result. All the\nresults of the mistakes of governments are quite admirable.\n\nIt is to be noted also that Individualism does not come to man with any\nsickly cant about duty, which merely means doing what other people want\nbecause they want it; or any hideous cant about self-sacrifice, which is\nmerely a survival of savage mutilation. In fact, it does not come to man\nwith any claims upon him at all. It comes naturally and inevitably out\nof man. It is the point to which all development tends. It is the\ndifferentiation to which all organisms grow. It is the perfection that\nis inherent in every mode of life, and towards which every mode of life\nquickens. And so Individualism exercises no compulsion over man. On the\ncontrary, it says to man that he should suffer no compulsion to be\nexercised over him. It does not try to force people to be good. It knows\nthat people are good when they are let alone. Man will develop\nIndividualism out of himself. Man is now so developing Individualism. To\nask whether Individualism is practical is like asking whether Evolution\nis practical. Evolution is the law of life, and there is no evolution\nexcept towards Individualism. Where this tendency is not expressed, it\nis a case of artificially-arrested growth, or of disease, or of death.\n\nIndividualism will also be unselfish and unaffected. It has been pointed\nout that one of the results of the extraordinary tyranny of authority is\nthat words are absolutely distorted from their proper and simple\nmeaning, and are used to express the obverse of their right\nsignification. What is true about Art is true about Life. A man is\ncalled affected, nowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress. But in\ndoing that he is acting in a perfectly natural manner. Affectation, in\nsuch matters, consists in dressing according to the views of one\'s\nneighbour, whose views, as they are the views of the majority, will\nprobably be extremely stupid. Or a man is called selfish if he lives in\nthe manner that seems to him most suitable for the full realisation of\nhis own personality; if, in fact, the primary aim of his life is\nself-development. But this is the way in which everyone should live.\nSelfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to\nlive as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people\'s\nlives alone, not interfering with them. Selfishness always aims at\ncreating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness\nrecognises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it,\nacquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A\nman who does not think for himself does not think at all. It is grossly\nselfish to require of one\'s neighbour that he should think in the same\nway, and hold the same opinions. Why should he? If he can think, he will\nprobably think differently. If he cannot think, it is monstrous to\nrequire thought of any kind from him. A red rose is not selfish because\nit wants to be a red rose. It would be horribly selfish if it wanted all\nthe other flowers in the garden to be both red and roses. Under\nIndividualism people will be quite natural and absolutely unselfish, and\nwill know the meanings of the words, and realise them in their free,\nbeautiful lives. Nor will men be egotistic as they are now. For the\negotist is he who makes claims upon others, and the Individualist will\nnot desire to do that. It will not give him pleasure. When man has\nrealised Individualism, he will also realise sympathy and exercise it\nfreely and spontaneously. Up to the present man has hardly cultivated\nsympathy at all. He has merely sympathy with pain, and sympathy with\npain is not the highest form of sympathy. All sympathy is fine, but\nsympathy with suffering is the least fine mode. It is tainted with\negotism. It is apt to become morbid. There is in it a certain element of\nterror for our own safety. We become afraid that we ourselves might be\nas the leper or as the blind, and that no man would have care of us. It\nis curiously limiting, too. One should sympathise with the entirety of\nlife, not with life\'s sores and maladies merely, but with life\'s joy and\nbeauty and energy and health and freedom. The wider sympathy is, of\ncourse, the more difficult. It requires more unselfishness. Anybody can\nsympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine\nnature--it requires, in fact, the nature of a true Individualist--to\nsympathise with a friend\'s success.\n\nIn the modern stress of competition and struggle for place, such\nsympathy is naturally rare, and is also very much stifled by the immoral\nideal of uniformity of type and conformity to rule which is so prevalent\neverywhere, and is perhaps most obnoxious in England.\n\nSympathy with pain there will, of course, always be. It is one of the\nfirst instincts of man. The animals which are individual, the higher\nanimals, that is to say, share it with us. But it must be remembered\nthat while sympathy with joy intensifies the sum of joy in the world,\nsympathy with pain does not really diminish the amount of pain. It may\nmake man better able to endure evil, but the evil remains. Sympathy with\nconsumption does not cure consumption; that is what Science does. And\nwhen Socialism has solved the problem of poverty, and Science solved the\nproblem of disease, the area of the sentimentalists will be lessened,\nand the sympathy of man will be large, healthy, and spontaneous. Man\nwill have joy in the contemplation of the joyous life of others.\n\nFor it is through joy that the Individualism of the future will develop\nitself. Christ made no attempt to reconstruct society, and consequently\nthe Individualism that he preached to man could be realised only through\npain or in solitude. The ideals that we owe to Christ are the ideals of\nthe man who abandons society entirely, or of the man who resists society\nabsolutely. But man is naturally social. Even the Thebaid became peopled\nat last. And though the cenobite realises his personality, it is often\nan impoverished personality that he so realises. Upon the other hand,\nthe terrible truth that pain is a mode through which man may realise\nhimself exercises a wonderful fascination over the world. Shallow\nspeakers and shallow thinkers in pulpits and on platforms often talk\nabout the world\'s worship of pleasure, and whine against it. But it is\nrarely in the world\'s history that its ideal has been one of joy and\nbeauty. The worship of pain has far more often dominated the world.\nMediævalism, with its saints and martyrs, its love of self-torture, its\nwild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its\nwhipping with rods--Mediævalism is real Christianity, and the mediæval\nChrist is the real Christ. When the Renaissance dawned upon the world,\nand brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of\nliving, men could not understand Christ. Even Art shows us that. The\npainters of the Renaissance drew Christ as a little boy playing with\nanother boy in a palace or a garden, or lying back in his mother\'s arms,\nsmiling at her, or at a flower, or at a bright bird; or as a noble,\nstately figure moving nobly through the world; or as a wonderful figure\nrising in a sort of ecstasy from death to life. Even when they drew him\ncrucified they drew him as a beautiful God on whom evil men had\ninflicted suffering. But he did not preoccupy them much. What delighted\nthem was to paint the men and women whom they admired, and to show the\nloveliness of this lovely earth. They painted many religious\npictures--in fact, they painted far too many, and the monotony of type\nand motive is wearisome, and was bad for art. It was the result of the\nauthority of the public in art-matters, and is to be deplored. But their\nsoul was not in the subject Raphael was a great artist when he painted\nhis portrait of the Pope. When he painted his Madonnas and infant\nChrists, he is not a great artist at all. Christ had no message for the\nRenaissance, which was wonderful because it brought an ideal at variance\nwith his, and to find the presentation of the real Christ we must go to\nmediæval art. There he is one maimed and marred; one who is not comely\nto look on, because Beauty is a joy; one who is not in fair raiment,\nbecause that may be a joy also: he is a beggar who has a marvellous\nsoul; he is a leper whose soul is divine; he needs neither property nor\nhealth; he is a God realising his perfection through pain.\n\nThe evolution of man is slow. The injustice of men is great. It was\nnecessary that pain should be put forward as a mode of self-realisation.\nEven now, in some places in the world, the message of Christ is\nnecessary. No one who lived in modern Russia could possibly realise his\nperfection except by pain. A few Russian artists have realised\nthemselves in Art; in a fiction that is mediæval in character, hecauae\nits dominant note is the realisation of men through suffering. But for\nthose who are not artists, and to whom there is no mode of life but the\nactual life of fact, pain is the only door to perfection. A Russian who\nlives happily under the present system of government in Russia must\neither believe that man has no soul, or that, if he has, it is not worth\ndeveloping. A Nihilist who rejects all authority, because he knows\nauthority to be evil, and welcomes all pain, because through that he\nrealises his personality, is a real Christian. To him the Christian\nideal is a true thing.\n\nAnd yet, Christ did not revolt against authority. He accepted the\nimperial authority of the Roman Empire and paid tribute. He endured the\necclesiastical authority of the Jewish Church, and would not repel its\nviolence by any violence of his own. He had, as I said before, no scheme\nfor the reconstruction of society. But the modern world has schemes. It\nproposes to do away with poverty and the suffering that it entails. It\ndesires to get rid of pain, and the suffering that pain entails. It\ntrusts to Socialism and to Science as its methods. What it aims at is an\nIndividualism expressing itself through joy. This Individualism will be\nlarger, fuller, lovelier than any Individualism has ever been. Pain is\nnot the ultimate mode of perfection. It is merely provisional and a\nprotest. It has reference to wrong, unhealthy, unjust surroundings. When\nthe wrong, and the disease, and the injustice are removed, it will have\nno further place. It will have done its work. It was a great work, but\nit is almost over. Its sphere lessens every day.\n\nNor will man miss it. For what man has sought for is, indeed, neither\npain nor pleasure, but simply Life. Man has sought to live intensely,\nfully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on\nothers, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to\nhim, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure\nis Nature\'s test, her sign of approval. When man is happy, he is in\nharmony with himself and his environment. The new Individualism, for\nwhose service Socialism, whether it wills it or not, is working, will be\nperfect harmony. It will be what the Greeks sought for, but could not,\nexcept in Thought, realise completely, because they had slaves, and fed\nthem; it will be what the Renaissance sought for, but could not realise\ncompletely except in Art, because they had slaves, and starved them. It\nwill be complete, and through it each man will attain to his perfection.\nThe new Individualism is the new Hellenism.\n\n\n_Reprinted from the \'Fortnightly Review,\' by permission of Messrs\nChapman & Hall._\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISCELLANEOUS APHORISMS; THE SOUL OF\nMAN***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 33979-8.txt or 33979-8.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/9/7/33979\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, A Woman of No Importance, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: A Woman of No Importance\n A Play\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: September 16, 2014 [eBook #854]\n[This file was first posted on 20 March 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1919 Methuen & Co. Ltd. edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n A WOMAN OF\n NO IMPORTANCE\n\n\n A PLAY\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO., LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Eighth Edition_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_First Printed_ _1894_\n_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ (_Limited _February_ _1908_\nEditions on Handmade Paper and Japanese\nVellum_)\n_Third Edition_ _September_ _1909_\n_Fourth Edition_ _May_ _1910_\n_Fifth Edition_ _December_ _1911_\n_Sixth Edition_ _March_ _1913_\n_Seventh Edition_ (_Cheap Form_) _October_ _1916_\n_Eighth Edition_ _1919_\n\n_The dramatic rights of_ ‘_A Woman of No Importance_’ _belong to Sir\nHerbert Beerbohm Tree and to Robert Ross_, _executor and administrator of\nOscar Wilde’s estate_.\n\n * * * * *\n\n TO\n GLADYS\n COUNTESS DE GREY\n\n [MARCHIONESS OF RIPON]\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTHE PERSONS OF THE PLAY\n\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH\n\nSIR JOHN PONTEFRACT\n\nLORD ALFRED RUFFORD\n\nMR. KELVIL, M.P.\n\nTHE VEN. ARCHDEACON DAUBENY, D.D.\n\nGERALD ARBUTHNOT\n\nFARQUHAR, Butler\n\nFRANCIS, Footman\n\n * * * * *\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON\n\nLADY CAROLINE PONTEFRACT\n\nLADY STUTFIELD\n\nMRS. ALLONBY\n\nMISS HESTER WORSLEY\n\nALICE, Maid\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCENES OF THE PLAY\n\n\nACT I. _The Terrace at Hunstanton Chase_.\n\nACT II. _The Drawing-room at Hunstanton Chase_.\n\nACT III. _The Hall at Hunstanton Chase_.\n\nACT IV. _Sitting-room in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s House at Wrockley_.\n\nTIME: _The Present_.\n\nPLACE: _The Shires_.\n\n _The action of the play takes place within twenty-four hours_.\n\n\n\n\nLONDON: HAYMARKET THEATRE\n\n\n _Lessee and Manager_: _Mr. H Beerbohm Tree_\n _April_ 19_th_, 1893\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH _Mr. Tree_.\nSIR JOHN PONTEFRACT _Mr. E. Holman Clark_.\nLORD ALFRED RUFFORD _Mr. Ernest Lawford_.\nMR. KELVIL, M.P. _Mr. Charles Allan_.\nTHE VEN. ARCHDEACON DAUBENY, D.D. _Mr. Kemble_.\nGERALD ARBUTHNOT _Mr. Terry_.\nFARQUHAR (_Butler_) _Mr. Hay_.\nFRANCIS (_Footman_) _Mr. Montague_.\nLADY HUNSTANTON _Miss Rose Leclercq_.\nLADY CAROLINE PONTEFRACT _Miss Le Thière_.\nLADY STUTFIELD _Miss Blanche Horlock_.\nMRS. ALLONBY _Mrs. Tree_.\nMISS HESTER WORSLEY _Miss Julia Neilson_.\nALICE (_Maid_) _Miss Kelly_.\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT _Mrs. Bernard-Beere_.\n\nFIRST ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n _Lawn in front of the terrace at Hunstanton_.\n\n[SIR JOHN _and_ LADY CAROLINE PONTEFRACT, MISS WORSLEY, _on chairs under\nlarge yew tree_.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I believe this is the first English country house you\nhave stayed at, Miss Worsley?\n\nHESTER. Yes, Lady Caroline.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. You have no country houses, I am told, in America?\n\nHESTER. We have not many.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Have you any country? What we should call country?\n\nHESTER. [_Smiling_.] We have the largest country in the world, Lady\nCaroline. They used to tell us at school that some of our states are as\nbig as France and England put together.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Ah! you must find it very draughty, I should fancy.\n[_To_ SIR JOHN.] John, you should have your muffler. What is the use of\nmy always knitting mufflers for you if you won’t wear them?\n\nSIR JOHN. I am quite warm, Caroline, I assure you.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I think not, John. Well, you couldn’t come to a more\ncharming place than this, Miss Worsley, though the house is excessively\ndamp, quite unpardonably damp, and dear Lady Hunstanton is sometimes a\nlittle lax about the people she asks down here. [_To_ SIR JOHN.] Jane\nmixes too much. Lord Illingworth, of course, is a man of high\ndistinction. It is a privilege to meet him. And that member of\nParliament, Mr. Kettle—\n\nSIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. He must be quite respectable. One has never heard his\nname before in the whole course of one’s life, which speaks volumes for a\nman, nowadays. But Mrs. Allonby is hardly a very suitable person.\n\nHESTER. I dislike Mrs. Allonby. I dislike her more than I can say.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I am not sure, Miss Worsley, that foreigners like\nyourself should cultivate likes or dislikes about the people they are\ninvited to meet. Mrs. Allonby is very well born. She is a niece of Lord\nBrancaster’s. It is said, of course, that she ran away twice before she\nwas married. But you know how unfair people often are. I myself don’t\nbelieve she ran away more than once.\n\nHESTER. Mr. Arbuthnot is very charming.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Ah, yes! the young man who has a post in a bank. Lady\nHunstanton is most kind in asking him here, and Lord Illingworth seems to\nhave taken quite a fancy to him. I am not sure, however, that Jane is\nright in taking him out of his position. In my young days, Miss Worsley,\none never met any one in society who worked for their living. It was not\nconsidered the thing.\n\nHESTER. In America those are the people we respect most.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I have no doubt of it.\n\nHESTER. Mr. Arbuthnot has a beautiful nature! He is so simple, so\nsincere. He has one of the most beautiful natures I have ever come\nacross. It is a privilege to meet _him_.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. It is not customary in England, Miss Worsley, for a young\nlady to speak with such enthusiasm of any person of the opposite sex.\nEnglish women conceal their feelings till after they are married. They\nshow them then.\n\nHESTER. Do you, in England, allow no friendship to exist between a young\nman and a young girl?\n\n[_Enter_ LADY HUNSTANTON, _followed by Footman with shawls and a\ncushion_.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. We think it very inadvisable. Jane, I was just saying\nwhat a pleasant party you have asked us to meet. You have a wonderful\npower of selection. It is quite a gift.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Dear Caroline, how kind of you! I think we all do fit\nin very nicely together. And I hope our charming American visitor will\ncarry back pleasant recollections of our English country life. [_To\nFootman_.] The cushion, there, Francis. And my shawl. The Shetland.\nGet the Shetland. [_Exit Footman for shawl_.]\n\n[_Enter_ GERALD ARBUTHNOT.]\n\nGERALD. Lady Hunstanton, I have such good news to tell you. Lord\nIllingworth has just offered to make me his secretary.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. His secretary? That is good news indeed, Gerald. It\nmeans a very brilliant future in store for you. Your dear mother will be\ndelighted. I really must try and induce her to come up here to-night.\nDo you think she would, Gerald? I know how difficult it is to get her to\ngo anywhere.\n\nGERALD. Oh! I am sure she would, Lady Hunstanton, if she knew Lord\nIllingworth had made me such an offer.\n\n[_Enter Footman with shawl_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I will write and tell her about it, and ask her to come\nup and meet him. [_To Footman_.] Just wait, Francis. [_Writes\nletter_.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. That is a very wonderful opening for so young a man as\nyou are, Mr. Arbuthnot.\n\nGERALD. It is indeed, Lady Caroline. I trust I shall be able to show\nmyself worthy of it.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I trust so.\n\nGERALD. [_To_ HESTER.] _You_ have not congratulated me yet, Miss\nWorsley.\n\nHESTER. Are you very pleased about it?\n\nGERALD. Of course I am. It means everything to me—things that were out\nof the reach of hope before may be within hope’s reach now.\n\nHESTER. Nothing should be out of the reach of hope. Life is a hope.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I fancy, Caroline, that Diplomacy is what Lord\nIllingworth is aiming at. I heard that he was offered Vienna. But that\nmay not be true.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I don’t think that England should be represented abroad\nby an unmarried man, Jane. It might lead to complications.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You are too nervous, Caroline. Believe me, you are too\nnervous. Besides, Lord Illingworth may marry any day. I was in hopes he\nwould have married lady Kelso. But I believe he said her family was too\nlarge. Or was it her feet? I forget which. I regret it very much. She\nwas made to be an ambassador’s wife.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. She certainly has a wonderful faculty of remembering\npeople’s names, and forgetting their faces.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, that is very natural, Caroline, is it not? [_To\nFootman_.] Tell Henry to wait for an answer. I have written a line to\nyour dear mother, Gerald, to tell her your good news, and to say she\nreally must come to dinner.\n\n[_Exit Footman_.]\n\nGERALD. That is awfully kind of you, Lady Hunstanton. [_To_ HESTER.]\nWill you come for a stroll, Miss Worsley?\n\nHESTER. With pleasure. [_Exit with_ GERALD.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I am very much gratified at Gerald Arbuthnot’s good\nfortune. He is quite a _protégé_ of mine. And I am particularly pleased\nthat Lord Illingworth should have made the offer of his own accord\nwithout my suggesting anything. Nobody likes to be asked favours. I\nremember poor Charlotte Pagden making herself quite unpopular one season,\nbecause she had a French governess she wanted to recommend to every one.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I saw the governess, Jane. Lady Pagden sent her to me.\nIt was before Eleanor came out. She was far too good-looking to be in\nany respectable household. I don’t wonder Lady Pagden was so anxious to\nget rid of her.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, that explains it.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. John, the grass is too damp for you. You had better go\nand put on your overshoes at once.\n\nSIR JOHN. I am quite comfortable, Caroline, I assure you.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. You must allow me to be the best judge of that, John.\nPray do as I tell you.\n\n[SIR JOHN _gets up and goes off_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You spoil him, Caroline, you do indeed!\n\n[_Enter_ MRS. ALLONBY _and_ LADY STUTFIELD.]\n\n[_To_ MRS. ALLONBY.] Well, dear, I hope you like the park. It is said\nto be well timbered.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The trees are wonderful, Lady Hunstanton.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Quite, quite wonderful.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. But somehow, I feel sure that if I lived in the country\nfor six months, I should become so unsophisticated that no one would take\nthe slightest notice of me.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I assure you, dear, that the country has not that\neffect at all. Why, it was from Melthorpe, which is only two miles from\nhere, that Lady Belton eloped with Lord Fethersdale. I remember the\noccurrence perfectly. Poor Lord Belton died three days afterwards of\njoy, or gout. I forget which. We had a large party staying here at the\ntime, so we were all very much interested in the whole affair.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I think to elope is cowardly. It’s running away from\ndanger. And danger has become so rare in modern life.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. As far as I can make out, the young women of the present\nday seem to make it the sole object of their lives to be always playing\nwith fire.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The one advantage of playing with fire, Lady Caroline, is\nthat one never gets even singed. It is the people who don’t know how to\nplay with it who get burned up.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes; I see that. It is very, very helpful.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t know how the world would get on with such a\ntheory as that, dear Mrs. Allonby.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Ah! The world was made for men and not for women.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, don’t say that, Lady Stutfield. We have a much better\ntime than they have. There are far more things forbidden to us than are\nforbidden to them.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes; that is quite, quite true. I had not thought of\nthat.\n\n[_Enter_ SIR JOHN _and_ MR. KELVIL.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, Mr. Kelvil, have you got through your work?\n\nKELVIL. I have finished my writing for the day, Lady Hunstanton. It has\nbeen an arduous task. The demands on the time of a public man are very\nheavy nowadays, very heavy indeed. And I don’t think they meet with\nadequate recognition.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. John, have you got your overshoes on?\n\nSIR JOHN. Yes, my love.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I think you had better come over here, John. It is more\nsheltered.\n\nSIR JOHN. I am quite comfortable, Caroline.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I think not, John. You had better sit beside me. [SIR\nJOHN _rises and goes across_.]\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. And what have you been writing about this morning, Mr.\nKelvil?\n\nKELVIL. On the usual subject, Lady Stutfield. On Purity.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. That must be such a very, very interesting thing to\nwrite about.\n\nKELVIL. It is the one subject of really national importance, nowadays,\nLady Stutfield. I purpose addressing my constituents on the question\nbefore Parliament meets. I find that the poorer classes of this country\ndisplay a marked desire for a higher ethical standard.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. How quite, quite nice of them.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Are you in favour of women taking part in politics, Mr.\nKettle?\n\nSIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.\n\nKELVIL. The growing influence of women is the one reassuring thing in\nour political life, Lady Caroline. Women are always on the side of\nmorality, public and private.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. It is so very, very gratifying to hear you say that.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, yes!—the moral qualities in women—that is the\nimportant thing. I am afraid, Caroline, that dear Lord Illingworth\ndoesn’t value the moral qualities in women as much as he should.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD ILLINGWORTH.]\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. The world says that Lord Illingworth is very, very\nwicked.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. But what world says that, Lady Stutfield? It must be\nthe next world. This world and I are on excellent terms. [_Sits down\nbeside_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Every one _I_ know says you are very, very wicked.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about,\nnowadays, saying things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely\nand entirely true.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Dear Lord Illingworth is quite hopeless, Lady\nStutfield. I have given up trying to reform him. It would take a Public\nCompany with a Board of Directors and a paid Secretary to do that. But\nyou have the secretary already, Lord Illingworth, haven’t you? Gerald\nArbuthnot has told us of his good fortune; it is really most kind of you.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, don’t say that, Lady Hunstanton. Kind is a\ndreadful word. I took a great fancy to young Arbuthnot the moment I met\nhim, and he’ll be of considerable use to me in something I am foolish\nenough to think of doing.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. He is an admirable young man. And his mother is one of\nmy dearest friends. He has just gone for a walk with our pretty\nAmerican. She is very pretty, is she not?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Far too pretty. These American girls carry off all the\ngood matches. Why can’t they stay in their own country? They are always\ntelling us it is the Paradise of women.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is, Lady Caroline. That is why, like Eve, they are\nso extremely anxious to get out of it.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Who are Miss Worsley’s parents?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. American women are wonderfully clever in concealing\ntheir parents.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Lord Illingworth, what do you mean? Miss\nWorsley, Caroline, is an orphan. Her father was a very wealthy\nmillionaire or philanthropist, or both, I believe, who entertained my son\nquite hospitably, when he visited Boston. I don’t know how he made his\nmoney, originally.\n\nKELVIL. I fancy in American dry goods.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What are American dry goods?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. American novels.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. How very singular! . . . Well, from whatever source her\nlarge fortune came, I have a great esteem for Miss Worsley. She dresses\nexceedingly well. All Americans do dress well. They get their clothes\nin Paris.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. They say, Lady Hunstanton, that when good Americans die\nthey go to Paris.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Indeed? And when bad Americans die, where do they go\nto?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, they go to America.\n\nKELVIL. I am afraid you don’t appreciate America, Lord Illingworth. It\nis a very remarkable country, especially considering its youth.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. The youth of America is their oldest tradition. It\nhas been going on now for three hundred years. To hear them talk one\nwould imagine they were in their first childhood. As far as civilisation\ngoes they are in their second.\n\nKELVIL. There is undoubtedly a great deal of corruption in American\npolitics. I suppose you allude to that?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I wonder.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Politics are in a sad way everywhere, I am told. They\ncertainly are in England. Dear Mr. Cardew is ruining the country. I\nwonder Mrs. Cardew allows him. I am sure, Lord Illingworth, you don’t\nthink that uneducated people should be allowed to have votes?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I think they are the only people who should.\n\nKELVIL. Do you take no side then in modern politics, Lord Illingworth?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never take sides in anything, Mr. Kelvil.\nTaking sides is the beginning of sincerity, and earnestness follows\nshortly afterwards, and the human being becomes a bore. However, the\nHouse of Commons really does very little harm. You can’t make people\ngood by Act of Parliament,—that is something.\n\nKELVIL. You cannot deny that the House of Commons has always shown great\nsympathy with the sufferings of the poor.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. That is its special vice. That is the special vice of\nthe age. One should sympathise with the joy, the beauty, the colour of\nlife. The less said about life’s sores the better, Mr. Kelvil.\n\nKELVIL. Still our East End is a very important problem.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite so. It is the problem of slavery. And we are\ntrying to solve it by amusing the slaves.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Certainly, a great deal may be done by means of cheap\nentertainments, as you say, Lord Illingworth. Dear Dr. Daubeny, our\nrector here, provides, with the assistance of his curates, really\nadmirable recreations for the poor during the winter. And much good may\nbe done by means of a magic lantern, or a missionary, or some popular\namusement of that kind.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I am not at all in favour of amusements for the poor,\nJane. Blankets and coals are sufficient. There is too much love of\npleasure amongst the upper classes as it is. Health is what we want in\nmodern life. The tone is not healthy, not healthy at all.\n\nKELVIL. You are quite right, Lady Caroline.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I believe I am usually right.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Horrid word ‘health.’\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Silliest word in our language, and one knows so well\nthe popular idea of health. The English country gentleman galloping\nafter a fox—the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.\n\nKELVIL. May I ask, Lord Illingworth, if you regard the House of Lords as\na better institution than the House of Commons?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. A much better institution, of course. We in the House\nof Lords are never in touch with public opinion. That makes us a\ncivilised body.\n\nKELVIL. Are you serious in putting forward such a view?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite serious, Mr. Kelvil. [_To_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\nVulgar habit that is people have nowadays of asking one, after one has\ngiven them an idea, whether one is serious or not. Nothing is serious\nexcept passion. The intellect is not a serious thing, and never has\nbeen. It is an instrument on which one plays, that is all. The only\nserious form of intellect I know is the British intellect. And on the\nBritish intellect the illiterates play the drum.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What are you saying, Lord Illingworth, about the drum?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I was merely talking to Mrs. Allonby about the leading\narticles in the London newspapers.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. But do you believe all that is written in the\nnewspapers?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I do. Nowadays it is only the unreadable that occurs.\n[_Rises with_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Are you going, Mrs. Allonby?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Just as far as the conservatory. Lord Illingworth told me\nthis morning that there was an orchid there as beautiful as the seven\ndeadly sins.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, I hope there is nothing of the kind. I will\ncertainly speak to the gardener.\n\n[_Exit_ MRS. ALLONBY _and_ LORD ILLINGWORTH.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Remarkable type, Mrs. Allonby.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. She lets her clever tongue run away with her sometimes.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Is that the only thing, Jane, Mrs. Allonby allows to run\naway with her?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I hope so, Caroline, I am sure.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD ALFRED.]\n\nDear Lord Alfred, do join us. [LORD ALFRED _sits down beside_ LADY\nSTUTFIELD.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. You believe good of every one, Jane. It is a great\nfault.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Do you really, really think, Lady Caroline, that one\nshould believe evil of every one?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I think it is much safer to do so, Lady Stutfield.\nUntil, of course, people are found out to be good. But that requires a\ngreat deal of investigation nowadays.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. But there is so much unkind scandal in modern life.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Lord Illingworth remarked to me last night at dinner that\nthe basis of every scandal is an absolutely immoral certainty.\n\nKELVIL. Lord Illingworth is, of course, a very brilliant man, but he\nseems to me to be lacking in that fine faith in the nobility and purity\nof life which is so important in this century.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes, quite, quite important, is it not?\n\nKELVIL. He gives me the impression of a man who does not appreciate the\nbeauty of our English home-life. I would say that he was tainted with\nforeign ideas on the subject.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. There is nothing, nothing like the beauty of home-life,\nis there?\n\nKELVIL. It is the mainstay of our moral system in England, Lady\nStutfield. Without it we would become like our neighbours.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. That would be so, so sad, would it not?\n\nKELVIL. I am afraid, too, that Lord Illingworth regards woman simply as\na toy. Now, I have never regarded woman as a toy. Woman is the\nintellectual helpmeet of man in public as in private life. Without her\nwe should forget the true ideals. [_Sits down beside_ LADY STUTFIELD.]\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. I am so very, very glad to hear you say that.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. You a married man, Mr. Kettle?\n\nSIR JOHN. Kelvil, dear, Kelvil.\n\nKELVIL. I am married, Lady Caroline.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Family?\n\nKELVIL. Yes.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. How many?\n\nKELVIL. Eight.\n\n[LADY STUTFIELD _turns her attention to_ LORD ALFRED.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Mrs. Kettle and the children are, I suppose, at the\nseaside? [SIR JOHN _shrugs his shoulders_.]\n\nKELVIL. My wife is at the seaside with the children, Lady Caroline.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. You will join them later on, no doubt?\n\nKELVIL. If my public engagements permit me.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Your public life must be a great source of gratification\nto Mrs. Kettle.\n\nSIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. [_To_ LORD ALFRED.] How very, very charming those\ngold-tipped cigarettes of yours are, Lord Alfred.\n\nLORD ALFRED. They are awfully expensive. I can only afford them when\nI’m in debt.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. It must be terribly, terribly distressing to be in debt.\n\nLORD ALFRED. One must have some occupation nowadays. If I hadn’t my\ndebts I shouldn’t have anything to think about. All the chaps I know are\nin debt.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. But don’t the people to whom you owe the money give you\na great, great deal of annoyance?\n\n[_Enter Footman_.]\n\nLORD ALFRED. Oh, no, they write; I don’t.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. How very, very strange.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, here is a letter, Caroline, from dear Mrs.\nArbuthnot. She won’t dine. I am so sorry. But she will come in the\nevening. I am very pleased indeed. She is one of the sweetest of women.\nWrites a beautiful hand, too, so large, so firm. [_Hands letter to_ LADY\nCAROLINE.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. [_Looking at it_.] A little lacking in femininity, Jane.\nFemininity is the quality I admire most in women.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Taking back letter and leaving it on table_.] Oh!\nshe is very feminine, Caroline, and so good too. You should hear what\nthe Archdeacon says of her. He regards her as his right hand in the\nparish. [_Footman speaks to her_.] In the Yellow Drawing-room. Shall\nwe all go in? Lady Stutfield, shall we go in to tea?\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. With pleasure, Lady Hunstanton. [_They rise and proceed\nto go off_. SIR JOHN offers to carry LADY STUTFIELD’S cloak.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. John! If you would allow your nephew to look after Lady\nStutfield’s cloak, you might help me with my workbasket.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD ILLINGWORTH _and_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nSIR JOHN. Certainly, my love. [_Exeunt_.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Curious thing, plain women are always jealous of their\nhusbands, beautiful women never are!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Beautiful women never have time. They are always so\noccupied in being jealous of other people’s husbands.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I should have thought Lady Caroline would have grown tired\nof conjugal anxiety by this time! Sir John is her fourth!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. So much marriage is certainly not becoming. Twenty\nyears of romance make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years of\nmarriage make her something like a public building.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Twenty years of romance! Is there such a thing?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Not in our day. Women have become too brilliant.\nNothing spoils a romance so much as a sense of humour in the woman.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Or the want of it in the man.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You are quite right. In a Temple every one should be\nserious, except the thing that is worshipped.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. And that should be man?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Women kneel so gracefully; men don’t.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. You are thinking of Lady Stutfield!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I assure you I have not thought of Lady Stutfield for\nthe last quarter of an hour.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Is she such a mystery?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. She is more than a mystery—she is a mood.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Moods don’t last.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is their chief charm.\n\n[_Enter_ HESTER _and_ GERALD.]\n\nGERALD. Lord Illingworth, every one has been congratulating me, Lady\nHunstanton and Lady Caroline, and . . . every one. I hope I shall make a\ngood secretary.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You will be the pattern secretary, Gerald. [_Talks to\nhim_.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. You enjoy country life, Miss Worsley?\n\nHESTER. Very much indeed.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Don’t find yourself longing for a London dinner-party?\n\nHESTER. I dislike London dinner-parties.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I adore them. The clever people never listen, and the\nstupid people never talk.\n\nHESTER. I think the stupid people talk a great deal.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, I never listen!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear boy, if I didn’t like you I wouldn’t have made\nyou the offer. It is because I like you so much that I want to have you\nwith me.\n\n[_Exit_ HESTER _with_ GERALD.]\n\nCharming fellow, Gerald Arbuthnot!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. He is very nice; very nice indeed. But I can’t stand the\nAmerican young lady.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Why?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. She told me yesterday, and in quite a loud voice too, that\nshe was only eighteen. It was most annoying.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never trust a woman who tells one her real\nage. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. She is a Puritan besides—\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Ah, that is inexcusable. I don’t mind plain women\nbeing Puritans. It is the only excuse they have for being plain. But\nshe is decidedly pretty. I admire her immensely. [_Looks steadfastly\nat_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. What a thoroughly bad man you must be!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you call a bad man?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The sort of man who admires innocence.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. And a bad woman?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh! the sort of woman a man never gets tired of.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You are severe—on yourself.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Define us as a sex.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Sphinxes without secrets.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Does that include the Puritan women?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Do you know, I don’t believe in the existence of\nPuritan women? I don’t think there is a woman in the world who would not\nbe a little flattered if one made love to her. It is that which makes\nwomen so irresistibly adorable.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. You think there is no woman in the world who would object\nto being kissed?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Very few.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Miss Worsley would not let you kiss her.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Are you sure?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Quite.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you think she’d do if I kissed her?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Either marry you, or strike you across the face with her\nglove. What would you do if she struck you across the face with her\nglove?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Fall in love with her, probably.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Then it is lucky you are not going to kiss her!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Is that a challenge?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It is an arrow shot into the air.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Don’t you know that I always succeed in whatever I\ntry?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I am sorry to hear it. We women adore failures. They\nlean on us.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You worship successes. You cling to them.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. We are the laurels to hide their baldness.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. And they need you always, except at the moment of\ntriumph.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. They are uninteresting then.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. How tantalising you are! [_A pause_.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth, there is one thing I shall always like\nyou for.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Only one thing? And I have so many bad qualities.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, don’t be too conceited about them. You may lose them\nas you grow old.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I never intend to grow old. The soul is born old but\ngrows young. That is the comedy of life.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life’s\ntragedy.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Its comedy also, sometimes. But what is the\nmysterious reason why you will always like me?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It is that you have never made love to me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I have never done anything else.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Really? I have not noticed it.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. How fortunate! It might have been a tragedy for both\nof us.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. We should each have survived.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One can survive everything nowadays, except death, and\nlive down anything except a good reputation.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Have you tried a good reputation?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of the many annoyances to which I have never\nbeen subjected.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It may come.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Why do you threaten me?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I will tell you when you have kissed the Puritan.\n\n[_Enter Footman_.]\n\nFRANCIS. Tea is served in the Yellow Drawing-room, my lord.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Tell her ladyship we are coming in.\n\nFRANCIS. Yes, my lord.\n\n[_Exit_.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Shall we go in to tea?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Do you like such simple pleasures?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of\nthe complex. But, if you wish, let us stay here. Yes, let us stay here.\nThe Book of Life begins with a man and a woman in a garden.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It ends with Revelations.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You fence divinely. But the button has come of your\nfoil.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I have still the mask.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It makes your eyes lovelier.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Thank you. Come.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Sees_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT’S _letter on table_, _and takes\nit up and looks at envelope_.] What a curious handwriting! It reminds\nme of the handwriting of a woman I used to know years ago.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Who?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! no one. No one in particular. A woman of no\nimportance. [_Throws letter down_, _and passes up the steps of the\nterrace with_ MRS. ALLONBY. _They smile at each other_.]\n\n ACT DROP.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n _Drawing-room at Hunstanton_, _after dinner_, _lamps lit_. _Door_ L.C.\n _Door_ R.C.\n\n[_Ladies seated on sofas_.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. What a comfort it is to have got rid of the men for a\nlittle!\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes; men persecute us dreadfully, don’t they?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Persecute us? I wish they did.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The annoying thing is that the wretches can be perfectly\nhappy without us. That is why I think it is every woman’s duty never to\nleave them alone for a single moment, except during this short breathing\nspace after dinner; without which I believe we poor women would be\nabsolutely worn to shadows.\n\n[_Enter Servants with coffee_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Worn to shadows, dear?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Yes, Lady Hunstanton. It is such a strain keeping men up\nto the mark. They are always trying to escape from us.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. It seems to me that it is we who are always trying to\nescape from them. Men are so very, very heartless. They know their\npower and use it.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. [_Takes coffee from Servant_.] What stuff and nonsense\nall this about men is! The thing to do is to keep men in their proper\nplace.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. But what is their proper place, Lady Caroline?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Looking after their wives, Mrs. Allonby.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [_Takes coffee from Servant_.] Really? And if they’re\nnot married?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. If they are not married, they should be looking after a\nwife. It’s perfectly scandalous the amount of bachelors who are going\nabout society. There should be a law passed to compel them all to marry\nwithin twelve months.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. [_Refuses coffee_.] But if they’re in love with some\none who, perhaps, is tied to another?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. In that case, Lady Stutfield, they should be married off\nin a week to some plain respectable girl, in order to teach them not to\nmeddle with other people’s property.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I don’t think that we should ever be spoken of as other\npeople’s property. All men are married women’s property. That is the\nonly true definition of what married women’s property really is. But we\ndon’t belong to any one.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Oh, I am so very, very glad to hear you say so.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. But do you really think, dear Caroline, that\nlegislation would improve matters in any way? I am told that, nowadays,\nall the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like\nmarried men.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I certainly never know one from the other.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Oh, I think one can always know at once whether a man\nhas home claims upon his life or not. I have noticed a very, very sad\nexpression in the eyes of so many married men.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, all that I have noticed is that they are horribly\ntedious when they are good husbands, and abominably conceited when they\nare not.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, I suppose the type of husband has completely\nchanged since my young days, but I’m bound to state that poor dear\nHunstanton was the most delightful of creatures, and as good as gold.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, my husband is a sort of promissory note; I’m tired of\nmeeting him.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. But you renew him from time to time, don’t you?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh no, Lady Caroline. I have only had one husband as yet.\nI suppose you look upon me as quite an amateur.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. With your views on life I wonder you married at all.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. So do I.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear child, I believe you are really very happy in\nyour married life, but that you like to hide your happiness from others.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I assure you I was horribly deceived in Ernest.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, I hope not, dear. I knew his mother quite well.\nShe was a Stratton, Caroline, one of Lord Crowland’s daughters.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Victoria Stratton? I remember her perfectly. A silly\nfair-haired woman with no chin.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, Ernest has a chin. He has a very strong chin, a\nsquare chin. Ernest’s chin is far too square.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. But do you really think a man’s chin can be too square?\nI think a man should look very, very strong, and that his chin should be\nquite, quite square.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Then you should certainly know Ernest, Lady Stutfield. It\nis only fair to tell you beforehand he has got no conversation at all.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. I adore silent men.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, Ernest isn’t silent. He talks the whole time. But he\nhas got no conversation. What he talks about I don’t know. I haven’t\nlistened to him for years.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Have you never forgiven him then? How sad that seems!\nBut all life is very, very sad, is it not?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Life, Lady Stutfield, is simply a _mauvais quart d’heure_\nmade up of exquisite moments.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes, there are moments, certainly. But was it something\nvery, very wrong that Mr. Allonby did? Did he become angry with you, and\nsay anything that was unkind or true?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh dear, no. Ernest is invariably calm. That is one of\nthe reasons he always gets on my nerves. Nothing is so aggravating as\ncalmness. There is something positively brutal about the good temper of\nmost modern men. I wonder we women stand it as well as we do.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes; men’s good temper shows they are not so sensitive\nas we are, not so finely strung. It makes a great barrier often between\nhusband and wife, does it not? But I would so much like to know what was\nthe wrong thing Mr. Allonby did.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Well, I will tell you, if you solemnly promise to tell\neverybody else.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Thank you, thank you. I will make a point of repeating\nit.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. When Ernest and I were engaged, he swore to me positively\non his knees that he had never loved any one before in the whole course\nof his life. I was very young at the time, so I didn’t believe him, I\nneedn’t tell you. Unfortunately, however, I made no enquiries of any\nkind till after I had been actually married four or five months. I found\nout then that what he had told me was perfectly true. And that sort of\nthing makes a man so absolutely uninteresting.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Men always want to be a woman’s first love. That is their\nclumsy vanity. We women have a more subtle instinct about things. What\nwe like is to be a man’s last romance.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. I see what you mean. It’s very, very beautiful.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear child, you don’t mean to tell me that you won’t\nforgive your husband because he never loved any one else? Did you ever\nhear such a thing, Caroline? I am quite surprised.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Oh, women have become so highly educated, Jane, that\nnothing should surprise us nowadays, except happy marriages. They\napparently are getting remarkably rare.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, they’re quite out of date.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Except amongst the middle classes, I have been told.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. How like the middle classes!\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes—is it not?—very, very like them.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. If what you tell us about the middle classes is true,\nLady Stutfield, it redounds greatly to their credit. It is much to be\nregretted that in our rank of life the wife should be so persistently\nfrivolous, under the impression apparently that it is the proper thing to\nbe. It is to that I attribute the unhappiness of so many marriages we\nall know of in society.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Do you know, Lady Caroline, I don’t think the frivolity of\nthe wife has ever anything to do with it. More marriages are ruined\nnowadays by the common sense of the husband than by anything else. How\ncan a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating\nher as if she were a perfectly rational being?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Man, poor, awkward, reliable, necessary man belongs to a\nsex that has been rational for millions and millions of years. He can’t\nhelp himself. It is in his race. The History of Woman is very\ndifferent. We have always been picturesque protests against the mere\nexistence of common sense. We saw its dangers from the first.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes, the common sense of husbands is certainly most,\nmost trying. Do tell me your conception of the Ideal Husband. I think\nit would be so very, very helpful.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The Ideal Husband? There couldn’t be such a thing. The\ninstitution is wrong.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. The Ideal Man, then, in his relations to _us_.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. He would probably be extremely realistic.\n\nMRS. CAROLINE. The Ideal Man! Oh, the Ideal Man should talk to us as if\nwe were goddesses, and treat us as if we were children. He should refuse\nall our serious requests, and gratify every one of our whims. He should\nencourage us to have caprices, and forbid us to have missions. He should\nalways say much more than he means, and always mean much more than he\nsays.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. But how could he do both, dear?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. He should never run down other pretty women. That would\nshow he had no taste, or make one suspect that he had too much. No; he\nshould be nice about them all, but say that somehow they don’t attract\nhim.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Yes, that is always very, very pleasant to hear about\nother women.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. If we ask him a question about anything, he should give us\nan answer all about ourselves. He should invariably praise us for\nwhatever qualities he knows we haven’t got. But he should be pitiless,\nquite pitiless, in reproaching us for the virtues that we have never\ndreamed of possessing. He should never believe that we know the use of\nuseful things. That would be unforgiveable. But he should shower on us\neverything we don’t want.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. As far as I can see, he is to do nothing but pay bills\nand compliments.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. He should persistently compromise us in public, and treat\nus with absolute respect when we are alone. And yet he should be always\nready to have a perfectly terrible scene, whenever we want one, and to\nbecome miserable, absolutely miserable, at a moment’s notice, and to\noverwhelm us with just reproaches in less than twenty minutes, and to be\npositively violent at the end of half an hour, and to leave us for ever\nat a quarter to eight, when we have to go and dress for dinner. And\nwhen, after that, one has seen him for really the last time, and he has\nrefused to take back the little things he has given one, and promised\nnever to communicate with one again, or to write one any foolish letters,\nhe should be perfectly broken-hearted, and telegraph to one all day long,\nand send one little notes every half-hour by a private hansom, and dine\nquite alone at the club, so that every one should know how unhappy he\nwas. And after a whole dreadful week, during which one has gone about\neverywhere with one’s husband, just to show how absolutely lonely one\nwas, he may be given a third last parting, in the evening, and then, if\nhis conduct has been quite irreproachable, and one has behaved really\nbadly to him, he should be allowed to admit that he has been entirely in\nthe wrong, and when he has admitted that, it becomes a woman’s duty to\nforgive, and one can do it all over again from the beginning, with\nvariations.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. How clever you are, my dear! You never mean a single\nword you say.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Thank you, thank you. It has been quite, quite\nentrancing. I must try and remember it all. There are such a number of\ndetails that are so very, very important.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. But you have not told us yet what the reward of the Ideal\nMan is to be.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. His reward? Oh, infinite expectation. That is quite\nenough for him.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. But men are so terribly, terribly exacting, are they\nnot?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. That makes no matter. One should never surrender.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Not even to the Ideal Man?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Certainly not to him. Unless, of course, one wants to\ngrow tired of him.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Oh! . . . yes. I see that. It is very, very helpful.\nDo you think, Mrs. Allonby, I shall ever meet the Ideal Man? Or are\nthere more than one?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. There are just four in London, Lady Stutfield.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, my dear!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [_Going over to her_.] What has happened? Do tell me.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON [_in a low voice_] I had completely forgotten that the\nAmerican young lady has been in the room all the time. I am afraid some\nof this clever talk may have shocked her a little.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, that will do her so much good!\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Let us hope she didn’t understand much. I think I had\nbetter go over and talk to her. [_Rises and goes across to_ HESTER\nWORSLEY.] Well, dear Miss Worsley. [_Sitting down beside her_.] How\nquiet you have been in your nice little corner all this time! I suppose\nyou have been reading a book? There are so many books here in the\nlibrary.\n\nHESTER. No, I have been listening to the conversation.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You mustn’t believe everything that was said, you know,\ndear.\n\nHESTER. I didn’t believe any of it\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. That is quite right, dear.\n\nHESTER. [_Continuing_.] I couldn’t believe that any women could really\nhold such views of life as I have heard to-night from some of your\nguests. [_An awkward pause_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I hear you have such pleasant society in America.\nQuite like our own in places, my son wrote to me.\n\nHESTER. There are cliques in America as elsewhere, Lady Hunstanton. But\ntrue American society consists simply of all the good women and good men\nwe have in our country.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What a sensible system, and I dare say quite pleasant\ntoo. I am afraid in England we have too many artificial social barriers.\nWe don’t see as much as we should of the middle and lower classes.\n\nHESTER. In America we have no lower classes.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Really? What a very strange arrangement!\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. What is that dreadful girl talking about?\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. She is painfully natural, is she not?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. There are a great many things you haven’t got in America,\nI am told, Miss Worsley. They say you have no ruins, and no curiosities.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [_To_ LADY STUTFIELD.] What nonsense! They have their\nmothers and their manners.\n\nHESTER. The English aristocracy supply us with our curiosities, Lady\nCaroline. They are sent over to us every summer, regularly, in the\nsteamers, and propose to us the day after they land. As for ruins, we\nare trying to build up something that will last longer than brick or\nstone. [_Gets up to take her fan from table_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What is that, dear? Ah, yes, an iron Exhibition, is it\nnot, at that place that has the curious name?\n\nHESTER. [_Standing by table_.] We are trying to build up life, Lady\nHunstanton, on a better, truer, purer basis than life rests on here.\nThis sounds strange to you all, no doubt. How could it sound other than\nstrange? You rich people in England, you don’t know how you are living.\nHow could you know? You shut out from your society the gentle and the\ngood. You laugh at the simple and the pure. Living, as you all do, on\nothers and by them, you sneer at self-sacrifice, and if you throw bread\nto the poor, it is merely to keep them quiet for a season. With all your\npomp and wealth and art you don’t know how to live—you don’t even know\nthat. You love the beauty that you can see and touch and handle, the\nbeauty that you can destroy, and do destroy, but of the unseen beauty of\nlife, of the unseen beauty of a higher life, you know nothing. You have\nlost life’s secret. Oh, your English society seems to me shallow,\nselfish, foolish. It has blinded its eyes, and stopped its ears. It\nlies like a leper in purple. It sits like a dead thing smeared with\ngold. It is all wrong, all wrong.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. I don’t think one should know of these things. It is\nnot very, very nice, is it?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Miss Worsley, I thought you liked English\nsociety so much. You were such a success in it. And you were so much\nadmired by the best people. I quite forget what Lord Henry Weston said\nof you—but it was most complimentary, and you know what an authority he\nis on beauty.\n\nHESTER. Lord Henry Weston! I remember him, Lady Hunstanton. A man with\na hideous smile and a hideous past. He is asked everywhere. No\ndinner-party is complete without him. What of those whose ruin is due to\nhim? They are outcasts. They are nameless. If you met them in the\nstreet you would turn your head away. I don’t complain of their\npunishment. Let all women who have sinned be punished.\n\n[MRS. ARBUTHNOT _enters from terrace behind in a cloak with a lace veil\nover her head_. _She hears the last words and starts_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear young lady!\n\nHESTER. It is right that they should be punished, but don’t let them be\nthe only ones to suffer. If a man and woman have sinned, let them both\ngo forth into the desert to love or loathe each other there. Let them\nboth be branded. Set a mark, if you wish, on each, but don’t punish the\none and let the other go free. Don’t have one law for men and another\nfor women. You are unjust to women in England. And till you count what\nis a shame in a woman to be an infamy in a man, you will always be\nunjust, and Right, that pillar of fire, and Wrong, that pillar of cloud,\nwill be made dim to your eyes, or be not seen at all, or if seen, not\nregarded.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Might I, dear Miss Worsley, as you are standing up, ask\nyou for my cotton that is just behind you? Thank you.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Mrs. Arbuthnot! I am so pleased you have come\nup. But I didn’t hear you announced.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, I came straight in from the terrace, Lady Hunstanton,\njust as I was. You didn’t tell me you had a party.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Not a party. Only a few guests who are staying in the\nhouse, and whom you must know. Allow me. [_Tries to help her_. _Rings\nbell_.] Caroline, this is Mrs. Arbuthnot, one of my sweetest friends.\nLady Caroline Pontefract, Lady Stutfield, Mrs. Allonby, and my young\nAmerican friend, Miss Worsley, who has just been telling us all how\nwicked we are.\n\nHESTER. I am afraid you think I spoke too strongly, Lady Hunstanton.\nBut there are some things in England—\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear young lady, there was a great deal of truth, I\ndare say, in what you said, and you looked very pretty while you said it,\nwhich is much more important, Lord Illingworth would tell us. The only\npoint where I thought you were a little hard was about Lady Caroline’s\nbrother, about poor Lord Henry. He is really such good company.\n\n[_Enter Footman_.]\n\nTake Mrs. Arbuthnot’s things.\n\n[_Exit Footman with wraps_.]\n\nHESTER. Lady Caroline, I had no idea it was your brother. I am sorry\nfor the pain I must have caused you—I—\n\nLADY CAROLINE. My dear Miss Worsley, the only part of your little\nspeech, if I may so term it, with which I thoroughly agreed, was the part\nabout my brother. Nothing that you could possibly say could be too bad\nfor him. I regard Henry as infamous, absolutely infamous. But I am\nbound to state, as you were remarking, Jane, that he is excellent\ncompany, and he has one of the best cooks in London, and after a good\ndinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON [_to_ MISS WORSLEY] Now, do come, dear, and make friends\nwith Mrs. Arbuthnot. She is one of the good, sweet, simple people you\ntold us we never admitted into society. I am sorry to say Mrs. Arbuthnot\ncomes very rarely to me. But that is not my fault.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. What a bore it is the men staying so long after dinner! I\nexpect they are saying the most dreadful things about us.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. Do you really think so?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I was sure of it.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. How very, very horrid of them! Shall we go onto the\nterrace?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, anything to get away from the dowagers and the\ndowdies. [_Rises and goes with_ LADY STUTFIELD _to door_ L.C.] We are\nonly going to look at the stars, Lady Hunstanton.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You will find a great many, dear, a great many. But\ndon’t catch cold. [_To_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] We shall all miss Gerald so\nmuch, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. But has Lord Illingworth really offered to make Gerald\nhis secretary?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, yes! He has been most charming about it. He has\nthe highest possible opinion of your boy. You don’t know Lord\nIllingworth, I believe, dear.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have never met him.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You know him by name, no doubt?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am afraid I don’t. I live so much out of the world,\nand see so few people. I remember hearing years ago of an old Lord\nIllingworth who lived in Yorkshire, I think.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, yes. That would be the last Earl but one. He was\na very curious man. He wanted to marry beneath him. Or wouldn’t, I\nbelieve. There was some scandal about it. The present Lord Illingworth\nis quite different. He is very distinguished. He does—well, he does\nnothing, which I am afraid our pretty American visitor here thinks very\nwrong of anybody, and I don’t know that he cares much for the subjects in\nwhich you are so interested, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot. Do you think,\nCaroline, that Lord Illingworth is interested in the Housing of the Poor?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I should fancy not at all, Jane.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. We all have our different tastes, have we not? But\nLord Illingworth has a very high position, and there is nothing he\ncouldn’t get if he chose to ask for it. Of course, he is comparatively a\nyoung man still, and he has only come to his title within—how long\nexactly is it, Caroline, since Lord Illingworth succeeded?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. About four years, I think, Jane. I know it was the same\nyear in which my brother had his last exposure in the evening newspapers.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I remember. That would be about four years ago.\nOf course, there were a great many people between the present Lord\nIllingworth and the title, Mrs. Arbuthnot. There was—who was there,\nCaroline?\n\nLADY CAROLINE. There was poor Margaret’s baby. You remember how anxious\nshe was to have a boy, and it was a boy, but it died, and her husband\ndied shortly afterwards, and she married almost immediately one of Lord\nAscot’s sons, who, I am told, beats her.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, that is in the family, dear, that is in the family.\nAnd there was also, I remember, a clergyman who wanted to be a lunatic,\nor a lunatic who wanted to be a clergyman, I forget which, but I know the\nCourt of Chancery investigated the matter, and decided that he was quite\nsane. And I saw him afterwards at poor Lord Plumstead’s with straws in\nhis hair, or something very odd about him. I can’t recall what. I often\nregret, Lady Caroline, that dear Lady Cecilia never lived to see her son\nget the title.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lady Cecilia?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Lord Illingworth’s mother, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, was one\nof the Duchess of Jerningham’s pretty daughters, and she married Sir\nThomas Harford, who wasn’t considered a very good match for her at the\ntime, though he was said to be the handsomest man in London. I knew them\nall quite intimately, and both the sons, Arthur and George.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was the eldest son who succeeded, of course, Lady\nHunstanton?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. No, dear, he was killed in the hunting field. Or was\nit fishing, Caroline? I forget. But George came in for everything. I\nalways tell him that no younger son has ever had such good luck as he has\nhad.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lady Hunstanton, I want to speak to Gerald at once.\nMight I see him? Can he be sent for?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Certainly, dear. I will send one of the servants into\nthe dining-room to fetch him. I don’t know what keeps the gentlemen so\nlong. [_Rings bell_.] When I knew Lord Illingworth first as plain\nGeorge Harford, he was simply a very brilliant young man about town, with\nnot a penny of money except what poor dear Lady Cecilia gave him. She\nwas quite devoted to him. Chiefly, I fancy, because he was on bad terms\nwith his father. Oh, here is the dear Archdeacon. [_To Servant_.] It\ndoesn’t matter.\n\n[_Enter_ SIR JOHN _and_ DOCTOR DAUBENY. SIR JOHN _goes over to_ LADY\nSTUTFIELD, DOCTOR DAUBENY _to_ LADY HUNSTANTON.]\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. Lord Illingworth has been most entertaining. I have\nnever enjoyed myself more. [_Sees_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Ah, Mrs. Arbuthnot.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_To_ DOCTOR BAUBENY.] You see I have got Mrs.\nArbuthnot to come to me at last.\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. That is a great honour, Lady Hunstanton. Mrs. Daubeny\nwill be quite jealous of you.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I am so sorry Mrs. Daubeny could not come with you\nto-night. Headache as usual, I suppose.\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. Yes, Lady Hunstanton; a perfect martyr. But she is\nhappiest alone. She is happiest alone.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. [_To her husband_.] John! [SIR JOHN _goes over to his\nwife_. DOCTOR BAUBENY _talks to_ LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.]\n\n[MRS. ARBUTHNOT watches LORD ILLINGWORTH the whole time. He has passed\nacross the room without noticing her, and approaches MRS. ALLONBY, who\nwith LADY STUTFIELD is standing by the door looking on to the terrace.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. How is the most charming woman in the world?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [Taking LADY STUTFIELD by the hand.] We are both quite\nwell, thank you, Lord Illingworth. But what a short time you have been\nin the dining-room! It seems as if we had only just left.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I was bored to death. Never opened my lips the whole\ntime. Absolutely longing to come in to you.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. You should have. The American girl has been giving us a\nlecture.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Really? All Americans lecture, I believe. I suppose\nit is something in their climate. What did she lecture about?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Oh, Puritanism, of course.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I am going to convert her, am I not? How long do you\ngive me?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. A week.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. A week is more than enough.\n\n[_Enter_ GERALD _and_ LORD ALFRED.]\n\nGERALD. [_Going to_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Dear mother!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, I don’t feel at all well. See me home, Gerald.\nI shouldn’t have come.\n\nGERALD. I am so sorry, mother. Certainly. But you must know Lord\nIllingworth first. [_Goes across room_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Not to-night, Gerald.\n\nGERALD. Lord Illingworth, I want you so much to know my mother.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. With the greatest pleasure. [_To_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\nI’ll be back in a moment. People’s mothers always bore me to death. All\nwomen become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. No man does. That is his.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What a delightful mood you are in to-night! [_Turns\nround and goes across with_ GERALD _to_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT. _When he sees\nher_, _he starts back in wonder_. _Then slowly his eyes turn towards_\nGERALD.]\n\nGERALD. Mother, this is Lord Illingworth, who has offered to take me as\nhis private secretary. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _bows coldly_.] It is a\nwonderful opening for me, isn’t it? I hope he won’t be disappointed in\nme, that is all. You’ll thank Lord Illingworth, mother, won’t you?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth in very good, I am sure, to interest\nhimself in you for the moment.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Putting his hand on_ GERALD’S _shoulder_.] Oh,\nGerald and I are great friends already, Mrs . . . Arbuthnot.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. There can be nothing in common between you and my son,\nLord Illingworth.\n\nGERALD. Dear mother, how can you say so? Of course Lord Illingworth is\nawfully clever and that sort of thing. There is nothing Lord Illingworth\ndoesn’t know.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear boy!\n\nGERALD. He knows more about life than any one I have ever met. I feel\nan awful duffer when I am with you, Lord Illingworth. Of course, I have\nhad so few advantages. I have not been to Eton or Oxford like other\nchaps. But Lord Illingworth doesn’t seem to mind that. He has been\nawfully good to me, mother.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth may change his mind. He may not really\nwant you as his secretary.\n\nGERALD. Mother!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You must remember, as you said yourself, you have had so\nfew advantages.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth, I want to speak to you for a moment. Do\ncome over.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Will you excuse me, Mrs. Arbuthnot? Now, don’t let\nyour charming mother make any more difficulties, Gerald. The thing is\nquite settled, isn’t it?\n\nGERALD. I hope so. [LORD ILLINGWORTH _goes across to_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I thought you were never going to leave the lady in black\nvelvet.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. She is excessively handsome. [_Looks at_ MRS.\nARBUTHNOT.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Caroline, shall we all make a move to the music-room?\nMiss Worsley is going to play. You’ll come too, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot,\nwon’t you? You don’t know what a treat is in store for you. [_To_\nDOCTOR BAUBENY.] I must really take Miss Worsley down some afternoon to\nthe rectory. I should so much like dear Mrs. Daubeny to hear her on the\nviolin. Ah, I forgot. Dear Mrs. Daubeny’s hearing is a little\ndefective, is it not?\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. Her deafness is a great privation to her. She can’t\neven hear my sermons now. She reads them at home. But she has many\nresources in herself, many resources.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. She reads a good deal, I suppose?\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. Just the very largest print. The eyesight is rapidly\ngoing. But she’s never morbid, never morbid.\n\nGERALD. [_To_ LORD ILLINGWORTH.] Do speak to my mother, Lord\nIllingworth, before you go into the music-room. She seems to think,\nsomehow, you don’t mean what you said to me.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Aren’t you coming?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. In a few moments. Lady Hunstanton, if Mrs. Arbuthnot\nwould allow me, I would like to say a few words to her, and we will join\nyou later on.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, of course. You will have a great deal to say to\nher, and she will have a great deal to thank you for. It is not every\nson who gets such an offer, Mrs. Arbuthnot. But I know you appreciate\nthat, dear.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. John!\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Now, don’t keep Mrs. Arbuthnot too long, Lord\nIllingworth. We can’t spare her.\n\n[_Exit following the other guests_. _Sound of violin heard from\nmusic-room_.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. So that is our son, Rachel! Well, I am very proud of\nhim. He in a Harford, every inch of him. By the way, why Arbuthnot,\nRachel?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. One name is as good as another, when one has no right to\nany name.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose so—but why Gerald?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. After a man whose heart I broke—after my father.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Well, Rachel, what in over is over. All I have got to\nsay now in that I am very, very much pleased with our boy. The world\nwill know him merely as my private secretary, but to me he will be\nsomething very near, and very dear. It is a curious thing, Rachel; my\nlife seemed to be quite complete. It was not so. It lacked something,\nit lacked a son. I have found my son now, I am glad I have found him.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You have no right to claim him, or the smallest part of\nhim. The boy is entirely mine, and shall remain mine.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, you have had him to yourself for over\ntwenty years. Why not let me have him for a little now? He is quite as\nmuch mine as yours.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Are you talking of the child you abandoned? Of the\nchild who, as far as you are concerned, might have died of hunger and of\nwant?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You forget, Rachel, it was you who left me. It was\nnot I who left you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I left you because you refused to give the child a name.\nBefore my son was born, I implored you to marry me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I had no expectations then. And besides, Rachel, I\nwasn’t much older than you were. I was only twenty-two. I was\ntwenty-one, I believe, when the whole thing began in your father’s\ngarden.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. When a man is old enough to do wrong he should be old\nenough to do right also.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, intellectual generalities are always\ninteresting, but generalities in morals mean absolutely nothing. As for\nsaying I left our child to starve, that, of course, is untrue and silly.\nMy mother offered you six hundred a year. But you wouldn’t take\nanything. You simply disappeared, and carried the child away with you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I wouldn’t have accepted a penny from her. Your father\nwas different. He told you, in my presence, when we were in Paris, that\nit was your duty to marry me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, duty is what one expects from others, it is not\nwhat one does oneself. Of course, I was influenced by my mother. Every\nman is when he is young.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am glad to hear you say so. Gerald shall certainly\nnot go away with you.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What nonsense, Rachel!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Do you think I would allow my son—\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. _Our_ son.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. My son [LORD ILLINGWORTH _shrugs his shoulders_]—to go\naway with the man who spoiled my youth, who ruined my life, who has\ntainted every moment of my days? You don’t realise what my past has been\nin suffering and in shame.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, I must candidly say that I think\nGerald’s future considerably more important than your past.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald cannot separate his future from my past.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. That is exactly what he should do. That is exactly\nwhat you should help him to do. What a typical woman you are! You talk\nsentimentally, and you are thoroughly selfish the whole time. But don’t\nlet us have a scene. Rachel, I want you to look at this matter from the\ncommon-sense point of view, from the point of view of what is best for\nour son, leaving you and me out of the question. What is our son at\npresent? An underpaid clerk in a small Provincial Bank in a third-rate\nEnglish town. If you imagine he is quite happy in such a position, you\nare mistaken. He is thoroughly discontented.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He was not discontented till he met you. You have made\nhim so.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Of course, I made him so. Discontent is the first\nstep in the progress of a man or a nation. But I did not leave him with\na mere longing for things he could not get. No, I made him a charming\noffer. He jumped at it, I need hardly say. Any young man would. And\nnow, simply because it turns out that I am the boy’s own father and he my\nown son, you propose practically to ruin his career. That is to say, if\nI were a perfect stranger, you would allow Gerald to go away with me, but\nas he is my own flesh and blood you won’t. How utterly illogical you\nare!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not allow him to go.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. How can you prevent it? What excuse can you give to\nhim for making him decline such an offer as mine? I won’t tell him in\nwhat relations I stand to him, I need hardly say. But you daren’t tell\nhim. You know that. Look how you have brought him up.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have brought him up to be a good man.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite so. And what is the result? You have educated\nhim to be your judge if he ever finds you out. And a bitter, an unjust\njudge he will be to you. Don’t be deceived, Rachel. Children begin by\nloving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do\nthey forgive them.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. George, don’t take my son away from me. I have had\ntwenty years of sorrow, and I have only had one thing to love me, only\none thing to love. You have had a life of joy, and pleasure, and\nsuccess. You have been quite happy, you have never thought of us. There\nwas no reason, according to your views of life, why you should have\nremembered us at all. Your meeting us was a mere accident, a horrible\naccident. Forget it. Don’t come now, and rob me of . . . of all I have\nin the whole world. You are so rich in other things. Leave me the\nlittle vineyard of my life; leave me the walled-in garden and the well of\nwater; the ewe-lamb God sent me, in pity or in wrath, oh! leave me that.\nGeorge, don’t take Gerald from me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, at the present moment you are not necessary to\nGerald’s career; I am. There is nothing more to be said on the subject.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not let him go.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Here is Gerald. He has a right to decide for himself.\n\n[_Enter_ GERALD.]\n\nGERALD. Well, dear mother, I hope you have settled it all with Lord\nIllingworth?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have not, Gerald.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother seems not to like your coming with me, for\nsome reason.\n\nGERALD. Why, mother?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I thought you were quite happy here with me, Gerald. I\ndidn’t know you were so anxious to leave me.\n\nGERALD. Mother, how can you talk like that? Of course I have been quite\nhappy with you. But a man can’t stay always with his mother. No chap\ndoes. I want to make myself a position, to do something. I thought you\nwould have been proud to see me Lord Illingworth’s secretary.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not think you would be suitable as a private\nsecretary to Lord Illingworth. You have no qualifications.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t wish to seem to interfere for a moment, Mrs.\nArbuthnot, but as far as your last objection is concerned, I surely am\nthe best judge. And I can only tell you that your son has all the\nqualifications I had hoped for. He has more, in fact, than I had even\nthought of. Far more. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _remains silent_.] Have you any\nother reason, Mrs. Arbuthnot, why you don’t wish your son to accept this\npost?\n\nGERALD. Have you, mother? Do answer.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. If you have, Mrs. Arbuthnot, pray, pray say it. We\nare quite by ourselves here. Whatever it is, I need not say I will not\nrepeat it.\n\nGERALD. Mother?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. If you would like to be alone with your son, I will\nleave you. You may have some other reason you don’t wish me to hear.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have no other reason.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Then, my dear boy, we may look on the thing as\nsettled. Come, you and I will smoke a cigarette on the terrace together.\nAnd Mrs. Arbuthnot, pray let me tell you, that I think you have acted\nvery, very wisely.\n\n[_Exit with_ GERALD. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _is left alone_. _She stands\nimmobile with a look of unutterable sorrow on her face_.]\n\n ACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n _The Picture Gallery at Hunstanton_. _Door at back leading on to\n terrace_.\n\n[LORD ILLINGWORTH _and_ GERALD, R.C. LORD ILLINGWORTH _lolling on a\nsofa_. GERALD _in a chair_.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Thoroughly sensible woman, your mother, Gerald. I\nknew she would come round in the end.\n\nGERALD. My mother is awfully conscientious, Lord Illingworth, and I know\nshe doesn’t think I am educated enough to be your secretary. She is\nperfectly right, too. I was fearfully idle when I was at school, and I\ncouldn’t pass an examination now to save my life.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Gerald, examinations are of no value\nwhatsoever. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is\nnot a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.\n\nGERALD. But I am so ignorant of the world, Lord Illingworth.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Don’t be afraid, Gerald. Remember that you’ve got on\nyour side the most wonderful thing in the world—youth! There is nothing\nlike youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to Life. The old are in\nlife’s lumber-room. But youth is the Lord of Life. Youth has a kingdom\nwaiting for it. Every one is born a king, and most people die in exile,\nlike most kings. To win back my youth, Gerald, there is nothing I\nwouldn’t do—except take exercise, get up early, or be a useful member of\nthe community.\n\nGERALD. But you don’t call yourself old, Lord Illingworth?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I am old enough to be your father, Gerald.\n\nGERALD. I don’t remember my father; he died years ago.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. So Lady Hunstanton told me.\n\nGERALD. It is very curious, my mother never talks to me about my father.\nI sometimes think she must have married beneath her.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Winces slightly_.] Really? [_Goes over and puts\nhis hand on_ GERALD’S _shoulder_.] You have missed not having a father,\nI suppose, Gerald?\n\nGERALD. Oh, no; my mother has been so good to me. No one ever had such\na mother as I have had.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I am quite sure of that. Still I should imagine that\nmost mothers don’t quite understand their sons. Don’t realise, I mean,\nthat a son has ambitions, a desire to see life, to make himself a name.\nAfter all, Gerald, you couldn’t be expected to pass all your life in such\na hole as Wrockley, could you?\n\nGERALD. Oh, no! It would be dreadful!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. A mother’s love is very touching, of course, but it is\noften curiously selfish. I mean, there is a good deal of selfishness in\nit.\n\nGERALD. [_Slowly_.] I suppose there is.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother is a thoroughly good woman. But good\nwomen have such limited views of life, their horizon is so small, their\ninterests are so petty, aren’t they?\n\nGERALD. They are awfully interested, certainly, in things we don’t care\nmuch about.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose your mother is very religious, and that sort\nof thing.\n\nGERALD. Oh, yes, she’s always going to church.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Ah! she is not modern, and to be modern is the only\nthing worth being nowadays. You want to be modern, don’t you, Gerald?\nYou want to know life as it really is. Not to be put of with any\nold-fashioned theories about life. Well, what you have to do at present\nis simply to fit yourself for the best society. A man who can dominate a\nLondon dinner-table can dominate the world. The future belongs to the\ndandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.\n\nGERALD. I should like to wear nice things awfully, but I have always\nbeen told that a man should not think too much about his clothes.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. People nowadays are so absolutely superficial that\nthey don’t understand the philosophy of the superficial. By the way,\nGerald, you should learn how to tie your tie better. Sentiment is all\nvery well for the button-hole. But the essential thing for a necktie is\nstyle. A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.\n\nGERALD. [_Laughing_.] I might be able to learn how to tie a tie, Lord\nIllingworth, but I should never be able to talk as you do. I don’t know\nhow to talk.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! talk to every woman as if you loved her, and to\nevery man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you\nwill have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact.\n\nGERALD. But it is very difficult to get into society isn’t it?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. To get into the best society, nowadays, one has either\nto feed people, amuse people, or shock people—that is all!\n\nGERALD. I suppose society is wonderfully delightful!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it\nsimply a tragedy. Society is a necessary thing. No man has any real\nsuccess in this world unless he has got women to back him, and women rule\nsociety. If you have not got women on your side you are quite over. You\nmight just as well be a barrister, or a stockbroker, or a journalist at\nonce.\n\nGERALD. It is very difficult to understand women, is it not?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You should never try to understand them. Women are\npictures. Men are problems. If you want to know what a woman really\nmeans—which, by the way, is always a dangerous thing to do—look at her,\ndon’t listen to her.\n\nGERALD. But women are awfully clever, aren’t they?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always tell them so. But, to the\nphilosopher, my dear Gerald, women represent the triumph of matter over\nmind—just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.\n\nGERALD. How then can women have so much power as you say they have?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. The history of women is the history of the worst form\nof tyranny the world has ever known. The tyranny of the weak over the\nstrong. It is the only tyranny that lasts.\n\nGERALD. But haven’t women got a refining influence?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Nothing refines but the intellect.\n\nGERALD. Still, there are many different kinds of women, aren’t there?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Only two kinds in society: the plain and the coloured.\n\nGERALD. But there are good women in society, aren’t there?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Far too many.\n\nGERALD. But do you think women shouldn’t be good?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never tell them so, they’d all become good\nat once. Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel,\nand usually in wild revolt against herself.\n\nGERALD. You have never been married, Lord Illingworth, have you?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Men marry because they are tired; women because they\nare curious. Both are disappointed.\n\nGERALD. But don’t you think one can be happy when one is married?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Perfectly happy. But the happiness of a married man,\nmy dear Gerald, depends on the people he has not married.\n\nGERALD. But if one is in love?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always be in love. That is the reason one\nshould never marry.\n\nGERALD. Love is a very wonderful thing, isn’t it?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. When one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself.\nAnd one ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a\nromance. But a really _grande passion_ is comparatively rare nowadays.\nIt is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one\nuse of the idle classes in a country, and the only possible explanation\nof us Harfords.\n\nGERALD. Harfords, Lord Illingworth?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. That is my family name. You should study the Peerage,\nGerald. It is the one book a young man about town should know\nthoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever\ndone. And now, Gerald, you are going into a perfectly new life with me,\nand I want you to know how to live. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _appears on terrace\nbehind_.] For the world has been made by fools that wise men should live\nin it!\n\n[_Enter_ L.C. LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ DR. DAUBENY.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! here you are, dear Lord Illingworth. Well, I\nsuppose you have been telling our young friend, Gerald, what his new\nduties are to be, and giving him a great deal of good advice over a\npleasant cigarette.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I have been giving him the best of advice, Lady\nHunstanton, and the best of cigarettes.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I am so sorry I was not here to listen to you, but I\nsuppose I am too old now to learn. Except from you, dear Archdeacon,\nwhen you are in your nice pulpit. But then I always know what you are\ngoing to say, so I don’t feel alarmed. [_Sees_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Ah!\ndear Mrs. Arbuthnot, do come and join us. Come, dear. [_Enter_ MRS.\nARBUTHNOT.] Gerald has been having such a long talk with Lord\nIllingworth; I am sure you must feel very much flattered at the pleasant\nway in which everything has turned out for him. Let us sit down. [_They\nsit down_.] And how is your beautiful embroidery going on?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am always at work, Lady Hunstanton.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Mrs. Daubeny embroiders a little, too, doesn’t she?\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. She was very deft with her needle once, quite a Dorcas.\nBut the gout has crippled her fingers a good deal. She has not touched\nthe tambour frame for nine or ten years. But she has many other\namusements. She is very much interested in her own health.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! that is always a nice distraction, in it not? Now,\nwhat are you talking about, Lord Illingworth? Do tell us.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I was on the point of explaining to Gerald that the\nworld has always laughed at its own tragedies, that being the only way in\nwhich it has been able to bear them. And that, consequently, whatever\nthe world has treated seriously belongs to the comedy side of things.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Now I am quite out of my depth. I usually am when Lord\nIllingworth says anything. And the Humane Society is most careless.\nThey never rescue me. I am left to sink. I have a dim idea, dear Lord\nIllingworth, that you are always on the side of the sinners, and I know I\nalways try to be on the side of the saints, but that is as far as I get.\nAnd after all, it may be merely the fancy of a drowning person.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. The only difference between the saint and the sinner\nis that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! that quite does for me. I haven’t a word to say.\nYou and I, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, are behind the age. We can’t follow Lord\nIllingworth. Too much care was taken with our education, I am afraid.\nTo have been well brought up is a great drawback nowadays. It shuts one\nout from so much.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I should be sorry to follow Lord Illingworth in any of\nhis opinions.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You are quite right, dear.\n\n[GERALD _shrugs his shoulders and looks irritably over at his mother_.\n_Enter_ LADY CAROLINE.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Jane, have you seen John anywhere?\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. You needn’t be anxious about him, dear. He is with\nLady Stutfield; I saw them some time ago, in the Yellow Drawing-room.\nThey seem quite happy together. You are not going, Caroline? Pray sit\ndown.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. I think I had better look after John.\n\n[_Exit_ LADY CAROLINE.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. It doesn’t do to pay men so much attention. And\nCaroline has really nothing to be anxious about. Lady Stutfield is very\nsympathetic. She is just as sympathetic about one thing as she is about\nanother. A beautiful nature.\n\n[_Enter_ SIR JOHN _and_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nAh! here is Sir John! And with Mrs. Allonby too! I suppose it was Mrs.\nAllonby I saw him with. Sir John, Caroline has been looking everywhere\nfor you.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. We have been waiting for her in the Music-room, dear Lady\nHunstanton.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! the Music-room, of course. I thought it was the\nYellow Drawing-room, my memory is getting so defective. [_To the_\nARCHDEACON.] Mrs. Daubeny has a wonderful memory, hasn’t she?\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. She used to be quite remarkable for her memory, but\nsince her last attack she recalls chiefly the events of her early\nchildhood. But she finds great pleasure in such retrospections, great\npleasure.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY STUTFIELD _and_ MR. KELVIL.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! dear Lady Stutfield! and what has Mr. Kelvil been\ntalking to you about?\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. About Bimetallism, as well as I remember.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Bimetallism! Is that quite a nice subject? However, I\nknow people discuss everything very freely nowadays. What did Sir John\ntalk to you about, dear Mrs. Allonby?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. About Patagonia.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Really? What a remote topic! But very improving, I\nhave no doubt.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. He has been most interesting on the subject of Patagonia.\nSavages seem to have quite the same views as cultured people on almost\nall subjects. They are excessively advanced.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What do they do?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Apparently everything.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, it is very gratifying, dear Archdeacon, is it\nnot, to find that Human Nature is permanently one.—On the whole, the\nworld is the same world, is it not?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. The world is simply divided into two classes—those who\nbelieve the incredible, like the public—and those who do the improbable—\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Like yourself?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Yes; I am always astonishing myself. It is the only\nthing that makes life worth living.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. And what have you been doing lately that astonishes you?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I have been discovering all kinds of beautiful\nqualities in my own nature.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah! don’t become quite perfect all at once. Do it\ngradually!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t intend to grow perfect at all. At least, I\nhope I shan’t. It would be most inconvenient. Women love us for our\ndefects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything,\neven our gigantic intellects.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It is premature to ask us to forgive analysis. We forgive\nadoration; that is quite as much as should be expected from us.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD ALFRED. _He joins_ LADY STUTFIELD.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! we women should forgive everything, shouldn’t we,\ndear Mrs. Arbuthnot? I am sure you agree with me in that.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not, Lady Hunstanton. I think there are many\nthings women should never forgive.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. What sort of things?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. The ruin of another woman’s life.\n\n[_Moves slowly away to back of stage_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! those things are very sad, no doubt, but I believe\nthere are admirable homes where people of that kind are looked after and\nreformed, and I think on the whole that the secret of life is to take\nthings very, very easily.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. The secret of life is never to have an emotion that is\nunbecoming.\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. The secret of life is to appreciate the pleasure of\nbeing terribly, terribly deceived.\n\nKELVIL. The secret of life is to resist temptation, Lady Stutfield.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. There is no secret of life. Life’s aim, if it has\none, is simply to be always looking for temptations. There are not\nnearly enough. I sometimes pass a whole day without coming across a\nsingle one. It is quite dreadful. It makes one so nervous about the\nfuture.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Shakes her fan at him_.] I don’t know how it is,\ndear Lord Illingworth, but everything you have said to-day seems to me\nexcessively immoral. It has been most interesting, listening to you.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. All thought is immoral. Its very essence is\ndestruction. If you think of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives\nbeing thought of.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t understand a word, Lord Illingworth. But I\nhave no doubt it is all quite true. Personally, I have very little to\nreproach myself with, on the score of thinking. I don’t believe in women\nthinking too much. Women should think in moderation, as they should do\nall things in moderation.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Moderation is a fatal thing, Lady Hunstanton. Nothing\nsucceeds like excess.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I hope I shall remember that. It sounds an admirable\nmaxim. But I’m beginning to forget everything. It’s a great misfortune.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of your most fascinating qualities, Lady\nHunstanton. No woman should have a memory. Memory in a woman is the\nbeginning of dowdiness. One can always tell from a woman’s bonnet\nwhether she has got a memory or not.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. How charming you are, dear Lord Illingworth. You\nalways find out that one’s most glaring fault is one’s most important\nvirtue. You have the most comforting views of life.\n\n[_Enter_ FARQUHAR.]\n\nFARQUHAR. Doctor Daubeny’s carriage!\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Archdeacon! It is only half-past ten.\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. [_Rising_.] I am afraid I must go, Lady Hunstanton.\nTuesday is always one of Mrs. Daubeny’s bad nights.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Rising_.] Well, I won’t keep you from her. [_Goes\nwith him towards door_.] I have told Farquhar to put a brace of\npartridge into the carriage. Mrs. Daubeny may fancy them.\n\nTHE ARCHDEACON. It is very kind of you, but Mrs. Daubeny never touches\nsolids now. Lives entirely on jellies. But she is wonderfully cheerful,\nwonderfully cheerful. She has nothing to complain of.\n\n[_Exit with_ LADY HUNSTANTON.]\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [_Goes over to_ LORD ILLINGWORTH.] There is a beautiful\nmoon to-night.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Let us go and look at it. To look at anything that is\ninconstant is charming nowadays.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. You have your looking-glass.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is unkind. It merely shows me my wrinkles.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Mine is better behaved. It never tells me the truth.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Then it is in love with you.\n\n[_Exeunt_ SIR JOHN, LADY STUTFIELD, MR. KELVIL _and_ LORD ALFRED.]\n\nGERALD. [_To_ LORD ILLINGWORTH] May I come too?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Do, my dear boy. [_Moves towards with_ MRS. ALLONBY\n_and_ GERALD.]\n\n[LADY CAROLINE _enters_, _looks rapidly round and goes off in opposite\ndirection to that taken by_ SIR JOHN _and_ LADY STUTFIELD.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald!\n\nGERALD. What, mother!\n\n[_Exit_ LORD ILLINGWORTH _with_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is getting late. Let us go home.\n\nGERALD. My dear mother. Do let us wait a little longer. Lord\nIllingworth is so delightful, and, by the way, mother, I have a great\nsurprise for you. We are starting for India at the end of this month.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let us go home.\n\nGERALD. If you really want to, of course, mother, but I must bid\ngood-bye to Lord Illingworth first. I’ll be back in five minutes.\n[_Exit_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let him leave me if he chooses, but not with him—not\nwith him! I couldn’t bear it. [_Walks up and down_.]\n\n[_Enter_ HESTER.]\n\nHESTER. What a lovely night it is, Mrs. Arbuthnot.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Is it?\n\nHESTER. Mrs. Arbuthnot, I wish you would let us be friends. You are so\ndifferent from the other women here. When you came into the Drawing-room\nthis evening, somehow you brought with you a sense of what is good and\npure in life. I had been foolish. There are things that are right to\nsay, but that may be said at the wrong time and to the wrong people.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I heard what you said. I agree with it, Miss Worsley.\n\nHESTER. I didn’t know you had heard it. But I knew you would agree with\nme. A woman who has sinned should be punished, shouldn’t she?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.\n\nHESTER. She shouldn’t be allowed to come into the society of good men\nand women?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. She should not.\n\nHESTER. And the man should be punished in the same way?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. In the same way. And the children, if there are\nchildren, in the same way also?\n\nHESTER. Yes, it is right that the sins of the parents should be visited\non the children. It is a just law. It is God’s law.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is one of God’s terrible laws.\n\n[_Moves away to fireplace_.]\n\nHESTER. You are distressed about your son leaving you, Mrs. Arbuthnot?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.\n\nHESTER. Do you like him going away with Lord Illingworth? Of course\nthere is position, no doubt, and money, but position and money are not\neverything, are they?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. They are nothing; they bring misery.\n\nHESTER. Then why do you let your son go with him?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He wishes it himself.\n\nHESTER. But if you asked him he would stay, would he not?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He has set his heart on going.\n\nHESTER. He couldn’t refuse you anything. He loves you too much. Ask\nhim to stay. Let me send him in to you. He is on the terrace at this\nmoment with Lord Illingworth. I heard them laughing together as I passed\nthrough the Music-room.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t trouble, Miss Worsley, I can wait. It is of no\nconsequence.\n\nHESTER. No, I’ll tell him you want him. Do—do ask him to stay. [_Exit_\nHESTER.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He won’t come—I know he won’t come.\n\n[Enter LADY CAROLINE. _She looks round anxiously_. _Enter_ GERALD.]\n\nLADY CAROLINE. Mr. Arbuthnot, may I ask you is Sir John anywhere on the\nterrace?\n\nGERALD. No, Lady Caroline, he is not on the terrace.\n\nLADY CAROLINE. It is very curious. It is time for him to retire.\n\n[_Exit_ LADY CAROLINE.]\n\nGERALD. Dear mother, I am afraid I kept you waiting. I forgot all about\nit. I am so happy to-night, mother; I have never been so happy.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. At the prospect of going away?\n\nGERALD. Don’t put it like that, mother. Of course I am sorry to leave\nyou. Why, you are the best mother in the whole world. But after all, as\nLord Illingworth says, it is impossible to live in such a place as\nWrockley. You don’t mind it. But I’m ambitions; I want something more\nthan that. I want to have a career. I want to do something that will\nmake you proud of me, and Lord Illingworth is going to help me. He is\ngoing to do everything for me.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, don’t go away with Lord Illingworth. I implore\nyou not to. Gerald, I beg you!\n\nGERALD. Mother, how changeable you are! You don’t seem to know your own\nmind for a single moment. An hour and a half ago in the Drawing-room you\nagreed to the whole thing; now you turn round and make objections, and\ntry to force me to give up my one chance in life. Yes, my one chance.\nYou don’t suppose that men like Lord Illingworth are to be found every\nday, do you, mother? It is very strange that when I have had such a\nwonderful piece of good luck, the one person to put difficulties in my\nway should be my own mother. Besides, you know, mother, I love Hester\nWorsley. Who could help loving her? I love her more than I have ever\ntold you, far more. And if I had a position, if I had prospects, I\ncould—I could ask her to—Don’t you understand now, mother, what it means\nto me to be Lord Illingworth’s secretary? To start like that is to find\na career ready for one—before one—waiting for one. If I were Lord\nIllingworth’s secretary I could ask Hester to be my wife. As a wretched\nbank clerk with a hundred a year it would be an impertinence.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I fear you need have no hopes of Miss Worsley. I know\nher views on life. She has just told them to me. [_A pause_.]\n\nGERALD. Then I have my ambition left, at any rate. That is something—I\nam glad I have that! You have always tried to crush my ambition,\nmother—haven’t you? You have told me that the world is a wicked place,\nthat success is not worth having, that society is shallow, and all that\nsort of thing—well, I don’t believe it, mother. I think the world must\nbe delightful. I think society must be exquisite. I think success is a\nthing worth having. You have been wrong in all that you taught me,\nmother, quite wrong. Lord Illingworth is a successful man. He is a\nfashionable man. He is a man who lives in the world and for it. Well, I\nwould give anything to be just like Lord Illingworth.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I would sooner see you dead.\n\nGERALD. Mother, what is your objection to Lord Illingworth? Tell\nme—tell me right out. What is it?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He is a bad man.\n\nGERALD. In what way bad? I don’t understand what you mean.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will tell you.\n\nGERALD. I suppose you think him bad, because he doesn’t believe the same\nthings as you do. Well, men are different from women, mother. It is\nnatural that they should have different views.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is not what Lord Illingworth believes, or what he\ndoes not believe, that makes him bad. It is what he is.\n\nGERALD. Mother, is it something you know of him? Something you actually\nknow?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is something I know.\n\nGERALD. Something you are quite sure of?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Quite sure of.\n\nGERALD. How long have you known it?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. For twenty years.\n\nGERALD. Is it fair to go back twenty years in any man’s career? And\nwhat have you or I to do with Lord Illingworth’s early life? What\nbusiness is it of ours?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. What this man has been, he is now, and will be always.\n\nGERALD. Mother, tell me what Lord Illingworth did? If he did anything\nshameful, I will not go away with him. Surely you know me well enough\nfor that?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, come near to me. Quite close to me, as you used\nto do when you were a little boy, when you were mother’s own boy.\n[GERALD _sits down betide his mother_. _She runs her fingers through his\nhair_, _and strokes his hands_.] Gerald, there was a girl once, she was\nvery young, she was little over eighteen at the time. George\nHarford—that was Lord Illingworth’s name then—George Harford met her.\nShe knew nothing about life. He—knew everything. He made this girl love\nhim. He made her love him so much that she left her father’s house with\nhim one morning. She loved him so much, and he had promised to marry\nher! He had solemnly promised to marry her, and she had believed him.\nShe was very young, and—and ignorant of what life really is. But he put\nthe marriage off from week to week, and month to month.—She trusted in\nhim all the while. She loved him.—Before her child was born—for she had\na child—she implored him for the child’s sake to marry her, that the\nchild might have a name, that her sin might not be visited on the child,\nwho was innocent. He refused. After the child was born she left him,\ntaking the child away, and her life was ruined, and her soul ruined, and\nall that was sweet, and good, and pure in her ruined also. She suffered\nterribly—she suffers now. She will always suffer. For her there is no\njoy, no peace, no atonement. She is a woman who drags a chain like a\nguilty thing. She is a woman who wears a mask, like a thing that is a\nleper. The fire cannot purify her. The waters cannot quench her\nanguish. Nothing can heal her! no anodyne can give her sleep! no poppies\nforgetfulness! She is lost! She is a lost soul!—That is why I call Lord\nIllingworth a bad man. That is why I don’t want my boy to be with him.\n\nGERALD. My dear mother, it all sounds very tragic, of course. But I\ndare say the girl was just as much to blame as Lord Illingworth\nwas.—After all, would a really nice girl, a girl with any nice feelings\nat all, go away from her home with a man to whom she was not married, and\nlive with him as his wife? No nice girl would.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_After a pause_.] Gerald, I withdraw all my\nobjections. You are at liberty to go away with Lord Illingworth, when\nand where you choose.\n\nGERALD. Dear mother, I knew you wouldn’t stand in my way. You are the\nbest woman God ever made. And, as for Lord Illingworth, I don’t believe\nhe is capable of anything infamous or base. I can’t believe it of him—I\ncan’t.\n\nHESTER. [_Outside_.] Let me go! Let me go! [_Enter_ HESTER _in\nterror_, _and rushes over to_ GERALD _and flings herself in his arms_.]\n\nHESTER. Oh! save me—save me from him!\n\nGERALD. From whom?\n\nHESTER. He has insulted me! Horribly insulted me! Save me!\n\nGERALD. Who? Who has dared—?\n\n[LORD ILLINGWORTH _enters at back of stage_. HESTER _breaks from_\nGERALD’S _arms and points to him_.]\n\nGERALD [_He is quite beside himself with rage and indignation_.] Lord\nIllingworth, you have insulted the purest thing on God’s earth, a thing\nas pure as my own mother. You have insulted the woman I love most in the\nworld with my own mother. As there is a God in Heaven, I will kill you!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Rushing across and catching hold of him_] No! no!\n\nGERALD. [_Thrusting her back_.] Don’t hold me, mother. Don’t hold\nme—I’ll kill him!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald!\n\nGERALD. Let me go, I say!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Stop, Gerald, stop! He is your own father!\n\n[GERALD _clutches his mother’s hands and looks into her face_. _She\nsinks slowly on the ground in shame_. HESTER _steals towards the door_.\nLORD ILLINGWORTH _frowns and bites his lip_. _After a time_ GERALD\n_raises his mother up_, _puts his am round her_, _and leads her from the\nroom_.]\n\n ACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nFOURTH ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_Sitting-room at Mrs. Arbuthnot’s_. _Large open French window at back_,\n_looking on to garden_. _Doors_ R.C. _and_ L.C.\n\n[GERALD ARBUTHNOT _writing at table_.]\n\n[_Enter_ ALICE R.C. _followed by_ LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ MRS. ALLONBY.]\n\nALICE. Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby.\n\n[_Exit_ L.C.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Good morning, Gerald.\n\nGERALD. [_Rising_.] Good morning, Lady Hunstanton. Good morning, Mrs.\nAllonby.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Sitting down_.] We came to inquire for your dear\nmother, Gerald. I hope she is better?\n\nGERALD. My mother has not come down yet, Lady Hunstanton.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I am afraid the heat was too much for her last\nnight. I think there must have been thunder in the air. Or perhaps it\nwas the music. Music makes one feel so romantic—at least it always gets\non one’s nerves.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. It’s the same thing, nowadays.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. I am so glad I don’t know what you mean, dear. I am\nafraid you mean something wrong. Ah, I see you’re examining Mrs.\nArbuthnot’s pretty room. Isn’t it nice and old-fashioned?\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. [_Surveying the room through her lorgnette_.] It looks\nquite the happy English home.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. That’s just the word, dear; that just describes it.\nOne feels your mother’s good influence in everything she has about her,\nGerald.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth says that all influence is bad, but that\na good influence is the worst in the world.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. When Lord Illingworth knows Mrs. Arbuthnot better he\nwill change his mind. I must certainly bring him here.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I should like to see Lord Illingworth in a happy English\nhome.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. It would do him a great deal of good, dear. Most women\nin London, nowadays, seem to furnish their rooms with nothing but\norchids, foreigners, and French novels. But here we have the room of a\nsweet saint. Fresh natural flowers, books that don’t shock one, pictures\nthat one can look at without blushing.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. But I like blushing.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, there _is_ a good deal to be said for blushing,\nif one can do it at the proper moment. Poor dear Hunstanton used to tell\nme I didn’t blush nearly often enough. But then he was so very\nparticular. He wouldn’t let me know any of his men friends, except those\nwho were over seventy, like poor Lord Ashton: who afterwards, by the way,\nwas brought into the Divorce Court. A most unfortunate case.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I delight in men over seventy. They always offer one the\ndevotion of a lifetime. I think seventy an ideal age for a man.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. She is quite incorrigible, Gerald, isn’t she?\nBy-the-by, Gerald, I hope your dear mother will come and see me more\noften now. You and Lord Illingworth start almost immediately, don’t you?\n\nGERALD. I have given up my intention of being Lord Illingworth’s\nsecretary.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Surely not, Gerald! It would be most unwise of you.\nWhat reason can you have?\n\nGERALD. I don’t think I should be suitable for the post.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I wish Lord Illingworth would ask me to be his secretary.\nBut he says I am not serious enough.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, you really mustn’t talk like that in this\nhouse. Mrs. Arbuthnot doesn’t know anything about the wicked society in\nwhich we all live. She won’t go into it. She is far too good. I\nconsider it was a great honour her coming to me last night. It gave\nquite an atmosphere of respectability to the party.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Ah, that must have been what you thought was thunder in\nthe air.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, how can you say that? There is no resemblance\nbetween the two things at all. But really, Gerald, what do you mean by\nnot being suitable?\n\nGERALD. Lord Illingworth’s views of life and mine are too different.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. But, my dear Gerald, at your age you shouldn’t have any\nviews of life. They are quite out of place. You must be guided by\nothers in this matter. Lord Illingworth has made you the most flattering\noffer, and travelling with him you would see the world—as much of it, at\nleast, as one should look at—under the best auspices possible, and stay\nwith all the right people, which is so important at this solemn moment in\nyour career.\n\nGERALD. I don’t want to see the world: I’ve seen enough of it.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. I hope you don’t think you have exhausted life, Mr.\nArbuthnot. When a man says that, one knows that life has exhausted him.\n\nGERALD. I don’t wish to leave my mother.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Now, Gerald, that is pure laziness on your part. Not\nleave your mother! If I were your mother I would insist on your going.\n\n[_Enter_ ALICE L.C.]\n\nALICE. Mrs. Arbuthnot’s compliments, my lady, but she has a bad\nheadache, and cannot see any one this morning. [_Exit_ R.C.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Rising_.] A bad headache! I am so sorry! Perhaps\nyou’ll bring her up to Hunstanton this afternoon, if she is better,\nGerald.\n\nGERALD. I am afraid not this afternoon, Lady Hunstanton.\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. Well, to-morrow, then. Ah, if you had a father,\nGerald, he wouldn’t let you waste your life here. He would send you off\nwith Lord Illingworth at once. But mothers are so weak. They give up to\ntheir sons in everything. We are all heart, all heart. Come, dear, I\nmust call at the rectory and inquire for Mrs. Daubeny, who, I am afraid,\nis far from well. It is wonderful how the Archdeacon bears up, quite\nwonderful. He is the most sympathetic of husbands. Quite a model.\nGood-bye, Gerald, give my fondest love to your mother.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. Good-bye, Mr. Arbuthnot.\n\nGERALD. Good-bye.\n\n[_Exit_ LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ MRS. ALLONBY. GERALD _sits down and reads\nover his letter_.]\n\nGERALD. What name can I sign? I, who have no right to any name.\n[_Signs name_, _puts letter into envelope_, _addresses it_, _and is about\nto seal it_, _when door_ L.C. _opens and_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT _enters_.\nGERALD _lays down sealing-wax_. _Mother and son look at each other_.]\n\nLADY HUNSTANTON. [_Through French window at the back_.] Good-bye again,\nGerald. We are taking the short cut across your pretty garden. Now,\nremember my advice to you—start at once with Lord Illingworth.\n\nMRS. ALLONBY. _Au revoir_, Mr. Arbuthnot. Mind you bring me back\nsomething nice from your travels—not an Indian shawl—on no account an\nIndian shawl.\n\n[_Exeunt_.]\n\nGERALD. Mother, I have just written to him.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. To whom?\n\nGERALD. To my father. I have written to tell him to come here at four\no’clock this afternoon.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He shall not come here. He shall not cross the\nthreshold of my house.\n\nGERALD. He must come.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, if you are going away with Lord Illingworth, go\nat once. Go before it kills me: but don’t ask me to meet him.\n\nGERALD. Mother, you don’t understand. Nothing in the world would induce\nme to go away with Lord Illingworth, or to leave you. Surely you know me\nwell enough for that. No: I have written to him to say—\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. What can you have to say to him?\n\nGERALD. Can’t you guess, mother, what I have written in this letter?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.\n\nGERALD. Mother, surely you can. Think, think what must be done, now, at\nonce, within the next few days.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is nothing to be done.\n\nGERALD. I have written to Lord Illingworth to tell him that he must\nmarry you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Marry me?\n\nGERALD. Mother, I will force him to do it. The wrong that has been done\nyou must be repaired. Atonement must be made. Justice may be slow,\nmother, but it comes in the end. In a few days you shall be Lord\nIllingworth’s lawful wife.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald—\n\nGERALD. I will insist upon his doing it. I will make him do it: he will\nnot dare to refuse.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald, it is I who refuse. I will not marry Lord\nIllingworth.\n\nGERALD. Not marry him? Mother!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not marry him.\n\nGERALD. But you don’t understand: it is for your sake I am talking, not\nfor mine. This marriage, this necessary marriage, this marriage which\nfor obvious reasons must inevitably take place, will not help me, will\nnot give me a name that will be really, rightly mine to bear. But surely\nit will be something for you, that you, my mother, should, however late,\nbecome the wife of the man who is my father. Will not that be something?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not marry him.\n\nGERALD. Mother, you must.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not. You talk of atonement for a wrong done.\nWhat atonement can be made to me? There is no atonement possible. I am\ndisgraced: he is not. That is all. It is the usual history of a man and\na woman as it usually happens, as it always happens. And the ending is\nthe ordinary ending. The woman suffers. The man goes free.\n\nGERALD. I don’t know if that is the ordinary ending, mother: I hope it\nis not. But your life, at any rate, shall not end like that. The man\nshall make whatever reparation is possible. It is not enough. It does\nnot wipe out the past, I know that. But at least it makes the future\nbetter, better for you, mother.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I refuse to marry Lord Illingworth.\n\nGERALD. If he came to you himself and asked you to be his wife you would\ngive him a different answer. Remember, he is my father.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. If he came himself, which he will not do, my answer\nwould be the same. Remember I am your mother.\n\nGERALD. Mother, you make it terribly difficult for me by talking like\nthat; and I can’t understand why you won’t look at this matter from the\nright, from the only proper standpoint. It is to take away the\nbitterness out of your life, to take away the shadow that lies on your\nname, that this marriage must take place. There is no alternative: and\nafter the marriage you and I can go away together. But the marriage must\ntake place first. It is a duty that you owe, not merely to yourself, but\nto all other women—yes: to all the other women in the world, lest he\nbetray more.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I owe nothing to other women. There is not one of them\nto help me. There is not one woman in the world to whom I could go for\npity, if I would take it, or for sympathy, if I could win it. Women are\nhard on each other. That girl, last night, good though she is, fled from\nthe room as though I were a tainted thing. She was right. I am a\ntainted thing. But my wrongs are my own, and I will bear them alone. I\nmust bear them alone. What have women who have not sinned to do with me,\nor I with them? We do not understand each other.\n\n[_Enter_ HESTER _behind_.]\n\nGERALD. I implore you to do what I ask you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. What son has ever asked of his mother to make so hideous\na sacrifice? None.\n\nGERALD. What mother has ever refused to marry the father of her own\nchild? None.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let me be the first, then. I will not do it.\n\nGERALD. Mother, you believe in religion, and you brought me up to\nbelieve in it also. Well, surely your religion, the religion that you\ntaught me when I was a boy, mother, must tell you that I am right. You\nknow it, you feel it.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not know it. I do not feel it, nor will I ever\nstand before God’s altar and ask God’s blessing on so hideous a mockery\nas a marriage between me and George Harford. I will not say the words\nthe Church bids us to say. I will not say them. I dare not. How could\nI swear to love the man I loathe, to honour him who wrought you\ndishonour, to obey him who, in his mastery, made me to sin? No: marriage\nis a sacrament for those who love each other. It is not for such as him,\nor such as me. Gerald, to save you from the world’s sneers and taunts I\nhave lied to the world. For twenty years I have lied to the world. I\ncould not tell the world the truth. Who can, ever? But not for my own\nsake will I lie to God, and in God’s presence. No, Gerald, no ceremony,\nChurch-hallowed or State-made, shall ever bind me to George Harford. It\nmay be that I am too bound to him already, who, robbing me, yet left me\nricher, so that in the mire of my life I found the pearl of price, or\nwhat I thought would be so.\n\nGERALD. I don’t understand you now.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Men don’t understand what mothers are. I am no\ndifferent from other women except in the wrong done me and the wrong I\ndid, and my very heavy punishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear\nyou I had to look on death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it.\nDeath fought with me for you. All women have to fight with death to keep\ntheir children. Death, being childless, wants our children from us.\nGerald, when you were naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave\nyou food. Night and day all that long winter I tended you. No office is\ntoo mean, no care too lowly for the thing we women love—and oh! how _I_\nloved _you_. Not Hannah, Samuel more. And you needed love, for you were\nweakly, and only love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep any\none alive. And boys are careless often and without thinking give pain,\nand we always fancy that when they come to man’s estate and know us\nbetter they will repay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from\nour side, and they make friends with whom they are happier than they are\nwith us, and have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that\nare not ours: and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life\nbitter they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste\nits sweetness with them . . . You made many friends and went into their\nhouses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to\nfollow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat\nin darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was\never with me. . . . And you thought I didn’t care for the pleasant things\nof life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them,\nfeeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the\npoor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was\nI to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is\npure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the\nkiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the\nlove you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .\nAnd you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in\nChurch duties. But where else could I turn? God’s house is the only\nhouse where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart,\nGerald, too much in my heart. For, though day after day, at morn or\nevensong, I have knelt in God’s house, I have never repented of my sin.\nHow could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit! Even now\nthat you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me\nthan innocence. I would rather be your mother—oh! much rather!—than have\nbeen always pure . . . Oh, don’t you see? don’t you understand? It is my\ndishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that has\nbound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you—the price of\nsoul and body—that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don’t ask me to do\nthis horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame!\n\nGERALD. Mother, I didn’t know you loved me so much as that. And I will\nbe a better son to you than I have been. And you and I must never leave\neach other . . . but, mother . . . I can’t help it . . . you must become\nmy father’s wife. You must marry him. It is your duty.\n\nHESTER. [_Running forwards and embracing_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] No, no; you\nshall not. That would be real dishonour, the first you have ever known.\nThat would be real disgrace: the first to touch you. Leave him and come\nwith me. There are other countries than England . . . Oh! other\ncountries over sea, better, wiser, and less unjust lands. The world is\nvery wide and very big.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. No, not for me. For me the world is shrivelled to a\npalm’s breadth, and where I walk there are thorns.\n\nHESTER. It shall not be so. We shall somewhere find green valleys and\nfresh waters, and if we weep, well, we shall weep together. Have we not\nboth loved him?\n\nGERALD. Hester!\n\nHESTER. [_Waving him back_.] Don’t, don’t! You cannot love me at all,\nunless you love her also. You cannot honour me, unless she’s holier to\nyou. In her all womanhood is martyred. Not she alone, but all of us are\nstricken in her house.\n\nGERALD. Hester, Hester, what shall I do?\n\nHESTER. Do you respect the man who is your father?\n\nGERALD. Respect him? I despise him! He is infamous.\n\nHESTER. I thank you for saving me from him last night.\n\nGERALD. Ah, that is nothing. I would die to save you. But you don’t\ntell me what to do now!\n\nHESTER. Have I not thanked you for saving _me_?\n\nGERALD. But what should I do?\n\nHESTER. Ask your own heart, not mine. I never had a mother to save, or\nshame.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He is hard—he is hard. Let me go away.\n\nGERALD. [_Rushes over and kneels down bedside his mother_.] Mother,\nforgive me: I have been to blame.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t kiss my hands: they are cold. My heart is cold:\nsomething has broken it.\n\nHESTER. Ah, don’t say that. Hearts live by being wounded. Pleasure may\nturn a heart to stone, riches may make it callous, but sorrow—oh, sorrow\ncannot break it. Besides, what sorrows have you now? Why, at this\nmoment you are more dear to him than ever, _dear_ though you have _been_,\nand oh! how dear you _have_ been always. Ah! be kind to him.\n\nGERALD. You are my mother and my father all in one. I need no second\nparent. It was for you I spoke, for you alone. Oh, say something,\nmother. Have I but found one love to lose another? Don’t tell me that.\nO mother, you are cruel. [_Gets up and flings himself sobbing on a\nsofa_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_To_ HESTER.] But has he found indeed another love?\n\nHESTER. You know I have loved him always.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are very poor.\n\nHESTER. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no one. I hate my riches. They\nare a burden. Let him share it with me.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are disgraced. We rank among the outcasts Gerald\nis nameless. The sins of the parents should be visited on the children.\nIt is God’s law.\n\nHESTER. I was wrong. God’s law is only Love.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Rises_, _and taking_ HESTER _by the hand_, _goes\nslowly over to where_ GERALD _is lying on the sofa with his head buried\nin his hands_. _She touches him and he looks up_.] Gerald, I cannot\ngive you a father, but I have brought you a wife.\n\nGERALD. Mother, I am not worthy either of her or you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. So she comes first, you are worthy. And when you are\naway, Gerald . . . with . . . her—oh, think of me sometimes. Don’t\nforget me. And when you pray, pray for me. We should pray when we are\nhappiest, and you will be happy, Gerald.\n\nHESTER. Oh, you don’t think of leaving us?\n\nGERALD. Mother, you won’t leave us?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I might bring shame upon you!\n\nGERALD. Mother!\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. For a little then: and if you let me, near you always.\n\nHESTER. [_To_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Come out with us to the garden.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Later on, later on. [_Exeunt_ HESTER _and_ GERALD.\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT _goes towards door_ L.C. _Stops at looking-glass over\nmantelpiece and looks into it_. _Enter_ ALICE R.C.]\n\nALICE. A gentleman to see you, ma’am.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Say I am not at home. Show me the card. [_Takes card\nfrom salver and looks at it_.] Say I will not see him.\n\n[LORD ILLINGWORTH _enters_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _sees him in the glass and\nstarts_, _but does not turn round_. _Exit_ ALICE.] What can you have to\nsay to me to-day, George Harford? You can have nothing to say to me.\nYou must leave this house.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, Gerald knows everything about you and me now,\nso some arrangement must be come to that will suit us all three. I\nassure you, he will find in me the most charming and generous of fathers.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. My son may come in at any moment. I saved you last\nnight. I may not be able to save you again. My son feels my dishonour\nstrongly, terribly strongly. I beg you to go.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Sitting down_.] Last night was excessively\nunfortunate. That silly Puritan girl making a scene merely because I\nwanted to kiss her. What harm is there in a kiss?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Turning round_.] A kiss may ruin a human life, George\nHarford. _I_ know that. _I_ know that too well.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. We won’t discuss that at present. What is of\nimportance to-day, as yesterday, is still our son. I am extremely fond\nof him, as you know, and odd though it may seem to you, I admired his\nconduct last night immensely. He took up the cudgels for that pretty\nprude with wonderful promptitude. He is just what I should have liked a\nson of mine to be. Except that no son of mine should ever take the side\nof the Puritans: that is always an error. Now, what I propose is this.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth, no proposition of yours interests me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. According to our ridiculous English laws, I can’t\nlegitimise Gerald. But I can leave him my property. Illingworth is\nentailed, of course, but it is a tedious barrack of a place. He can have\nAshby, which is much prettier, Harborough, which has the best shooting in\nthe north of England, and the house in St. James Square. What more can a\ngentleman require in this world?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing more, I am quite sure.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. As for a title, a title is really rather a nuisance in\nthese democratic days. As George Harford I had everything I wanted. Now\nI have merely everything that other people want, which isn’t nearly so\npleasant. Well, my proposal is this.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I told you I was not interested, and I beg you to go.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. The boy is to be with you for six months in the year,\nand with me for the other six. That is perfectly fair, is it not? You\ncan have whatever allowance you like, and live where you choose. As for\nyour past, no one knows anything about it except myself and Gerald.\nThere is the Puritan, of course, the Puritan in white muslin, but she\ndoesn’t count. She couldn’t tell the story without explaining that she\nobjected to being kissed, could she? And all the women would think her a\nfool and the men think her a bore. And you need not be afraid that\nGerald won’t be my heir. I needn’t tell you I have not the slightest\nintention of marrying.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You come too late. My son has no need of you. You are\nnot necessary.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you mean, Rachel?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. That you are not necessary to Gerald’s career. He does\nnot require you.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I do not understand you.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Look into the garden. [LORD ILLINGWORTH _rises and goes\ntowards window_.] You had better not let them see you: you bring\nunpleasant memories. [LORD ILLINGWORTH _looks out and starts_.] She\nloves him. They love each other. We are safe from you, and we are going\naway.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Where?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. We will not tell you, and if you find us we will not\nknow you. You seem surprised. What welcome would you get from the girl\nwhose lips you tried to soil, from the boy whose life you have shamed,\nfrom the mother whose dishonour comes from you?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You have grown hard, Rachel.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I was too weak once. It is well for me that I have\nchanged.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I was very young at the time. We men know life too\nearly.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. And we women know life too late. That is the difference\nbetween men and women. [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, I want my son. My money may be of no use to\nhim now. I may be of no use to him, but I want my son. Bring us\ntogether, Rachel. You can do it if you choose. [_Sees letter on\ntable_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is no room in my boy’s life for you. He is not\ninterested in _you_.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Then why does he write to me?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. What do you mean?\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What letter is this? [_Takes up letter_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. That—is nothing. Give it to me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is addressed to _me_.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are not to open it. I forbid you to open it.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. And in Gerald’s handwriting.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not to have been sent. It is a letter he wrote\nto you this morning, before he saw me. But he is sorry now he wrote it,\nvery sorry. You are not to open it. Give it to me.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It belongs to me. [_Opens it_, _sits down and reads\nit slowly_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _watches him all the time_.] You have read\nthis letter, I suppose, Rachel?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. You know what is in it?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t admit for a moment that the boy is right in\nwhat he says. I don’t admit that it is any duty of mine to marry you. I\ndeny it entirely. But to get my son back I am ready—yes, I am ready to\nmarry you, Rachel—and to treat you always with the deference and respect\ndue to my wife. I will marry you as soon as you choose. I give you my\nword of honour.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You made that promise to me once before and broke it.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I will keep it now. And that will show you that I\nlove my son, at least as much as you love him. For when I marry you,\nRachel, there are some ambitions I shall have to surrender. High\nambitions, too, if any ambition is high.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I decline to marry you, Lord Illingworth.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Are you serious?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Do tell me your reasons. They would interest me\nenormously.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have already explained them to my son.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose they were intensely sentimental, weren’t\nthey? You women live by your emotions and for them. You have no\nphilosophy of life.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are right. We women live by our emotions and for\nthem. By our passions, and for them, if you will. I have two passions,\nLord Illingworth: my love of him, my hate of you. You cannot kill those.\nThey feed each other.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What sort of love is that which needs to have hate as\nits brother?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is the sort of love I have for Gerald. Do you think\nthat terrible? Well it is terrible. All love is terrible. All love is\na tragedy. I loved you once, Lord Illingworth. Oh, what a tragedy for a\nwoman to have loved you!\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. So you really refuse to marry me?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. Because you hate me?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. And does my son hate me as you do?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. I am glad of that, Rachel.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. He merely despises you.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What a pity! What a pity for him, I mean.\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t be deceived, George. Children begin by loving\ntheir parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely if ever do they\nforgive them.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Reads letter over again_, _very slowly_.] May I ask\nby what arguments you made the boy who wrote this letter, this beautiful,\npassionate letter, believe that you should not marry his father, the\nfather of your own child?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not I who made him see it. It was another.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. What _fin-de-siècle_ person?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. The Puritan, Lord Illingworth. [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Winces_, _then rises slowly and goes over to table\nwhere his hat and gloves are_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _is standing close to the\ntable_. _He picks up one of the gloves, and begins pulling it on_.]\nThere is not much then for me to do here, Rachel?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. It is good-bye, is it?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. For ever, I hope, this time, Lord Illingworth.\n\nLORD ILLINGWORTH. How curious! At this moment you look exactly as you\nlooked the night you left me twenty years ago. You have just the same\nexpression in your mouth. Upon my word, Rachel, no woman ever loved me\nas you did. Why, you gave yourself to me like a flower, to do anything I\nliked with. You were the prettiest of playthings, the most fascinating\nof small romances . . . [_Pulls out watch_.] Quarter to two! Must be\nstrolling back to Hunstanton. Don’t suppose I shall see you there again.\nI’m sorry, I am, really. It’s been an amusing experience to have met\namongst people of one’s own rank, and treated quite seriously too, one’s\nmistress, and one’s—\n\n[MRS. ARBUTHNOT _snatches up glove and strikes_ LORD ILLINGWORTH _across\nthe face with it_. LORD ILLINGWORTH _starts_. _He is dazed by the\ninsult of his punishment_. _Then he controls himself_, _and goes to\nwindow and looks out at his son_. _Sighs and leaves the room_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Falls sobbing on the sofa_.] He would have said it.\nHe would have said it.\n\n[_Enter_ GERALD _and_ HESTER _from the garden_.]\n\nGERALD. Well, dear mother. You never came out after all. So we have\ncome in to fetch you. Mother, you have not been crying? [_Kneels down\nbeside her_.]\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. My boy! My boy! My boy! [_Running her fingers through\nhis hair_.]\n\nHESTER. [_Coming over_.] But you have two children now. You’ll let me\nbe your daughter?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Looking up_.] Would you choose me for a mother?\n\nHESTER. You of all women I have ever known.\n\n[_They move towards the door leading into garden with their arms round\neach other’s waists_. GERALD _goes to table_ L.C. _for his hat_. _On\nturning round he sees_ LORD ILLINGWORTH’S _glove lying on the floor_,\n_and picks it up_.]\n\nGERALD. Hallo, mother, whose glove is this? You have had a visitor.\nWho was it?\n\nMRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Turning round_.] Oh! no one. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Essays and Lectures, by Oscar Wilde, Edited\nby Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Essays and Lectures\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: Robert Ross\n\nRelease Date: March 12, 2013 [eBook #774]\n[This file was first posted on January 5, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND LECTURES***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1913 Methuen and Co edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n ESSAYS AND LECTURES\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Fourth Edition_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_First Published in Book Form_ (_Limited Edition on _1908_\nHandmade Paper and Japanese Vellum_)\n_Second Edition_ (_F’cap._ 8_vo_) _1909_\n_Third Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _1911_\n_Fourth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _1913_\n\n DEDICATED\n TO\n WALTER LEDGER\n BY\n THE AUTHOR’S LITERARY EXECUTOR\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nTHE RISE OF HISTORICAL CRITICISM 1\nTHE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE OF ART 109\nHOUSE DECORATION 157\nART AND THE HANDICRAFTMAN 173\nLECTURE TO ART STUDENTS 197\nLONDON MODELS 213\nPOEMS IN PROSE 227\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nWITH the exception of the _Poems in Prose_ this volume does not contain\nanything which the author ever contemplated reprinting. _The Rise of\nHistorical Criticism_ is interesting to admirers of his work, however,\nbecause it shows the development of his style and the wide intellectual\nrange distinguishing the least _borné_ of all the late Victorian writers,\nwith the possible exception of Ruskin. It belongs to Wilde’s Oxford days\nwhen he was the unsuccessful competitor for the Chancellor’s English\nEssay Prize. Perhaps Magdalen, which has never forgiven herself for\nnurturing the author of _Ravenna_, may be felicitated on having escaped\nthe further intolerable honour that she might have suffered by seeing\ncrowned again with paltry academic parsley the most highly gifted of all\nher children in the last century.\n\nOf the lectures, I have only included those which exist, so far as I\nknow, in manuscript; the reports of others in contemporary newspapers\nbeing untrustworthy. They were usually delivered from notes and were\nrepeated at various towns in England and America. Here will be found the\norigin of Whistler’s charges of plagiarism against the author. How far\nthey are justified the reader can decide for himself, Wilde always\nadmitted that, relying on an old and intimate friendship, he asked the\nartist’s assistance on one occasion for a lecture he had failed to\nprepare in time. This I presume to be the Address delivered to the Art\nStudents of the Royal Academy in 1883, as Whistler certainly reproduced\nsome of it as his own in the ‘Ten o’clock’ lecture delivered\nsubsequently, in 1885. To what extent an idea may be regarded as a\nperpetual gift, or whether it is ethically possible to retrieve an idea\nlike an engagement ring, it is not for me to discuss. I would only point\nout once more that all the works by which Wilde is known throughout\nEurope were written after the two friends had quarrelled. That Wilde\nderived a great deal from the older man goes without saying, just as he\nderived so much in a greater degree from Pater, Ruskin, Arnold and\nBurne-Jones. Yet the tedious attempt to recognise in every jest of his\nsome original by Whistler induces the criticism that it seems a pity the\ngreat painter did not get them off on the public before he was\nforestalled. Reluctance from an appeal to publicity was never a weakness\nin either of the men. Some of Wilde’s more frequently quoted sayings\nwere made at the Old Bailey (though their provenance is often forgotten)\nor on his death-bed.\n\nAs a matter of fact the genius of the two men was entirely different.\nWilde was a humourist and a humanist before everything; and his wittiest\njests have neither the relentlessness nor the keenness characterising\nthose of the clever American artist. Again, Whistler could no more have\nobtained the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, nor have written _The\nImportance of Being Earnest_, and _The Soul of Man_, than Wilde, even if\nequipped as a painter, could have evinced that superb restraint\ncharacterising the portraits of ‘Miss Alexander,’ ‘Carlyle,’ and other\nmasterpieces. Wilde, though it is not generally known, was something of\na draughtsman in his youth.\n\n_Poems in Prose_ were to have been continued. They are the kind of\nstories which Wilde would tell at a dinner-table, being invented on the\nspur of the moment, or inspired by the chance observation of some one who\nmanaged to get the traditional word in edgeways; or they were developed\nfrom some phrase in a book Wilde might have read during the day. To\nthose who remember hearing them from his lips there must always be a\nfeeling of disappointment on reading them. He overloaded their ornament\nwhen he came to transcribe them, and some of his friends did not hesitate\nto make that criticism to him personally. Though he affected annoyance,\nI do not think it prevented him from writing the others, which\nunfortunately exist only in the memories of friends. Miss Aimée Lowther,\nhowever, has cleverly noted down some of them in a privately printed\nvolume.\n\n ROBERT ROSS\n\n\n\n\nTHE RISE OF HISTORICAL CRITICISM\n\n\nThis Essay was written for the Chancellor’s English Essay Prize at Oxford\nin 1879, the subject being ‘Historical Criticism among the Ancients.’\nThe prize was not awarded. To Professor J. W. Mackail thanks are due for\nrevising the proofs.\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nHISTORICAL criticism nowhere occurs as an isolated fact in the\ncivilisation or literature of any people. It is part of that complex\nworking towards freedom which may be described as the revolt against\nauthority. It is merely one facet of that speculative spirit of an\ninnovation, which in the sphere of action produces democracy and\nrevolution, and in that of thought is the parent of philosophy and\nphysical science; and its importance as a factor of progress is based not\nso much on the results it attains, as on the tone of thought which it\nrepresents, and the method by which it works.\n\nBeing thus the resultant of forces essentially revolutionary, it is not\nto be found in the ancient world among the material despotisms of Asia or\nthe stationary civilisation of Egypt. The clay cylinders of Assyria and\nBabylon, the hieroglyphics of the pyramids, form not history but the\nmaterial for history.\n\nThe Chinese annals, ascending as they do to the barbarous forest life of\nthe nation, are marked with a soberness of judgment, a freedom from\ninvention, which is almost unparalleled in the writings of any people;\nbut the protective spirit which is the characteristic of that people\nproved as fatal to their literature as to their commerce. Free criticism\nis as unknown as free trade. While as regards the Hindus, their acute,\nanalytical and logical mind is directed rather to grammar, criticism and\nphilosophy than to history or chronology. Indeed, in history their\nimagination seems to have run wild, legend and fact are so indissolubly\nmingled together that any attempt to separate them seems vain. If we\nexcept the identification of the Greek Sandracottus with the Indian\nChandragupta, we have really no clue by which we can test the truth of\ntheir writings or examine their method of investigation.\n\nIt is among the Hellenic branch of the Indo-Germanic race that history\nproper is to be found, as well as the spirit of historical criticism;\namong that wonderful offshoot of the primitive Aryans, whom we call by\nthe name of Greeks and to whom, as has been well said, we owe all that\nmoves in the world except the blind forces of nature.\n\nFor, from the day when they left the chill table-lands of Tibet and\njourneyed, a nomad people, to Ægean shores, the characteristic of their\nnature has been the search for light, and the spirit of historical\ncriticism is part of that wonderful Aufklärung or illumination of the\nintellect which seems to have burst on the Greek race like a great flood\nof light about the sixth century B.C.\n\n_L’esprit d’un siècle ne naît pas et ne meurt pas à jour fixe_, and the\nfirst critic is perhaps as difficult to discover as the first man. It is\nfrom democracy that the spirit of criticism borrows its intolerance of\ndogmatic authority, from physical science the alluring analogies of law\nand order, from philosophy the conception of an essential unity\nunderlying the complex manifestations of phenomena. It appears first\nrather as a changed attitude of mind than as a principle of research, and\nits earliest influences are to be found in the sacred writings.\n\nFor men begin to doubt in questions of religion first, and then in\nmatters of more secular interest; and as regards the nature of the spirit\nof historical criticism itself in its ultimate development, it is not\nconfined merely to the empirical method of ascertaining whether an event\nhappened or not, but is concerned also with the investigation into the\ncauses of events, the general relations which phenomena of life hold to\none another, and in its ultimate development passes into the wider\nquestion of the philosophy of history.\n\nNow, while the workings of historical criticism in these two spheres of\nsacred and uninspired history are essentially manifestations of the same\nspirit, yet their methods are so different, the canons of evidence so\nentirely separate, and the motives in each case so unconnected, that it\nwill be necessary for a clear estimation of the progress of Greek\nthought, that we should consider these two questions entirely apart from\none another. I shall then in both cases take the succession of writers\nin their chronological order as representing the rational order—not that\nthe succession of time is always the succession of ideas, or that\ndialectics moves ever in the straight line in which Hegel conceives its\nadvance. In Greek thought, as elsewhere, there are periods of stagnation\nand apparent retrogression, yet their intellectual development, not\nmerely in the question of historical criticism, but in their art, their\npoetry and their philosophy, seems so essentially normal, so free from\nall disturbing external influences, so peculiarly rational, that in\nfollowing in the footsteps of time we shall really be progressing in the\norder sanctioned by reason.\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nAT an early period in their intellectual development the Greeks reached\nthat critical point in the history of every civilised nation, when\nspeculative invades the domain of revealed truth, when the spiritual\nideas of the people can no longer be satisfied by the lower, material\nconceptions of their inspired writers, and when men find it impossible to\npour the new wine of free thought into the old bottles of a narrow and a\ntrammelling creed.\n\nFrom their Aryan ancestors they had received the fatal legacy of a\nmythology stained with immoral and monstrous stories which strove to hide\nthe rational order of nature in a chaos of miracles, and to mar by\nimputed wickedness the perfection of God’s nature—a very shirt of Nessos\nin which the Heracles of rationalism barely escaped annihilation. Now\nwhile undoubtedly the speculations of Thales, and the alluring analogies\nof law and order afforded by physical science, were most important forces\nin encouraging the rise of the spirit of scepticism, yet it was on its\nethical side that the Greek mythology was chiefly open to attack.\n\nIt is difficult to shake the popular belief in miracles, but no man will\nadmit sin and immorality as attributes of the Ideal he worships; so the\nfirst symptoms of a new order of thought are shown in the passionate\noutcries of Xenophanes and Heraclitos against the evil things said by\nHomer of the sons of God; and in the story told of Pythagoras, how that\nhe saw tortured in Hell the ‘two founders of Greek theology,’ we can\nrecognise the rise of the Aufklärung as clearly as we see the Reformation\nforeshadowed in the _Inferno_ of Dante.\n\nAny honest belief, then, in the plain truth of these stories soon\nsuccumbed before the destructive effects of the _a priori_ ethical\ncriticism of this school; but the orthodox party, as is its custom, found\nimmediately a convenient shelter under the ægis of the doctrine of\nmetaphors and concealed meanings.\n\nTo this allegorical school the tale of the fight around the walls of Troy\nwas a mystery, behind which, as behind a veil, were hidden certain moral\nand physical truths. The contest between Athena and Ares was that\neternal contest between rational thought and the brute force of\nignorance; the arrows which rattled in the quiver of the ‘Far Darter’\nwere no longer the instruments of vengeance shot from the golden bow of\nthe child of God, but the common rays of the sun, which was itself\nnothing but a mere inert mass of burning metal.\n\nModern investigation, with the ruthlessness of Philistine analysis, has\nultimately brought Helen of Troy down to a symbol of the dawn. There\nwere Philistines among the Greeks also who saw in the _ἄναξ ἀδρῶν_ a mere\nmetaphor for atmospheric power.\n\nNow while this tendency to look for metaphors and hidden meanings must be\nranked as one of the germs of historical criticism, yet it was\nessentially unscientific. Its inherent weakness is clearly pointed out\nby Plato, who showed that while this theory will no doubt explain many of\nthe current legends, yet, if it is to be appealed to at all, it must be\nas a universal principle; a position he is by no means prepared to admit.\n\nLike many other great principles it suffered from its disciples, and\nfurnished its own refutation when the web of Penelope was analysed into a\nmetaphor of the rules of formal logic, the warp representing the\npremises, and the woof the conclusion.\n\nRejecting, then, the allegorical interpretation of the sacred writings as\nan essentially dangerous method, proving either too much or too little,\nPlato himself returns to the earlier mode of attack, and re-writes\nhistory with a didactic purpose, laying down certain ethical canons of\nhistorical criticism. God is good; God is just; God is true; God is\nwithout the common passions of men. These are the tests to which we are\nto bring the stories of the Greek religion.\n\n‘God predestines no men to ruin, nor sends destruction on innocent\ncities; He never walks the earth in strange disguise, nor has to mourn\nfor the death of any well-beloved son. Away with the tears for Sarpedon,\nthe lying dream sent to Agamemnon, and the story of the broken covenant!’\n(Plato, _Republic_, Book ii. 380; iii. 388, 391.)\n\nSimilar ethical canons are applied to the accounts of the heroes of the\ndays of old, and by the same _a priori_ principles Achilles is rescued\nfrom the charges of avarice and insolence in a passage which may be\nrecited as the earliest instance of that ‘whitewashing of great men,’ as\nit has been called, which is so popular in our own day, when Catiline and\nClodius are represented as honest and far-seeing politicians, when _eine\nedle und gute Natur_ is claimed for Tiberius, and Nero is rescued from\nhis heritage of infamy as an accomplished _dilettante_ whose moral\naberrations are more than excused by his exquisite artistic sense and\ncharming tenor voice.\n\nBut besides the allegorising principle of interpretation, and the ethical\nreconstruction of history, there was a third theory, which may be called\nthe semi-historical, and which goes by the name of Euhemeros, though he\nwas by no means the first to propound it.\n\nAppealing to a fictitious monument which he declared that he had\ndiscovered in the island of Panchaia, and which purported to be a column\nerected by Zeus, and detailing the incidents of his reign on earth, this\nshallow thinker attempted to show that the gods and heroes of ancient\nGreece were ‘mere ordinary mortals, whose achievements had been a good\ndeal exaggerated and misrepresented,’ and that the proper canon of\nhistorical criticism as regards the treatment of myths was to rationalise\nthe incredible, and to present the plausible residuum as actual truth.\n\nTo him and his school, the centaurs, for instance, those mythical sons of\nthe storm, strange links between the lives of men and animals, were\nmerely some youths from the village of Nephele in Thessaly, distinguished\nfor their sporting tastes; the ‘living harvest of panoplied knights,’\nwhich sprang so mystically from the dragon’s teeth, a body of mercenary\ntroops supported by the profits on a successful speculation in ivory; and\nActæon, an ordinary master of hounds, who, living before the days of\nsubscription, was eaten out of house and home by the expenses of his\nkennel.\n\nNow, that under the glamour of myth and legend some substratum of\nhistorical fact may lie, is a proposition rendered extremely probable by\nthe modern investigations into the workings of the mythopœic spirit in\npost-Christian times. Charlemagne and Roland, St. Francis and William\nTell, are none the less real personages because their histories are\nfilled with much that is fictitious and incredible, but in all cases what\nis essentially necessary is some external corroboration, such as is\nafforded by the mention of Roland and Roncesvalles in the chronicles of\nEngland, or (in the sphere of Greek legend) by the excavations of\nHissarlik. But to rob a mythical narrative of its kernel of supernatural\nelements, and to present the dry husk thus obtained as historical fact,\nis, as has been well said, to mistake entirely the true method of\ninvestigation and to identify plausibility with truth.\n\nAnd as regards the critical point urged by Palaiphatos, Strabo, and\nPolybius, that pure invention on Homer’s part is inconceivable, we may\nwithout scruple allow it, for myths, like constitutions, grow gradually,\nand are not formed in a day. But between a poet’s deliberate creation\nand historical accuracy there is a wide field of the mythopœic faculty.\n\nThis Euhemeristic theory was welcomed as an essentially philosophical and\ncritical method by the unscientific Romans, to whom it was introduced by\nthe poet Ennius, that pioneer of cosmopolitan Hellenicism, and it\ncontinued to characterise the tone of ancient thought on the question of\nthe treatment of mythology till the rise of Christianity, when it was\nturned by such writers as Augustine and Minucius Felix into a formidable\nweapon of attack on Paganism. It was then abandoned by all those who\nstill bent the knee to Athena or to Zeus, and a general return, aided by\nthe philosophic mystics of Alexandria, to the allegorising principle of\ninterpretation took place, as the only means of saving the deities of\nOlympus from the Titan assaults of the new Galilean God. In what vain\ndefence, the statue of Mary set in the heart of the Pantheon can best\ntell us.\n\nReligions, however, may be absorbed, but they never are disproved, and\nthe stories of the Greek mythology, spiritualised by the purifying\ninfluence of Christianity, reappear in many of the southern parts of\nEurope in our own day. The old fable that the Greek gods took service\nwith the new religion under assumed names has more truth in it than the\nmany care to discover.\n\nHaving now traced the progress of historical criticism in the special\ntreatment of myth and legend, I shall proceed to investigate the form in\nwhich the same spirit manifested itself as regards what one may term\nsecular history and secular historians. The field traversed will be\nfound to be in some respects the same, but the mental attitude, the\nspirit, the motive of investigation are all changed.\n\nThere were heroes before the son of Atreus and historians before\nHerodotus, yet the latter is rightly hailed as the father of history, for\nin him we discover not merely the empirical connection of cause and\neffect, but that constant reference to Laws, which is the characteristic\nof the historian proper.\n\nFor all history must be essentially universal; not in the sense of\ncomprising all the synchronous events of the past time, but through the\nuniversality of the principles employed. And the great conceptions which\nunify the work of Herodotus are such as even modern thought has not yet\nrejected. The immediate government of the world by God, the nemesis and\npunishment which sin and pride invariably bring with them, the revealing\nof God’s purpose to His people by signs and omens, by miracles and by\nprophecy; these are to Herodotus the laws which govern the phenomena of\nhistory. He is essentially the type of supernatural historian; his eyes\nare ever strained to discern the Spirit of God moving over the face of\nthe waters of life; he is more concerned with final than with efficient\ncauses.\n\nYet we can discern in him the rise of that _historic sense_ which is the\nrational antecedent of the science of historical criticism, the _φυσικὸν\nκριτήριον_, to use the words of a Greek writer, as opposed to that which\ncomes either _τέχνη_ or _διδαχῇ_.\n\nHe has passed through the valley of faith and has caught a glimpse of the\nsunlit heights of Reason; but like all those who, while accepting the\nsupernatural, yet attempt to apply the canons of rationalism, he is\nessentially inconsistent. For the better apprehension of the character\nof this historic sense in Herodotus it will be necessary to examine at\nsome length the various forms of criticism in which it manifests itself.\n\nSuch fabulous stories as that of the Phoenix, of the goat-footed men, of\nthe headless beings with eyes in their breasts, of the men who slept six\nmonths in the year (_τοῦτο οὐκ ἐνδέχομαι ηὴν ἀρχήν_), of the wer-wolf of\nthe Neuri, and the like, are entirely rejected by him as being opposed to\nthe ordinary experience of life, and to those natural laws whose\nuniversal influence the early Greek physical philosophers had already\nmade known to the world of thought. Other legends, such as the suckling\nof Cyrus by a bitch, or the feather-rain of northern Europe, are\nrationalised and explained into a woman’s name and a fall of snow. The\nsupernatural origin of the Scythian nation, from the union of Hercules\nand the monstrous Echidna, is set aside by him for the more probable\naccount that they were a nomad tribe driven by the Massagetæ from Asia;\nand he appeals to the local names of their country as proof of the fact\nthat the Kimmerians were the original possessors.\n\nBut in the case of Herodotus it will be more instructive to pass on from\npoints like these to those questions of general probability, the true\napprehension of which depends rather on a certain quality of mind than on\nany possibility of formulated rules, questions which form no unimportant\npart of scientific history; for it must be remembered always that the\ncanons of historical criticism are essentially different from those of\njudicial evidence, for they cannot, like the latter, be made plain to\nevery ordinary mind, but appeal to a certain historical faculty founded\non the experience of life. Besides, the rules for the reception of\nevidence in courts of law are purely stationary, while the science of\nhistorical probability is essentially progressive, and changes with the\nadvancing spirit of each age.\n\nNow, of all the speculative canons of historical criticism, none is more\nimportant than that which rests on psychological probability.\n\nArguing from his knowledge of human nature, Herodotus rejects the\npresence of Helen within the walls of Troy. Had she been there, he says,\nPriam and his kinsmen would never have been so mad (_φρενοβλαβεῖς_) as\nnot to give her up, when they and their children and their city were in\nsuch peril (ii. 118); and as regards the authority of Homer, some\nincidental passages in his poem show that he knew of Helen’s sojourn in\nEgypt during the siege, but selected the other story as being a more\nsuitable motive for an epic. Similarly he does not believe that the\nAlcmæonidæ family, a family who had always been the haters of tyranny\n(_μισοτύραννοι_), and to whom, even more than to Harmodios and\nAristogeiton, Athens owed its liberty, would ever have been so\ntreacherous as to hold up a shield after the battle of Marathon as a\nsignal for the Persian host to fall on the city. A shield, he\nacknowledges, was held up, but it could not possibly have been done by\nsuch friends of liberty as the house of Alcmæon; nor will he believe that\na great king like Rhampsinitus would have sent his daughter _κατίσαι ἐπ’\nοἰκήματος_.\n\nElsewhere he argues from more general considerations of probability; a\nGreek courtesan like Rhodopis would hardly have been rich enough to build\na pyramid, and, besides, on chronological grounds the story is impossible\n(ii. 134).\n\nIn another passage (ii. 63), after giving an account of the forcible\nentry of the priests of Ares into the chapel of the god’s mother, which\nseems to have been a sort of religious faction fight where sticks were\nfreely used (_μάχη ξύλοισι καρτερή_), ‘I feel sure,’ he says, ‘that many\nof them died from getting their heads broken, notwithstanding the\nassertions of the Egyptian priests to the contrary.’ There is also\nsomething charmingly naïve in the account he gives of the celebrated\nGreek swimmer who dived a distance of eighty stadia to give his\ncountrymen warning of the Persian advance. ‘If, however,’ he says, ‘I\nmay offer an opinion on the subject, I would say that he came in a boat.’\n\nThere is, of course, something a little trivial in some of the instances\nI have quoted; but in a writer like Herodotus, who stands on the\nborderland between faith and rationalism, one likes to note even the most\nminute instances of the rise of the critical and sceptical spirit of\ninquiry.\n\nHow really strange, at base, it was with him may, I think, be shown by a\nreference to those passages where he applies rationalistic tests to\nmatters connected with religion. He nowhere, indeed, grapples with the\nmoral and scientific difficulties of the Greek Bible; and where he\nrejects as incredible the marvellous achievements of Hercules in Egypt,\nhe does so on the express grounds that he had not yet been received among\nthe gods, and so was still subject to the ordinary conditions of mortal\nlife (_ἔτι ἄνθρωπον ἐόντα_).\n\nEven within these limits, however, his religious conscience seems to have\nbeen troubled at such daring rationalism, and the passage (ii. 45)\nconcludes with a pious hope that God will pardon him for having gone so\nfar, the great rationalistic passage being, of course, that in which he\nrejects the mythical account of the foundation of Dodona. ‘How can a\ndove speak with a human voice?’ he asks, and rationalises the bird into a\nforeign princess.\n\nSimilarly he seems more inclined to believe that the great storm at the\nbeginning of the Persian War ceased from ordinary atmospheric causes, and\nnot in consequence of the incantations of the _Magians_. He calls\nMelampos, whom the majority of the Greeks looked on as an inspired\nprophet, ‘a clever man who had acquired for himself the art of prophecy’;\nand as regards the miracle told of the Æginetan statues of the primeval\ndeities of Damia and Auxesia, that they fell on their knees when the\nsacrilegious Athenians strove to carry them off, ‘any one may believe\nit,’ he says, ‘who likes, but as for myself, I place no credence in the\ntale.’\n\nSo much then for the rationalistic spirit of historical criticism, as far\nas it appears explicitly in the works of this great and philosophic\nwriter; but for an adequate appreciation of his position we must also\nnote how conscious he was of the value of documentary evidence, of the\nuse of inscriptions, of the importance of the poets as throwing light on\nmanners and customs as well as on historical incidents. No writer of any\nage has more vividly recognised the fact that history is a matter of\nevidence, and that it is as necessary for the historian to state his\nauthority as it is to produce one’s witnesses in a court of law.\n\nWhile, however, we can discern in Herodotus the rise of an historic\nsense, we must not blind ourselves to the large amount of instances where\nhe receives supernatural influences as part of the ordinary forces of\nlife. Compared to Thucydides, who succeeded him in the development of\nhistory, he appears almost like a mediæval writer matched with a modern\nrationalist. For, contemporary though they were, between these two\nauthors there is an infinite chasm of thought.\n\nThe essential difference of their methods may be best illustrated from\nthose passages where they treat of the same subject. The execution of\nthe Spartan heralds, Nicolaos and Aneristos, during the Peloponnesian War\nis regarded by Herodotus as one of the most supernatural instances of the\nworkings of nemesis and the wrath of an outraged hero; while the\nlengthened siege and ultimate fall of Troy was brought about by the\navenging hand of God desiring to manifest unto men the mighty penalties\nwhich always follow upon mighty sins. But Thucydides either sees not, or\ndesires not to see, in either of these events the finger of Providence,\nor the punishment of wicked doers. The death of the heralds is merely an\nAthenian retaliation for similar outrages committed by the opposite side;\nthe long agony of the ten years’ siege is due merely to the want of a\ngood commissariat in the Greek army; while the fall of the city is the\nresult of a united military attack consequent on a good supply of\nprovisions.\n\nNow, it is to be observed that in this latter passage, as well as\nelsewhere, Thucydides is in no sense of the word a sceptic as regards his\nattitude towards the truth of these ancient legends.\n\nAgamemnon and Atreus, Theseus and Eurystheus, even Minos, about whom\nHerodotus has some doubts, are to him as real personages as Alcibiades or\nGylippus. The points in his historical criticism of the past are, first,\nhis rejection of all extra-natural interference, and, secondly, the\nattributing to these ancient heroes the motives and modes of thought of\nhis own day. The present was to him the key to the explanation of the\npast, as it was to the prediction of the future.\n\nNow, as regards his attitude towards the supernatural he is at one with\nmodern science. We too know that, just as the primeval coal-beds reveal\nto us the traces of rain-drops and other atmospheric phenomena similar to\nthose of our own day, so, in estimating the history of the past, the\nintroduction of no force must be allowed whose workings we cannot observe\namong the phenomena around us. To lay down canons of ultra-historical\ncredibility for the explanation of events which happen to have preceded\nus by a few thousand years, is as thoroughly unscientific as it is to\nintermingle preternatural in geological theories.\n\nWhatever the canons of art may be, no difficulty in history is so great\nas to warrant the introduction of a spirit of spirit _θεὸς ἀπὸ μηχανῆς_,\nin the sense of a violation of the laws of nature.\n\nUpon the other point, however, Thucydides falls into an anachronism. To\nrefuse to allow the workings of chivalrous and self-denying motives among\nthe knights of the Trojan crusade, because he saw none in the\nfaction-loving Athenian of his own day, is to show an entire ignorance of\nthe various characteristics of human nature developing under different\ncircumstances, and to deny to a primitive chieftain like Agamemnon that\nauthority founded on opinion, to which we give the name of divine right,\nis to fall into an historical error quite as gross as attributing to\nAtreus the courting of the populace (_τεθεραπευκότα τὸν δῆμον_) with a\nview to the Mycenean throne.\n\nThe general method of historical criticism pursued by Thucydides having\nbeen thus indicated, it remains to proceed more into detail as regards\nthose particular points where he claims for himself a more rational\nmethod of estimating evidence than either the public or his predecessors\npossessed.\n\n‘So little pains,’ he remarks, ‘do the vulgar take in the investigation\nof truth, satisfied with their preconceived opinions,’ that the majority\nof the Greeks believe in a Pitanate cohort of the Spartan army and in a\ndouble vote being the prerogative of the Spartan kings, neither of which\nopinions has any foundation in fact. But the chief point on which he\nlays stress as evincing the ‘uncritical way with which men receive\nlegends, even the legends of their own country,’ is the entire\nbaselessness of the common Athenian tradition in which Harmodios and\nAristogeiton were represented as the patriotic liberators of Athens from\nthe Peisistratid tyranny. So far, he points out, from the love of\nfreedom being their motive, both of them were influenced by merely\npersonal considerations, Aristogeiton being jealous of Hipparchos’\nattention to Harmodios, then a beautiful boy in the flower of Greek\nloveliness, while the latter’s indignation was aroused by an insult\noffered to his sister by the prince.\n\nTheir motives, then, were personal revenge, while the result of their\nconspiracy served only to rivet more tightly the chains of servitude\nwhich bound Athens to the Peisistratid house, for Hipparchos, whom they\nkilled, was only the tyrant’s younger brother, and not the tyrant\nhimself.\n\nTo prove his theory that Hippias was the elder, he appeals to the\nevidence afforded by a public inscription in which his name occurs\nimmediately after that of his father, a point which he thinks shows that\nhe was the eldest, and so the heir. This view he further corroborates by\nanother inscription, on the altar of Apollo, which mentions the children\nof Hippias and not those of his brothers; ‘for it was natural for the\neldest to be married first’; and besides this, on the score of general\nprobability he points out that, had Hippias been the younger, he would\nnot have so easily obtained the tyranny on the death of Hipparchos.\n\nNow, what is important in Thucydides, as evinced in the treatment of\nlegend generally, is not the results he arrived at, but the method by\nwhich he works. The first great rationalistic historian, he may be said\nto have paved the way for all those who followed after him, though it\nmust always be remembered that, while the total absence in his pages of\nall the mystical paraphernalia of the supernatural theory of life is an\nadvance in the progress of rationalism, and an era in scientific history,\nwhose importance could never be over-estimated, yet we find along with it\na total absence of any mention of those various social and economical\nforces which form such important factors in the evolution of the world,\nand to which Herodotus rightly gave great prominence in his immortal\nwork. The history of Thucydides is essentially one-sided and incomplete.\nThe intricate details of sieges and battles, subjects with which the\nhistorian proper has really nothing to do except so far as they may throw\nlight on the spirit of the age, we would readily exchange for some notice\nof the condition of private society in Athens, or the influence and\nposition of women.\n\nThere is an advance in the method of historical criticism; there is an\nadvance in the conception and motive of history itself; for in Thucydides\nwe may discern that natural reaction against the intrusion of didactic\nand theological considerations into the sphere of the pure intellect, the\nspirit of which may be found in the Euripidean treatment of tragedy and\nthe later schools of art, as well as in the Platonic conception of\nscience.\n\nHistory, no doubt, has splendid lessons for our instruction, just as all\ngood art comes to us as the herald of the noblest truth. But, to set\nbefore either the painter or the historian the inculcation of moral\nlessons as an aim to be consciously pursued, is to miss entirely the true\nmotive and characteristic both of art and history, which is in the one\ncase the creation of beauty, in the other the discovery of the laws of\nthe evolution of progress: _Il ne faut demander de l’Art que l’Art_, _du\npassé que le passé_.\n\nHerodotus wrote to illustrate the wonderful ways of Providence and the\nnemesis that falls on sin, and his work is a good example of the truth\nthat nothing can dispense with criticism so much as a moral aim.\nThucydides has no creed to preach, no doctrine to prove. He analyses the\nresults which follow inevitably from certain antecedents, in order that\non a recurrence of the same crisis men may know how to act.\n\nHis object was to discover the laws of the past so as to serve as a light\nto illumine the future. We must not confuse the recognition of the\nutility of history with any ideas of a didactic aim. Two points more in\nThucydides remain for our consideration: his treatment of the rise of\nGreek civilisation, and of the primitive condition of Hellas, as well as\nthe question how far can he be said really to have recognised the\nexistence of laws regulating the complex phenomena of life.\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nTHE investigation into the two great problems of the origin of society\nand the philosophy of history occupies such an important position in the\nevolution of Greek thought that, to obtain any clear view of the workings\nof the critical spirit, it will be necessary to trace at some length\ntheir rise and scientific development as evinced not merely in the works\nof historians proper, but also in the philosophical treatises of Plato\nand Aristotle. The important position which these two great thinkers\noccupy in the progress of historical criticism can hardly be\nover-estimated. I do not mean merely as regards their treatment of the\nGreek Bible, and Plato’s endeavours to purge sacred history of its\nimmorality by the application of ethical canons at the time when\nAristotle was beginning to undermine the basis of miracles by his\nscientific conception of law, but with reference to these two wider\nquestions of the rise of civil institutions and the philosophy of\nhistory.\n\nAnd first, as regards the current theories of the primitive condition of\nsociety, there was a wide divergence of opinion in Hellenic society, just\nas there is now. For while the majority of the orthodox public, of whom\nHesiod may be taken as the representative, looked back, as a great many\nof our own day still do, to a fabulous age of innocent happiness, a\n_bell’ età dell’ auro_, where sin and death were unknown and men and\nwomen were like Gods, the foremost men of intellect such as Aristotle and\nPlato, Æschylus and many of the other poets {29} saw in primitive man ‘a\nfew small sparks of humanity preserved on the tops of mountains after\nsome deluge,’ ‘without an idea of cities, governments or legislation,’\n‘living the lives of wild beasts in sunless caves,’ ‘their only law being\nthe survival of the fittest.’\n\nAnd this, too, was the opinion of Thucydides, whose _Archæologia_ as it\nis contains a most valuable disquisition on the early condition of\nHellas, which it will be necessary to examine at some length.\n\nNow, as regards the means employed generally by Thucydides for the\nelucidation of ancient history, I have already pointed out how that,\nwhile acknowledging that ‘it is the tendency of every poet to exaggerate,\nas it is of every chronicler to seek to be attractive at the expense of\ntruth,’ he yet assumes in the thoroughly euhemeristic way, that under the\nveil of myth and legend there does yet exist a rational basis of fact\ndiscoverable by the method of rejecting all supernatural interference as\nwell as any extraordinary motives influencing the actors. It is in\ncomplete accordance with this spirit that he appeals, for instance, to\nthe Homeric epithet of _ἀφνειός_, as applied to Corinth, as a proof of\nthe early commercial prosperity of that city; to the fact of the generic\nname _Hellenes_ not occurring in the _Iliad_ as a corroboration of his\ntheory of the essentially disunited character of the primitive Greek\ntribes; and he argues from the line ‘O’er many islands and all Argos\nruled,’ as applied to Agamemnon, that his forces must have been partially\nnaval, ‘for Agamemnon’s was a continental power, and he could not have\nbeen master of any but the adjacent islands, and these would not be many\nbut through the possession of a fleet.’\n\nAnticipating in some measure the comparative method of research, he\nargues from the fact of the more barbarous Greek tribes, such as the\nÆtolians and Acarnanians, still carrying arms in his own day, that this\ncustom was the case originally over the whole country. ‘The fact,’ he\nsays, ‘that the people in these parts of Hellas are still living in the\nold way points to a time when the same mode of life was equally common to\nall.’ Similarly, in another passage, he shows how a corroboration of his\ntheory of the respectable character of piracy in ancient days is afforded\nby ‘the honour with which some of the inhabitants of the continent still\nregard a successful marauder,’ as well as by the fact that the question,\n‘Are you a pirate?’ is a common feature of primitive society as shown in\nthe poets; and finally, after observing how the old Greek custom of\nwearing belts in gymnastic contests still survived among the more\nuncivilised Asiatic tribes, he observes that there are many other points\nin which a likeness may be shown between the life of the primitive\nHellenes and that of the barbarians to-day.’\n\nAs regards the evidence afforded by ancient remains, while adducing as a\nproof of the insecure character of early Greek society the fact of their\ncities {31} being always built at some distance from the sea, yet he is\ncareful to warn us, and the caution ought to be borne in mind by all\narchæologists, that we have no right to conclude from the scanty remains\nof any city that its legendary greatness in primitive times was a mere\nexaggeration. ‘We are not justified,’ he says, ‘in rejecting the\ntradition of the magnitude of the Trojan armament, because Mycenæ and the\nother towns of that age seem to us small and insignificant. For, if\nLacedæmon was to become desolate, any antiquarian judging merely from its\nruins would be inclined to regard the tale of the Spartan hegemony as an\nidle myth; for the city is a mere collection of villages after the old\nfashion of Hellas, and has none of those splendid public buildings and\ntemples which characterise Athens, and whose remains, in the case of the\nlatter city, would be so marvellous as to lead the superficial observer\ninto an exaggerated estimate of the Athenian power.’ Nothing can be more\nscientific than the archæological canons laid down, whose truth is\nstrikingly illustrated to any one who has compared the waste fields of\nthe Eurotas plain with the lordly monuments of the Athenian acropolis.\n{32}\n\nOn the other hand, Thucydides is quite conscious of the value of the\npositive evidence afforded by archæological remains. He appeals, for\ninstance, to the character of the armour found in the Delian tombs and\nthe peculiar mode of sepulture, as corroboration of his theory of the\npredominance of the Carian element among the primitive islanders, and to\nthe concentration of all the temples either in the Acropolis, or in its\nimmediate vicinity, to the name of _ἄστυ_ by which it was still known,\nand to the extraordinary sanctity of the spring of water there, as proof\nthat the primitive city was originally confined to the citadel, and the\ndistrict immediately beneath it (ii. 16). And lastly, in the very\nopening of his history, anticipating one of the most scientific of modern\nmethods, he points out how in early states of civilisation immense\nfertility of the soil tends to favour the personal aggrandisement of\nindividuals, and so to stop the normal progress of the country through\n‘the rise of factions, that endless source of ruin’; and also by the\nallurements it offers to a foreign invader, to necessitate a continual\nchange of population, one immigration following on another. He\nexemplifies his theory by pointing to the endless political revolutions\nthat characterised Arcadia, Thessaly and Boeotia, the three richest spots\nin Greece, as well as by the negative instance of the undisturbed state\nin primitive time of Attica, which was always remarkable for the dryness\nand poverty of its soil.\n\nNow, while undoubtedly in these passages we may recognise the first\nanticipation of many of the most modern principles of research, we must\nremember how essentially limited is the range of the _archæologia_, and\nhow no theory at all is offered on the wider questions of the general\nconditions of the rise and progress of humanity, a problem which is first\nscientifically discussed in the _Republic_ of Plato.\n\nAnd at the outset it must be premised that, while the study of primitive\nman is an essentially inductive science, resting rather on the\naccumulation of evidence than on speculation, among the Greeks it was\nprosecuted rather on deductive principles. Thucydides did, indeed, avail\nhimself of the opportunities afforded by the unequal development of\ncivilisation in his own day in Greece, and in the places I have pointed\nout seems to have anticipated the comparative method. But we do not find\nlater writers availing themselves of the wonderfully accurate and\npicturesque accounts given by Herodotus of the customs of savage tribes.\nTo take one instance, which bears a good deal on modern questions, we\nfind in the works of this great traveller the gradual and progressive\nsteps in the development of the family life clearly manifested in the\nmere gregarious herding together of the Agathyrsi, their primitive\nkinsmanship through women in common, and the rise of a feeling of\npaternity from a state of polyandry. This tribe stood at that time on\nthat borderland between umbilical relationship and the family which has\nbeen such a difficult point for modern anthropologists to find.\n\nThe ancient authors, however, are unanimous in insisting that the family\nis the ultimate unit of society, though, as I have said, an inductive\nstudy of primitive races, or even the accounts given of them by\nHerodotus, would have shown them that the _νεοττιὰ ἴδια_ of a personal\nhousehold, to use Plato’s expression, is really a most complex notion\nappearing always in a late stage of civilisation, along with recognition\nof private property and the rights of individualism.\n\nPhilology also, which in the hands of modern investigators has proved\nsuch a splendid instrument of research, was in ancient days studied on\nprinciples too unscientific to be of much use. Herodotus points out that\nthe word _Eridanos_ is essentially Greek in character, that consequently\nthe river supposed to run round the world is probably a mere Greek\ninvention. His remarks, however, on language generally, as in the case\nof _Piromis_ and the ending of the Persian names, show on what unsound\nbasis his knowledge of language rested.\n\nIn the _Bacchæ_ of Euripides there is an extremely interesting passage in\nwhich the immoral stories of the Greek mythology are accounted for on the\nprinciple of that misunderstanding of words and metaphors to which modern\nscience has given the name of a disease of language. In answer to the\nimpious rationalism of Pentheus—a sort of modern Philistine—Teiresias,\nwho may be termed the Max Müller of the Theban cycle, points out that the\nstory of Dionysus being inclosed in Zeus’ thigh really arose from the\nlinguistic confusion between _μηρός_ and _ὅμηρος_.\n\nOn the whole, however—for I have quoted these two instances only to show\nthe unscientific character of early philology—we may say that this\nimportant instrument in recreating the history of the past was not really\nused by the ancients as a means of historical criticism. Nor did the\nancients employ that other method, used to such advantage in our own day,\nby which in the symbolism and formulas of an advanced civilisation we can\ndetect the unconscious survival of ancient customs: for, whereas in the\nsham capture of the bride at a marriage feast, which was common in Wales\ntill a recent time, we can discern the lingering reminiscence of the\nbarbarous habit of exogamy, the ancient writers saw only the deliberate\ncommemoration of an historical event.\n\nAristotle does not tell us by what method he discovered that the Greeks\nused to buy their wives in primitive times, but, judging by his general\nprinciples, it was probably through some legend or myth on the subject\nwhich lasted to his own day, and not, as we would do, by arguing back\nfrom the marriage presents given to the bride and her relatives. {37}\n\nThe origin of the common proverb ‘worth so many beeves,’ in which we\ndiscern the unconscious survival of a purely pastoral state of society\nbefore the use of metals was known, is ascribed by Plutarch to the fact\nof Theseus having coined money bearing a bull’s head. Similarly, the\nAmathusian festival, in which a young man imitated the labours of a woman\nin travail, is regarded by him as a rite instituted in Ariadne’s honour,\nand the Carian adoration of asparagus as a simple commemoration of the\nadventure of the nymph Perigune. In the first of these _we_ discern the\nbeginning of agnation and kinsmanship through the father, which still\nlingers in the ‘couvee’ of New Zealand tribes: while the second is a\nrelic of the totem and fetish worship of plants.\n\nNow, in entire opposition to this modern inductive principle of research\nstands the philosophic Plato, whose account of primitive man is entirely\nspeculative and deductive.\n\nThe origin of society he ascribes to necessity, the mother of all\ninventions, and imagines that individual man began deliberately to herd\ntogether on account of the advantages of the principle of division of\nlabour and the rendering of mutual need.\n\nIt must, however, be borne in mind that Plato’s object in this whole\npassage in the _Republic_ was, perhaps, not so much to analyse the\nconditions of early society as to illustrate the importance of the\ndivision of labour, the shibboleth of his political economy, by showing\nwhat a powerful factor it must have been in the most primitive as well as\nin the most complex states of society; just as in the _Laws_ he almost\nrewrites entirely the history of the Peloponnesus in order to prove the\nnecessity of a balance of power. He surely, I mean, must have recognised\nhimself how essentially incomplete his theory was in taking no account of\nthe origin of family life, the position and influence of women, and other\nsocial questions, as well as in disregarding those deeper motives of\nreligion, which are such important factors in early civilisation, and\nwhose influence Aristotle seems to have clearly apprehended, when he says\nthat the aim of primitive society was not merely life but the higher\nlife, and that in the origin of society utility is not the sole motive,\nbut that there is something spiritual in it if, at least, ‘spiritual’\nwill bring out the meaning of that complex expression _τὸ καλόν_.\nOtherwise, the whole account in the _Republic_ of primitive man will\nalways remain as a warning against the intrusion of _a priori_\nspeculations in the domain appropriate to induction.\n\nNow, Aristotle’s theory of the origin of society, like his philosophy of\nethics, rests ultimately on the principle of final causes, not in the\ntheological meaning of an aim or tendency imposed from without, but in\nthe scientific sense of function corresponding to organ. ‘Nature maketh\nno thing in vain’ is the text of Aristotle in this as in other inquiries.\nMan being the only animal possessed of the power of rational speech is,\nhe asserts, by nature intended to be social, more so than the bee or any\nother gregarious animal.\n\nHe is _φύσει πολιτικός_, and the national tendency towards higher forms\nof perfection brings the ‘armed savage who used to sell his wife’ to the\nfree independence of a free state, and to the _ἰσότης τοῦ ἄρχειν καὶ τοῦ\nἄρχεσθαι_, which was the test of true citizenship. The stages passed\nthrough by humanity start with the family first as the ultimate unit.\n\nThe conglomeration of families forms a village ruled by that patriarchal\nsway which is the oldest form of government in the world, as is shown by\nthe fact that all men count it to be the constitution of heaven, and the\nvillages are merged into the state, and here the progression stops.\n\nFor Aristotle, like all Greek thinkers, found his ideal within the walls\nof the _πόλις_, yet perhaps in his remark that a united Greece would rule\nthe world we may discern some anticipation of that ‘federal union of free\nstates into one consolidated empire’ which, more than the _πόλις_, is to\nour eyes the ultimately perfect polity.\n\nHow far Aristotle was justified in regarding the family as the ultimate\nunit, with the materials afforded to him by Greek literature, I have\nalready noticed. Besides, Aristotle, I may remark, had he reflected on\nthe meaning of that Athenian law which, while prohibiting marriage with a\nuterine sister, permitted it with a sister-german, or on the common\ntradition in Athens that before the time of Cecrops children bore their\nmothers’ names, or on some of the Spartan regulations, could hardly have\nfailed to see the universality of kinsmanship through women in early\ndays, and the late appearance of monandry. Yet, while he missed this\npoint, in common, it must be acknowledged, with many modern writers, such\nas Sir Henry Maine, it is essentially as an explorer of inductive\ninstances that we recognise his improvement on Plato. The treatise _περὶ\nπολιτείων_, did it remain to us in its entirety, would have been one of\nthe most valuable landmarks in the progress of historical criticism, and\nthe first scientific treatise on the science of comparative politics.\n\nA few fragments still remain to us, in one of which we find Aristotle\nappealing to the authority of an ancient inscription on the ‘Disk of\nIphitus,’ one of the most celebrated Greek antiquities, to corroborate\nhis theory of the Lycurgean revival of the Olympian festival; while his\nenormous research is evinced in the elaborate explanation he gives of the\nhistorical origin of proverbs such as _οὐδεῖς μέγας κακὸς ἰχθῦς_, of\nreligious songs like the _ἰῶμεν ἐς Ἀθήνας_ of the Botticean virgins, or\nthe praises of love and war.\n\nAnd, finally, it is to be observed how much wider than Plato’s his theory\nof the origin of society is. They both rest on a psychological basis,\nbut Aristotle’s recognition of the capacity for progress and the tendency\ntowards a higher life shows how much deeper his knowledge of human nature\nwas.\n\nIn imitation of these two philosophers, Polybius gives an account of the\norigin of society in the opening to his philosophy of history. Somewhat\nin the spirit of Plato, he imagines that after one of the cyclic deluges\nwhich sweep off mankind at stated periods and annihilate all pre-existing\ncivilisation, the few surviving members of humanity coalesce for mutual\nprotection, and, as in the case with ordinary animals, the one most\nremarkable for physical strength is elected king. In a short time, owing\nto the workings of sympathy and the desire of approbation, the moral\nqualities begin to make their appearance, and intellectual instead of\nbodily excellence becomes the qualification for sovereignty.\n\nOther points, as the rise of law and the like, are dwelt on in a somewhat\nmodern spirit, and although Polybius seems not to have employed the\ninductive method of research in this question, or rather, I should say,\nof the hierarchical order of the rational progress of ideas in life, he\nis not far removed from what the laborious investigations of modern\ntravellers have given us.\n\nAnd, indeed, as regards the working of the speculative faculty in the\ncreation of history, it is in all respects marvellous how that the most\ntruthful accounts of the passage from barbarism to civilisation in\nancient literature come from the works of poets. The elaborate\nresearches of Mr. Tylor and Sir John Lubbock have done little more than\nverify the theories put forward in the _Prometheus Bound_ and the _De\nNatura Rerum_; yet neither Æschylus nor Lucretias followed in the modern\npath, but rather attained to truth by a certain almost mystic power of\ncreative imagination, such as we now seek to banish from science as a\ndangerous power, though to it science seems to owe many of its most\nsplendid generalities. {43}\n\nLeaving then the question of the origin of society as treated by the\nancients, I shall now turn to the other and the more important question\nof how far they may he said to have attained to what we call the\nphilosophy of history.\n\nNow at the outset we must note that, while the conceptions of law and\norder have been universally received as the governing principles of the\nphenomena of nature in the sphere of physical science, yet their\nintrusion into the domain of history and the life of man has always been\nmet with a strong opposition, on the ground of the incalculable nature of\ntwo great forces acting on human action, a certain causeless spontaneity\nwhich men call free will, and the extra-natural interference which they\nattribute as a constant attribute to God.\n\nNow, that there is a science of the apparently variable phenomena of\nhistory is a conception which _we_ have perhaps only recently begun to\nappreciate; yet, like all other great thoughts, it seems to have come to\nthe Greek mind spontaneously, through a certain splendour of imagination,\nin the morning tide of their civilisation, before inductive research had\narmed them with the instruments of verification. For I think it is\npossible to discern in some of the mystic speculations of the early Greek\nthinkers that desire to discover what is that ‘invariable existence of\nwhich there are variable states,’ and to incorporate it in some one\nformula of law which may serve to explain the different manifestations of\nall organic bodies, _man included_, which is the germ of the philosophy\nof history; the germ indeed of an idea of which it is not too much to say\nthat on it any kind of historical criticism, worthy of the name, must\nultimately rest.\n\nFor the very first requisite for any scientific conception of history is\nthe doctrine of uniform sequence: in other words, that certain events\nhaving happened, certain other events corresponding to them will happen\nalso; that the past is the key of the future.\n\nNow at the birth of this great conception science, it is true, presided,\nyet religion it was which at the outset clothed it in its own garb, and\nfamiliarised men with it by appealing to their hearts first and then to\ntheir intellects; knowing that at the beginning of things it is through\nthe moral nature, and not through the intellectual, that great truths are\nspread.\n\nSo in Herodotus, who may be taken as a representative of the orthodox\ntone of thought, the idea of the uniform sequence of cause and effect\nappears under the theological aspect of Nemesis and Providence, which is\nreally the scientific conception of law, only it is viewed from an\n_ethical_ standpoint.\n\nNow in Thucydides the philosophy of history rests on the probability,\nwhich the uniformity of human nature affords us, that the future will in\nthe course of human things resemble the past, if not reproduce it. He\nappears to contemplate a recurrence of the phenomena of history as\nequally certain with a return of the epidemic of the Great Plague.\n\nNotwithstanding what German critics have written on the subject, we must\nbeware of regarding this conception as a mere reproduction of that cyclic\ntheory of events which sees in the world nothing but the regular rotation\nof Strophe and Antistrophe, in the eternal choir of life and death.\n\nFor, in his remarks on the excesses of the Corcyrean Revolution,\nThucydides distinctly rests his idea of the recurrence of history on the\npsychological grounds of the general sameness of mankind.\n\n‘The sufferings,’ he says, ‘which revolution entailed upon the cities\nwere many and terrible, such as have occurred and always will occurs as\nlong as human nature remains the same, though in a severer or milder\nform, and varying in their symptoms according to the variety of the\nparticular cases.\n\n‘In peace and prosperity states and individuals have better sentiments,\nbecause they are not confronted with imperious necessities; but war takes\naway the easy supply of men’s wants, and so proves a hard taskmaster,\nwhich brings most men’s characters to a level with their fortunes.’\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nIT is evident that here Thucydides is ready to admit the variety of\nmanifestations which external causes bring about in their workings on the\nuniform character of the nature of man. Yet, after all is said, these\nare perhaps but very general statements: the ordinary effects of peace\nand war are dwelt on, but there is no real analysis of the immediate\ncauses and general laws of the phenomena of life, nor does Thucydides\nseem to recognise the truth that if humanity proceeds in circles, the\ncircles are always widening.\n\nPerhaps we may say that with him the philosophy of history is partly in\nthe metaphysical stage, and see, in the progress of this idea from\nHerodotus to Polybius, the exemplification of the Comtian Law of the\nthree stages of thought, the theological, the metaphysical, and the\nscientific: for truly out of the vagueness of theological mysticism this\nconception which we call the Philosophy of History was raised to a\nscientific principle, according to which the past was explained and the\nfuture predicted by reference to general laws.\n\nNow, just as the earliest account of the nature of the progress of\nhumanity is to be found in Plato, so in him we find the first explicit\nattempt to found a universal philosophy of history upon wide rational\ngrounds. Having created an ideally perfect state, the philosopher\nproceeds to give an elaborate theory of the complex causes which produce\nrevolutions, of the moral effects of various forms of government and\neducation, of the rise of the criminal classes and their connection with\npauperism, and, in a word, to create history by the deductive method and\nto proceed from _a priori_ psychological principles to discover the\ngoverning laws of the apparent chaos of political life.\n\nThere have been many attempts since Plato to deduce from a single\nphilosophical principle all the phenomena which experience subsequently\nverifies for us. Fichte thought he could predict the world-plan from the\nidea of universal time. Hegel dreamed he had found the key to the\nmysteries of life in the development of freedom, and Krause in the\ncategories of being. But the one scientific basis on which the true\nphilosophy of history must rest is the complete knowledge of the laws of\nhuman nature in all its wants, its aspirations, its powers and its\ntendencies: and this great truth, which Thucydides may be said in some\nmeasure to have apprehended, was given to us first by Plato.\n\nNow, it cannot be accurately said of this philosopher that either his\nphilosophy or his history is entirely and simply _a priori_. _On est de\nson siècle même quand on y proteste_, and so we find in him continual\nreferences to the Spartan mode of life, the Pythagorean system, the\ngeneral characteristics of Greek tyrannies and Greek democracies. For\nwhile, in his account of the method of forming an ideal state, he says\nthat the political artist is indeed to fix his gaze on the sun of\nabstract truth in the heavens of the pure reason, but is sometimes to\nturn to the realisation of the ideals on earth: yet, after all, the\ngeneral character of the Platonic method, which is what we are specially\nconcerned with, is essentially deductive and _a priori_. And he himself,\nin the building up of his Nephelococcygia, certainly starts with a\n_καθαρὸς πίναξ_, making a clean sweep of all history and all experience;\nand it was essentially as an _a priori_ theorist that he is criticised by\nAristotle, as we shall see later.\n\nTo proceed to closer details regarding the actual scheme of the laws of\npolitical revolutions as drawn out by Plato, we must first note that the\nprimary cause of the decay of the ideal state is the general principle,\ncommon to the vegetable and animal worlds as well as to the world of\nhistory, that all created things are fated to decay—a principle which,\nthough expressed in the terms of a mere metaphysical abstraction, is yet\nperhaps in its essence scientific. For we too must hold that a\ncontinuous redistribution of matter and motion is the inevitable result\nof the nominal persistence of Force, and that perfect equilibrium is as\nimpossible in politics as it certainly is in physics.\n\nThe secondary causes which mar the perfection of the Platonic ‘city of\nthe sun’ are to be found in the intellectual decay of the race consequent\non injudicious marriages and in the Philistine elevation of physical\nachievements over mental culture; while the hierarchical succession of\nTimocracy and Oligarchy, Democracy and Tyranny, is dwelt on at great\nlength and its causes analysed in a very dramatic and psychological\nmanner, if not in that sanctioned by the actual order of history.\n\nAnd indeed it is apparent at first sight that the Platonic succession of\nstates represents rather the succession of ideas in the philosophic mind\nthan any historical succession of time.\n\nAristotle meets the whole simply by an appeal to facts. If the theory of\nthe periodic decay of all created things, he urges, be scientific, it\nmust be universal, and so true of all the other states as well as of the\nideal. Besides, a state usually changes into its contrary and not to the\nform next to it; so the ideal state would not change into Timocracy;\nwhile Oligarchy, more often than Tyranny, succeeds Democracy. Plato,\nbesides, says nothing of what a Tyranny would change to. According to\nthe cycle theory it ought to pass into the ideal state again, but as a\nfact one Tyranny is changed into another as at Sicyon, or into a\nDemocracy as at Syracuse, or into an Aristocracy as at Carthage. The\nexample of Sicily, too, shows that an Oligarchy is often followed by a\nTyranny, as at Leontini and Gela. Besides, it is absurd to represent\ngreed as the chief motive of decay, or to talk of avarice as the root of\nOligarchy, when in nearly all true oligarchies money-making is forbidden\nby law. And finally the Platonic theory neglects the different kinds of\ndemocracies and of tyrannies.\n\nNow nothing can be more important than this passage in Aristotle’s\n_Politics_ (_v._ 12.), which may he said to mark an era in the evolution\nof historical criticism. For there is nothing on which Aristotle insists\nso strongly as that the generalisations from facts ought to be added to\nthe data of the _a priori_ method—a principle which we know to be true\nnot merely of deductive speculative politics but of physics also: for are\nnot the residual phenomena of chemists a valuable source of improvement\nin theory?\n\nHis own method is essentially historical though by no means empirical.\nOn the contrary, this far-seeing thinker, rightly styled _il maestro di\ncolor che sanno_, may be said to have apprehended clearly that the true\nmethod is neither exclusively empirical nor exclusively speculative, but\nrather a union of both in the process called Analysis or the\nInterpretation of Facts, which has been defined as the application to\nfacts of such general conceptions as may fix the important\ncharacteristics of the phenomena, and present them permanently in their\ntrue relations. He too was the first to point out, what even in our own\nday is incompletely appreciated, that nature, including the development\nof man, is not full of incoherent episodes like a bad tragedy, that\ninconsistency and anomaly are as impossible in the moral as they are in\nthe physical world, and that where the superficial observer thinks he\nsees a revolution the philosophical critic discerns merely the gradual\nand rational evolution of the inevitable results of certain antecedents.\n\nAnd while admitting the necessity of a psychological basis for the\nphilosophy of history, he added to it the important truth that man, to be\napprehended in his proper position in the universe as well as in his\nnatural powers, must be studied from below in the hierarchical\nprogression of higher function from the lower forms of life. The\nimportant maxim, that to obtain a clear conception of anything we must\n‘study it in its growth from the very beginning,’ is formally set down in\nthe opening of the _Politics_, where, indeed, we shall find the other\ncharacteristic features of the modern Evolutionary theory, such as the\n‘Differentiation of Function’ and the ‘Survival of the Fittest’\nexplicitly set forth.\n\nWhat a valuable step this was in the improvement of the method of\nhistorical criticism it is needless to point out. By it, one may say,\nthe true thread was given to guide one’s steps through the bewildering\nlabyrinth of facts. For history (to use terms with which Aristotle has\nmade us familiar) may be looked at from two essentially different\nstandpoints; either as a work of art whose _τέλος_ or final cause is\nexternal to it and imposed on it from without; or as an organism\ncontaining the law of its own development in itself, and working out its\nperfection merely by the fact of being what it is. Now, if we adopt the\nformer, which we may style the theological view, we shall be in continual\ndanger of tripping into the pitfall of some _a priori_ conclusion—that\nbourne from which, it has been truly said, no traveller ever returns.\n\nThe latter is the only scientific theory and was apprehended in its\nfulness by Aristotle, whose application of the inductive method to\nhistory, and whose employment of the evolutionary theory of humanity,\nshow that he was conscious that the philosophy of history is nothing\nseparate from the facts of history but is contained in them, and that the\nrational law of the complex phenomena of life, like the ideal in the\nworld of thought, is to be reached through the facts, not superimposed on\nthem—_κατὰ πολλῶν_ not _παρὰ πολλά_.\n\nAnd finally, in estimating the enormous debt which the science of\nhistorical criticism owes to Aristotle, we must not pass over his\nattitude towards those two great difficulties in the formation of a\nphilosophy of history on which I have touched above. I mean the\nassertion of extra-natural interference with the normal development of\nthe world and of the incalculable influence exercised by the power of\nfree will.\n\nNow, as regards the former, he may be said to have neglected it entirely.\nThe special acts of providence proceeding from God’s immediate government\nof the world, which Herodotus saw as mighty landmarks in history, would\nhave been to him essentially disturbing elements in that universal reign\nof law, the extent of whose limitless empire he of all the great thinkers\nof antiquity was the first explicitly to recognise.\n\nStanding aloof from the popular religion as well as from the deeper\nconceptions of Herodotus and the Tragic School, he no longer thought of\nGod as of one with fair limbs and treacherous face haunting wood and\nglade, nor would he see in him a jealous judge continually interfering in\nthe world’s history to bring the wicked to punishment and the proud to a\nfall. God to him was the incarnation of the pure Intellect, a being\nwhose activity was the contemplation of his own perfection, one whom\nPhilosophy might imitate but whom prayers could never move, to the\nsublime indifference of whose passionless wisdom what were the sons of\nmen, their desires or their sins? While, as regards the other difficulty\nand the formation of a philosophy of history, the conflict of free will\nwith general laws appears first in Greek thought in the usual theological\nform in which all great ideas seem to be cradled at their birth.\n\nIt was such legends as those of Œdipus and Adrastus, exemplifying the\nstruggles of individual humanity against the overpowering force of\ncircumstances and necessity, which gave to the early Greeks those same\nlessons which we of modern days draw, in somewhat less artistic fashion,\nfrom the study of statistics and the laws of physiology.\n\nIn Aristotle, of course, there is no trace of supernatural influence.\nThe Furies, which drive their victim into sin first and then punishment,\nare no longer ‘viper-tressed goddesses with eyes and mouth aflame,’ but\nthose evil thoughts which harbour within the impure soul. In this, as in\nall other points, to arrive at Aristotle is to reach the pure atmosphere\nof scientific and modern thought.\n\nBut while he rejected pure necessitarianism in its crude form as\nessentially a _reductio ad absurdum_ of life, he was fully conscious of\nthe fact that the will is not a mysterious and ultimate unit of force\nbeyond which we cannot go and whose special characteristic is\ninconsistency, but a certain creative attitude of the mind which is, from\nthe first, continually influenced by habits, education and circumstance;\nso absolutely modifiable, in a word, that the good and the bad man alike\nseem to lose the power of free will; for the one is morally unable to\nsin, the other physically incapacitated for reformation.\n\nAnd of the influence of climate and temperature in forming the nature of\nman (a conception perhaps pressed too far in modern days when the ‘race\ntheory’ is supposed to be a sufficient explanation of the Hindoo, and the\nlatitude and longitude of a country the best guide to its morals {57})\nAristotle is completely unaware. I do not allude to such smaller points\nas the oligarchical tendencies of a horse-breeding country and the\ndemocratic influence of the proximity of the sea (important though they\nare for the consideration of Greek history), but rather to those wider\nviews in the seventh book of his _Politics_, where he attributes the\nhappy union in the Greek character of intellectual attainments with the\nspirit of progress to the temperate climate they enjoyed, and points out\nhow the extreme cold of the north dulls the mental faculties of its\ninhabitants and renders them incapable of social organisation or extended\nempire; while to the enervating heat of eastern countries was due that\nwant of spirit and bravery which then, as now, was the characteristic of\nthe population in that quarter of the globe.\n\nThucydides has shown the causal connection between political revolutions\nand the fertility of the soil, but goes a step farther and points out the\npsychological influences on a people’s character exercised by the various\nextremes of climate—in both cases the first appearance of a most valuable\nform of historical criticism.\n\nTo the development of Dialectic, as to God, intervals of time are of no\naccount. From Plato and Aristotle we pass direct to Polybius.\n\nThe progress of thought from the philosopher of the Academe to the\nArcadian historian may be best illustrated by a comparison of the method\nby which each of the three writers, whom I have selected as the highest\nexpression of the rationalism of his respective age, attained to his\nideal state: for the latter conception may be in a measure regarded as\nrepresenting the most spiritual principle which they could discern in\nhistory.\n\nNow, Plato created his on _a priori_ principles; Aristotle formed his by\nan analysis of existing constitutions; Polybius found his realised for\nhim in the actual world of fact. Aristotle criticised the deductive\nspeculations of Plato by means of inductive negative instances, but\nPolybius will not take the ‘Cloud City’ of the _Republic_ into account at\nall. He compares it to an athlete who has never run on ‘Constitution\nHill,’ to a statue so beautiful that it is entirely removed from the\nordinary conditions of humanity, and consequently from the canons of\ncriticism.\n\nThe Roman state had attained in his eyes, by means of the mutual\ncounteraction of three opposing forces, {59} that stable equilibrium in\npolitics which was the ideal of all the theoretical writers of antiquity.\nAnd in connection with this point it will be convenient to notice here\nhow much truth there is contained in the accusation often brought against\nthe ancients that they knew nothing of the idea of Progress, for the\nmeaning of many of their speculations will be hidden from us if we do not\ntry and comprehend first what their aim was, and secondly why it was so.\n\nNow, like all wide generalities, this statement is at least inaccurate.\nThe prayer of Plato’s ideal City—_ἐξ ἀγαθῶν ἀμείνους_, _καὶ ἐξ ὠφελιμῶν\nὠφελιμωτέρους ἀεὶ τοὺς ἐκγόνους γίγνεσθαι_, might be written as a text\nover the door of the last Temple to Humanity raised by the disciples of\nFourier and Saint-Simon, but it is certainly true that their ideal\nprinciple was order and permanence, not indefinite progress. For,\nsetting aside the artistic prejudices which would have led the Greeks to\nreject this idea of unlimited improvement, we may note that the modern\nconception of progress rests partly on the new enthusiasm and worship of\nhumanity, partly on the splendid hopes of material improvements in\ncivilisation which applied science has held out to us, two influences\nfrom which ancient Greek thought seems to have been strangely free. For\nthe Greeks marred the perfect humanism of the great men whom they\nworshipped, by imputing to them divinity and its supernatural powers;\nwhile their science was eminently speculative and often almost mystic in\nits character, aiming at culture and not utility, at higher spirituality\nand more intense reverence for law, rather than at the increased\nfacilities of locomotion and the cheap production of common things about\nwhich our modern scientific school ceases not to boast. And lastly, and\nperhaps chiefly, we must remember that the ‘plague spot of all Greek\nstates,’ as one of their own writers has called it, was the terrible\ninsecurity to life and property which resulted from the factions and\nrevolutions which ceased not to trouble Greece at all times, raising a\nspirit of fanaticism such as religion raised in the middle ages of\nEurope.\n\nThese considerations, then, will enable us to understand first how it was\nthat, radical and unscrupulous reformers as the Greek political theorists\nwere, yet, their end once attained, no modern conservatives raised such\noutcry against the slightest innovation. Even acknowledged improvements\nin such things as the games of children or the modes of music were\nregarded by them with feelings of extreme apprehension as the herald of\nthe _drapeau rouge_ of reform. And secondly, it will show us how it was\nthat Polybius found his ideal in the commonwealth of Rome, and Aristotle,\nlike Mr. Bright, in the middle classes. Polybius, however, is not\ncontent merely with pointing out his ideal state, but enters at\nconsiderable length into the question of those general laws whose\nconsideration forms the chief essential of the philosophy of history.\n\nHe starts by accepting the general principle that all things are fated to\ndecay (which I noticed in the case of Plato), and that ‘as iron produces\nrust and as wood breeds the animals that destroy it, so every state has\nin it the seeds of its own corruption.’ He is not, however, content to\nrest there, but proceeds to deal with the more immediate causes of\nrevolutions, which he says are twofold in nature, either external or\ninternal. Now, the former, depending as they do on the synchronous\nconjunction of other events outside the sphere of scientific estimation,\nare from their very character incalculable; but the latter, though\nassuming many forms, always result from the over-great preponderance of\nany single element to the detriment of the others, the rational law lying\nat the base of all varieties of political changes being that stability\ncan result only from the statical equilibrium produced by the\ncounteraction of opposing parts, since the more simple a constitution is\nthe more it is insecure. Plato had pointed out before how the extreme\nliberty of a democracy always resulted in despotism, but Polybius\nanalyses the law and shows the scientific principles on which it rests.\n\nThe doctrine of the instability of pure constitutions forms an important\nera in the philosophy of history. Its special applicability to the\npolitics of our own day has been illustrated in the rise of the great\nNapoleon, when the French state had lost those divisions of caste and\nprejudice, of landed aristocracy and moneyed interest, institutions in\nwhich the vulgar see only barriers to Liberty but which are indeed the\nonly possible defences against the coming of that periodic Sirius of\npolitics, the _τύραννος ἐκ προστατικῆς ῥίζης_.\n\nThere is a principle which Tocqueville never wearies of explaining, and\nwhich has been subsumed by Mr. Herbert Spencer under that general law\ncommon to all organic bodies which we call the Instability of the\nHomogeneous. The various manifestations of this law, as shown in the\nnormal, regular revolutions and evolutions of the different forms of\ngovernment, {63a} are expounded with great clearness by Polybius, who\nclaimed for his theory, in the Thucydidean spirit, that it is a _κτῆμα ἐς\nἀεί_, not a mere _ἀγώνισμα ἐς τὸ παραχρῆμα_, and that a knowledge of it\nwill enable the impartial observer {63b} to discover at any time what\nperiod of its constitutional evolution any particular state has already\nreached and into what form it will be next differentiated, though\npossibly the exact time of the changes may be more or less uncertain.\n{63c}\n\nNow in this necessarily incomplete account of the laws of political\nrevolutions as expounded by Polybius enough perhaps has been said to show\nwhat is his true position in the rational development of the ‘Idea’ which\nI have called the Philosophy of History, because it is the unifying of\nhistory. Seen darkly as it is through the glass of religion in the pages\nof Herodotus, more metaphysical than scientific with Thucydides, Plato\nstrove to seize it by the eagle-flight of speculation, to reach it with\nthe eager grasp of a soul impatient of those slower and surer inductive\nmethods which Aristotle, in his trenchant criticism of his greater\nmaster, showed were more brilliant than any vague theory, if the test of\nbrilliancy is truth.\n\nWhat then is the position of Polybius? Does any new method remain for\nhim? Polybius was one of those many men who are born too late to be\noriginal. To Thucydides belongs the honour of being the first in the\nhistory of Greek thought to discern the supreme calm of law and order\nunderlying the fitful storms of life, and Plato and Aristotle each\nrepresents a great new principle. To Polybius belongs the office—how\nnoble an office he made it his writings show—of making more explicit the\nideas which were implicit in his predecessors, of showing that they were\nof wider applicability and perhaps of deeper meaning than they had seemed\nbefore, of examining with more minuteness the laws which they had\ndiscovered, and finally of pointing out more clearly than any one had\ndone the range of science and the means it offered for analysing the\npresent and predicting what was to come. His office thus was to gather\nup what they had left, to give their principles new life by a wider\napplication.\n\nPolybius ends this great diapason of Greek thought. When the Philosophy\nof history appears next, as in Plutarch’s tract on ‘Why God’s anger is\ndelayed,’ the pendulum of thought had swung back to where it began. His\ntheory was introduced to the Romans under the cultured style of Cicero,\nand was welcomed by them as the philosophical panegyric of their state.\nThe last notice of it in Latin literature is in the pages of Tacitus, who\nalludes to the stable polity formed out of these elements as a\nconstitution easier to commend than to produce and in no case lasting.\nYet Polybius had seen the future with no uncertain eye, and had\nprophesied the rise of the Empire from the unbalanced power of the\nochlocracy fifty years and more before there was joy in the Julian\nhousehold over the birth of that boy who, born to power as the champion\nof the people, died wearing the purple of a king.\n\nNo attitude of historical criticism is more important than the means by\nwhich the ancients attained to the philosophy of history. The principle\nof heredity can be exemplified in literature as well as in organic life:\nAristotle, Plato and Polybius are the lineal ancestors of Fichte and\nHegel, of Vico and Cousin, of Montesquieu and Tocqueville.\n\nAs my aim is not to give an account of historians but to point out those\ngreat thinkers whose methods have furthered the advance of this spirit of\nhistorical criticism, I shall pass over those annalists and chroniclers\nwho intervened between Thucydides and Polybius. Yet perhaps it may serve\nto throw new light on the real nature of this spirit and its intimate\nconnection with all other forms of advanced thought if I give some\nestimate of the character and rise of those many influences prejudicial\nto the scientific study of history which cause such a wide gap between\nthese two historians.\n\nForemost among these is the growing influence of rhetoric and the\nIsocratean school, which seems to have regarded history as an arena for\nthe display either of pathos or paradoxes, not a scientific investigation\ninto laws.\n\nThe new age is the age of style. The same spirit of exclusive attention\nto form which made Euripides often, like Swinburne, prefer music to\nmeaning and melody to morality, which gave to the later Greek statues\nthat refined effeminacy, that overstrained gracefulness of attitude, was\nfelt in the sphere of history. The rules laid down for historical\ncomposition are those relating to the æsthetic value of digressions, the\nlegality of employing more than one metaphor in the same sentence, and\nthe like; and historians are ranked not by their power of estimating\nevidence but by the goodness of the Greek they write.\n\nI must note also the important influence on literature exercised by\nAlexander the Great; for while his travels encouraged the more accurate\nresearch of geography, the very splendour of his achievements seems to\nhave brought history again into the sphere of romance. The appearance of\nall great men in the world is followed invariably by the rise of that\nmythopœic spirit and that tendency to look for the marvellous, which is\nso fatal to true historical criticism. An Alexander, a Napoleon, a\nFrancis of Assisi and a Mahomet are thought to be outside the limiting\nconditions of rational law, just as comets were supposed to be not very\nlong ago. While the founding of that city of Alexandria, in which\nWestern and Eastern thought met with such strange result to both,\ndiverted the critical tendencies of the Greek spirit into questions of\ngrammar, philology and the like, the narrow, artificial atmosphere of\nthat University town (as we may call it) was fatal to the development of\nthat independent and speculative spirit of research which strikes out new\nmethods of inquiry, of which historical criticism is one.\n\nThe Alexandrines combined a great love of learning with an ignorance of\nthe true principles of research, an enthusiastic spirit for accumulating\nmaterials with a wonderful incapacity to use them. Not among the hot\nsands of Egypt, or the Sophists of Athens, but from the very heart of\nGreece rises the man of genius on whose influence in the evolution of the\nphilosophy of history I have a short time ago dwelt. Born in the serene\nand pure air of the clear uplands of Arcadia, Polybius may be said to\nreproduce in his work the character of the place which gave him birth.\nFor, of all the historians—I do not say of antiquity but of all time—none\nis more rationalistic than he, none more free from any belief in the\n‘visions and omens, the monstrous legends, the grovelling superstitions\nand unmanly craving for the supernatural’ (_δεισιδαιμονίας ἀγεννοῦς καὶ\nτερατείας γυναικώδους_ {68}) which he himself is compelled to notice as\nthe characteristics of some of the historians who preceded him.\nFortunate in the land which bore him, he was no less blessed in the\nwondrous time of his birth. For, representing in himself the spiritual\nsupremacy of the Greek intellect and allied in bonds of chivalrous\nfriendship to the world-conqueror of his day, he seems led as it were by\nthe hand of Fate ‘to comprehend,’ as has been said, ‘more clearly than\nthe Romans themselves the historical position of Rome,’ and to discern\nwith greater insight than all other men could those two great resultants\nof ancient civilisation, the material empire of the city of the seven\nhills, and the intellectual sovereignty of Hellas.\n\nBefore his own day, he says, {69a} the events of the world were\nunconnected and separate and the histories confined to particular\ncountries. Now, for the first time the universal empire of the Romans\nrendered a universal history possible. {69b} This, then, is the august\nmotive of his work: to trace the gradual rise of this Italian city from\nthe day when the first legion crossed the narrow strait of Messina and\nlanded on the fertile fields of Sicily to the time when Corinth in the\nEast and Carthage in the West fell before the resistless wave of empire\nand the eagles of Rome passed on the wings of universal victory from\nCalpe and the Pillars of Hercules to Syria and the Nile. At the same\ntime he recognised that the scheme of Rome’s empire was worked out under\nthe ægis of God’s will. {69c} For, as one of the Middle Age scribes most\ntruly says, the _τύχη_ of Polybius is that power which we Christians call\nGod; the second aim, as one may call it, of his history is to point out\nthe rational and human and natural causes which brought this result,\ndistinguishing, as we should say, between God’s mediate and immediate\ngovernment of the world.\n\nWith any direct intervention of God in the normal development of Man, he\nwill have nothing to do: still less with any idea of chance as a factor\nin the phenomena of life. Chance and miracles, he says, are mere\nexpressions for our ignorance of rational causes. The spirit of\nrationalism which we recognised in Herodotus as a vague uncertain\nattitude and which appears in Thucydides as a consistent attitude of mind\nnever argued about or even explained, is by Polybius analysed and\nformulated as the great instrument of historical research.\n\nHerodotus, while believing on principle in the supernatural, yet was\nsceptical at times. Thucydides simply ignored the supernatural. He did\nnot discuss it, but he annihilated it by explaining history without it.\nPolybius enters at length into the whole question and explains its origin\nand the method of treating it. Herodotus would have believed in Scipio’s\ndream. Thucydides would have ignored it entirely. Polybius explains it.\nHe is the culmination of the rational progression of Dialectic.\n‘Nothing,’ he says, ‘shows a foolish mind more than the attempt to\naccount for any phenomena on the principle of chance or supernatural\nintervention. History is a search for rational causes, and there is\nnothing in the world—even those phenomena which seem to us the most\nremote from law and improbable—which is not the logical and inevitable\nresult of certain rational antecedents.’\n\nSome things, of course, are to be rejected _a priori_ without entering\ninto the subject: ‘As regards such miracles,’ he says, {71} ‘as that on a\ncertain statue of Artemis rain or snow never falls though the statue\nstands in the open air, or that those who enter God’s shrine in Arcadia\nlose their natural shadows, I cannot really be expected to argue upon the\nsubject. For these things are not only utterly improbable but absolutely\nimpossible.’\n\n‘For us to argue reasonably on an acknowledged absurdity is as vain a\ntask as trying to catch water in a sieve; it is really to admit the\npossibility of the supernatural, which is the very point at issue.’\n\nWhat Polybius felt was that to admit the possibility of a miracle is to\nannihilate the possibility of history: for just as scientific and\nchemical experiments would be either impossible or useless if exposed to\nthe chance of continued interference on the part of some foreign body, so\nthe laws and principles which govern history, the causes of phenomena,\nthe evolution of progress, the whole science, in a word, of man’s\ndealings with his own race and with nature, will remain a sealed book to\nhim who admits the possibility of extra-natural interference.\n\nThe stories of miracles, then, are to be rejected on _a priori_ rational\ngrounds, but in the case of events which we know to have happened the\nscientific historian will not rest till he has discovered their natural\ncauses which, for instance, in the case of the wonderful rise of the\nRoman Empire—the most marvellous thing, Polybius says, which God ever\nbrought about {72a}—are to be found in the excellence of their\nconstitution (_τῇ ἰδιότητι τῆς πολιτείας_), the wisdom of their advisers,\ntheir splendid military arrangements, and their superstition (_τῇ\nδεισιδαιμονίᾳ_). For while Polybius regarded the revealed religion as,\nof course, objective reality of truth, {72b} he laid great stress on its\nmoral subjective influence, going, in one passage on the subject, even so\nfar as almost to excuse the introduction of the supernatural in very\nsmall quantities into history on account of the extremely good effect it\nwould have on pious people.\n\nBut perhaps there is no passage in the whole of ancient and modern\nhistory which breathes such a manly and splendid spirit of rationalism as\none preserved to us in the Vatican—strange resting-place for it!—in which\nhe treats of the terrible decay of population which had fallen on his\nnative land in his own day, and which by the general orthodox public was\nregarded as a special judgment of God sending childlessness on women as a\npunishment for the sins of the people. For it was a disaster quite\nwithout parallel in the history of the land, and entirely unforeseen by\nany of its political-economy writers who, on the contrary, were always\nanticipating that danger would arise from an excess of population\noverrunning its means of subsistence, and becoming unmanageable through\nits size. Polybius, however, will have nothing to do with either priest\nor worker of miracles in this matter. He will not even seek that ‘sacred\nHeart of Greece,’ Delphi, Apollo’s shrine, whose inspiration even\nThucydides admitted and before whose wisdom Socrates bowed. How foolish,\nhe says, were the man who on this matter would pray to God. We must\nsearch for the rational causes, and the causes are seen to be clear, and\nthe method of prevention also. He then proceeds to notice how all this\narose from the general reluctance to marriage and to bearing the expense\nof educating a large family which resulted from the carelessness and\navarice of the men of his day, and he explains on entirely rational\nprinciples the whole of this apparently supernatural judgment.\n\nNow, it is to be borne in mind that while his rejection of miracles as\nviolation of inviolable laws is entirely _a priori_—for discussion of\nsuch a matter is, of course, impossible for a rational thinker—yet his\nrejection of supernatural intervention rests entirely on the scientific\ngrounds of the necessity of looking for natural causes. And he is quite\nlogical in maintaining his position on these principles. For, where it\nis either difficult or impossible to assign any rational cause for\nphenomena, or to discover their laws, he acquiesces reluctantly in the\nalternative of admitting some extra-natural interference which his\nessentially scientific method of treating the matter has logically forced\non him, approving, for instance, of prayers for rain, on the express\nground that the laws of meteorology had not yet been ascertained. He\nwould, of course, have been the first to welcome our modern discoveries\nin the matter. The passage in question is in every way one of the most\ninteresting in his whole work, not, of course, as signifying any\ninclination on his part to acquiesce in the supernatural, but because it\nshows how essentially logical and rational his method of argument was,\nand how candid and fair his mind.\n\nHaving now examined Polybius’s attitude towards the supernatural and the\ngeneral ideas which guided his research, I will proceed to examine the\nmethod he pursued in his scientific investigation of the complex\nphenomena of life. For, as I have said before in the course of this\nessay, what is important in all great writers is not so much the results\nthey arrive at as the methods they pursue. The increased knowledge of\nfacts may alter any conclusion in history as in physical science, and the\ncanons of speculative historical credibility must be acknowledged to\nappeal rather to that subjective attitude of mind which we call the\nhistoric sense than to any formulated objective rules. But a scientific\nmethod is a gain for all time, and the true if not the only progress of\nhistorical criticism consists in the improvement of the instruments of\nresearch.\n\nNow first, as regards his conception of history, I have already pointed\nout that it was to him essentially a search for causes, a problem to be\nsolved, not a picture to be painted, a scientific investigation into laws\nand tendencies, not a mere romantic account of startling incident and\nwondrous adventure. Thucydides, in the opening of his great work, had\nsounded the first note of the scientific conception of history. ‘The\nabsence of romance in my pages,’ he says, ‘will, I fear, detract somewhat\nfrom its value, but I have written my work not to be the exploit of a\npassing hour but as the possession of all time.’ {76} Polybius follows\nwith words almost entirely similar. If, he says, we banish from history\nthe consideration of causes, methods and motives (_τὸ διὰ τί_, _καὶ πως_,\n_καὶ τίνος χάριν_), and refuse to consider how far the result of anything\nis its rational consequent, what is left is a mere _ἀγώνισμα_, not a\n_μάθημα_, an oratorical essay which may give pleasure for the moment, but\nwhich is entirely without any scientific value for the explanation of the\nfuture. Elsewhere he says that ‘history robbed of the exposition of its\ncauses and laws is a profitless thing, though it may allure a fool.’ And\nall through his history the same point is put forward and exemplified in\nevery fashion.\n\nSo far for the conception of history. Now for the groundwork. As\nregards the character of the phenomena to be selected by the scientific\ninvestigator, Aristotle had laid down the general formula that nature\nshould be studied in her normal manifestations. Polybius, true to his\ncharacter of applying explicitly the principles implicit in the work of\nothers, follows out the doctrine of Aristotle, and lays particular stress\non the rational and undisturbed character of the development of the Roman\nconstitution as affording special facilities for the discovery of the\nlaws of its progress. Political revolutions result from causes either\nexternal or internal. The former are mere disturbing forces which lie\noutside the sphere of scientific calculation. It is the latter which are\nimportant for the establishing of principles and the elucidation of the\nsequences of rational evolution.\n\nHe thus may be said to have anticipated one of the most important truths\nof the modern methods of investigation: I mean that principle which lays\ndown that just as the study of physiology should precede the study of\npathology, just as the laws of disease are best discovered by the\nphenomena presented in health, so the method of arriving at all great\nsocial and political truths is by the investigation of those cases where\ndevelopment has been normal, rational and undisturbed.\n\nThe critical canon that the more a people has been interfered with, the\nmore difficult it becomes to generalise the laws of its progress and to\nanalyse the separate forces of its civilisation, is one the validity of\nwhich is now generally recognised by those who pretend to a scientific\ntreatment of all history: and while we have seen that Aristotle\nanticipated it in a general formula, to Polybius belongs the honour of\nbeing the first to apply it explicitly in the sphere of history.\n\nI have shown how to this great scientific historian the motive of his\nwork was essentially the search for causes; and true to his analytical\nspirit he is careful to examine what a cause really is and in what part\nof the antecedents of any consequent it is to be looked for. To give an\nillustration: As regards the origin of the war with Perseus, some\nassigned as causes the expulsion of Abrupolis by Perseus, the expedition\nof the latter to Delphi, the plot against Eumenes and the seizure of the\nambassadors in Bœotia; of these incidents the two former, Polybius points\nout, were merely the pretexts, the two latter merely the occasions of the\nwar. The war was really a legacy left to Perseus by his father, who was\ndetermined to fight it out with Rome. {78}\n\nHere as elsewhere he is not originating any new idea. Thucydides had\npointed out the difference between the real and the alleged cause, and\nthe Aristotelian dictum about revolutions, _οὐ περὶ μικρῶν ἀλλ’ ἐκ\nμικρῶν_, draws the distinction between cause and occasion with the\nbrilliancy of an epigram. But the explicit and rational investigation of\nthe difference between _αἰτία_, _ἀρχὴ_, and _πρόφασις_ was reserved for\nPolybius. No canon of historical criticism can be said to be of more\nreal value than that involved in this distinction, and the overlooking of\nit has filled our histories with the contemptible accounts of the\nintrigues of courtiers and of kings and the petty plottings of backstairs\ninfluence—particulars interesting, no doubt, to those who would ascribe\nthe Reformation to Anne Boleyn’s pretty face, the Persian war to the\ninfluence of a doctor or a curtain-lecture from Atossa, or the French\nRevolution to Madame de Maintenon, but without any value for those who\naim at any scientific treatment of history.\n\nBut the question of method, to which I am compelled always to return, is\nnot yet exhausted. There is another aspect in which it may be regarded,\nand I shall now proceed to treat of it.\n\nOne of the greatest difficulties with which the modern historian has to\ncontend is the enormous complexity of the facts which come under his\nnotice: D’Alembert’s suggestion that at the end of every century a\nselection of facts should be made and the rest burned (if it was really\nintended seriously) could not, of course, be entertained for a moment. A\nproblem loses all its value when it becomes simplified, and the world\nwould be all the poorer if the Sibyl of History burned her volumes.\nBesides, as Gibbon pointed out, ‘a Montesquieu will detect in the most\ninsignificant fact relations which the vulgar overlook.’\n\nNor can the scientific investigator of history isolate the particular\nelements, which he desires to examine, from disturbing and extraneous\ncauses, as the experimental chemist can do (though sometimes, as in the\ncase of lunatic asylums and prisons, he is enabled to observe phenomena\nin a certain degree of isolation). So he is compelled either to use the\ndeductive mode of arguing from general laws or to employ the method of\nabstraction, which gives a fictitious isolation to phenomena never so\nisolated in actual existence. And this is exactly what Polybius has done\nas well as Thucydides. For, as has been well remarked, there is in the\nworks of these two writers a certain plastic unity of type and motive;\nwhatever they write is penetrated through and through with a specific\nquality, a singleness and concentration of purpose, which we may contrast\nwith the more comprehensive width as manifested not merely in the modern\nmind, but also in Herodotus. Thucydides, regarding society as influenced\nentirely by political motives, took no account of forces of a different\nnature, and consequently his results, like those of most modern political\neconomists, have to be modified largely {81} before they come to\ncorrespond with what we know was the actual state of fact. Similarly,\nPolybius will deal only with those forces which tended to bring the\ncivilised world under the dominion of Rome (ix. 1), and in the\nThucydidean spirit points out the want of picturesqueness and romance in\nhis pages which is the result of the abstract method (_τὸ μονοειδὲς τῆς\nσυντάξεως_) being careful also to tell us that his rejection of all other\nforces is essentially deliberate and the result of a preconceived theory\nand by no means due to carelessness of any kind.\n\nNow, of the general value of the abstract method and the legality of its\nemployment in the sphere of history, this is perhaps not the suitable\noccasion for any discussion. It is, however, in all ways worthy of note\nthat Polybius is not merely conscious of, but dwells with particular\nweight on, the fact which is usually urged as the strongest objection to\nthe employment of the abstract method—I mean the conception of a society\nas a sort of human organism whose parts are indissolubly connected with\none another and all affected when one member is in any way agitated.\nThis conception of the organic nature of society appears first in Plato\nand Aristotle, who apply it to cities. Polybius, as his wont is, expands\nit to be a general characteristic of all history. It is an idea of the\nvery highest importance, especially to a man like Polybius whose thoughts\nare continually turned towards the essential unity of history and the\nimpossibility of isolation.\n\nFarther, as regards the particular method of investigating that group of\nphenomena obtained for him by the abstract method, he will adopt, he\ntells us, neither the purely deductive nor the purely inductive mode but\nthe union of both. In other words, he formally adopts that method of\nanalysis upon the importance of which I have dwelt before.\n\nAnd lastly, while, without doubt, enormous simplicity in the elements\nunder consideration is the result of the employment of the abstract\nmethod, even within the limit thus obtained a certain selection must be\nmade, and a selection involves a theory. For the facts of life cannot be\ntabulated with as great an ease as the colours of birds and insects can\nbe tabulated. Now, Polybius points out that those phenomena particularly\nare to be dwelt on which may serve as a _παράδειγμα_ or sample, and show\nthe character of the tendencies of the age as clearly as ‘a single drop\nfrom a full cask will be enough to disclose the nature of the whole\ncontents.’ This recognition of the importance of single facts, not in\nthemselves but because of the spirit they represent, is extremely\nscientific; for we know that from the single bone, or tooth even, the\nanatomist can recreate entirely the skeleton of the primeval horse, and\nthe botanist tell the character of the flora and fauna of a district from\na single specimen.\n\nRegarding truth as ‘the most divine thing in Nature,’ the very ‘eye and\nlight of history without which it moves a blind thing,’ Polybius spared\nno pains in the acquisition of historical materials or in the study of\nthe sciences of politics and war, which he considered were so essential\nto the training of the scientific historian, and the labour he took is\nmirrored in the many ways in which he criticises other authorities.\n\nThere is something, as a rule, slightly contemptible about ancient\ncriticism. The modern idea of the critic as the interpreter, the\nexpounder of the beauty and excellence of the work he selects, seems\nquite unknown. Nothing can be more captious or unfair, for instance,\nthan the method by which Aristotle criticised the ideal state of Plato in\nhis ethical works, and the passages quoted by Polybius from Timæus show\nthat the latter historian fully deserved the punning name given to him.\nBut in Polybius there is, I think, little of that bitterness and\npettiness of spirit which characterises most other writers, and an\nincidental story he tells of his relations with one of the historians\nwhom he criticised shows that he was a man of great courtesy and\nrefinement of taste—as, indeed, befitted one who had lived always in the\nsociety of those who were of great and noble birth.\n\nNow, as regards the character of the canons by which he criticises the\nworks of other authors, in the majority of cases he employs simply his\nown geographical and military knowledge, showing, for instance, the\nimpossibility in the accounts given of Nabis’s march from Sparta simply\nby his acquaintance with the spots in question; or the inconsistency of\nthose of the battle of Issus; or of the accounts given by Ephorus of the\nbattles of Leuctra and Mantinea. In the latter case he says, if any one\nwill take the trouble to measure out the ground of the site of the battle\nand then test the manœuvres given, he will find how inaccurate the\naccounts are.\n\nIn other cases he appeals to public documents, the importance of which he\nwas always foremost in recognising; showing, for instance, by a document\nin the public archives of Rhodes how inaccurate were the accounts given\nof the battle of Lade by Zeno and Antisthenes. Or he appeals to\npsychological probability, rejecting, for instance, the scandalous\nstories told of Philip of Macedon, simply from the king’s general\ngreatness of character, and arguing that a boy so well educated and so\nrespectably connected as Demochares (xii. 14) could never have been\nguilty of that of which evil rumour accused him.\n\nBut the chief object of his literary censure is Timæus, who had been\nunsparing of his strictures on others. The general point which he makes\nagainst him, impugning his accuracy as a historian, is that he derived\nhis knowledge of history not from the dangerous perils of a life of\naction but in the secure indolence of a narrow scholastic life. There\nis, indeed, no point on which he is so vehement as this. ‘A history,’ he\nsays, ‘written in a library gives as lifeless and as inaccurate a picture\nof history as a painting which is copied not from a living animal but\nfrom a stuffed one.’\n\nThere is more difference, he says in another place, between the history\nof an eye-witness and that of one whose knowledge comes from books, than\nthere is between the scenes of real life and the fictitious landscapes of\ntheatrical scenery. Besides this, he enters into somewhat elaborate\ndetailed criticism of passages where he thought Timæus was following a\nwrong method and perverting truth, passages which it will be worth while\nto examine in detail.\n\nTimæus, from the fact of there being a Roman custom to shoot a war-horse\non a stated day, argued back to the Trojan origin of that people.\nPolybius, on the other hand, points out that the inference is quite\nunwarrantable, because horse-sacrifices are ordinary institutions common\nto all barbarous tribes. Timæus here, as was common with Greek writers,\nis arguing back from some custom of the present to an historical event in\nthe past. Polybius really is employing the comparative method, showing\nhow the custom was an ordinary step in the civilisation of every early\npeople.\n\nIn another place, {86} he shows how illogical is the scepticism of Timæus\nas regards the existence of the Bull of Phalaris simply by appealing to\nthe statue of the Bull, which was still to be seen in Carthage; pointing\nout how impossible it was, on any other theory except that it belonged to\nPhalaris, to account for the presence in Carthage of a bull of this\npeculiar character with a door between his shoulders. But one of the\ngreat points which he uses against this Sicilian historian is in\nreference to the question of the origin of the Locrian colony. In\naccordance with the received tradition on the subject, Aristotle had\nrepresented the Locrian colony as founded by some Parthenidæ or slaves’\nchildren, as they were called, a statement which seems to have roused the\nindignation of Timæus, who went to a good deal of trouble to confute this\ntheory. He does so on the following grounds:—\n\nFirst of all, he points out that in the ancient days the Greeks had no\nslaves at all, so the mention of them in the matter is an anachronism;\nand next he declares that he was shown in the Greek city of Locris\ncertain ancient inscriptions in which their relation to the Italian city\nwas expressed in terms of the position between parent and child, which\nshowed also that mutual rights of citizenship were accorded to each city.\nBesides this, he appeals to various questions of improbability as regards\ntheir international relationship, on which Polybius takes diametrically\nopposite grounds which hardly call for discussion. And in favour of his\nown view he urges two points more: first, that the Lacedæmonians being\nallowed furlough for the purpose of seeing their wives at home, it was\nunlikely that the Locrians should not have had the same privilege; and\nnext, that the Italian Locrians knew nothing of the Aristotelian version\nand had, on the contrary, very severe laws against adulterers, runaway\nslaves and the like. Now, most of these questions rest on mere\nprobability, which is always such a subjective canon that an appeal to it\nis rarely conclusive. I would note, however, as regards the inscriptions\nwhich, if genuine, would of course have settled the matter, that Polybius\nlooks on them as a mere invention on the part of Timæus, who, he remarks,\ngives no details about them, though, as a rule, he is over-anxious to\ngive chapter and verse for everything. A somewhat more interesting point\nis that where he attacks Timæus for the introduction of fictitious\nspeeches into his narrative; for on this point Polybius seems to be far\nin advance of the opinions held by literary men on the subject not merely\nin his own day, but for centuries after.\n\nHerodotus had introduced speeches avowedly dramatic and fictitious.\nThucydides states clearly that, where he was unable to find out what\npeople really said, he put down what they ought to have said. Sallust\nalludes, it is true, to the fact of the speech he puts into the mouth of\nthe tribune Memmius being essentially genuine, but the speeches given in\nthe senate on the occasion of the Catilinarian conspiracy are very\ndifferent from the same orations as they appear in Cicero. Livy makes\nhis ancient Romans wrangle and chop logic with all the subtlety of a\nHortensius or a Scævola. And even in later days, when shorthand\nreporters attended the debates of the senate and a _Daily News_ was\npublished in Rome, we find that one of the most celebrated speeches in\nTacitus (that in which the Emperor Claudius gives the Gauls their\nfreedom) is shown, by an inscription discovered recently at Lugdunum, to\nbe entirely fabulous.\n\nUpon the other hand, it must be borne in mind that these speeches were\nnot intended to deceive; they were regarded merely as a certain dramatic\nelement which it was allowable to introduce into history for the purpose\nof giving more life and reality to the narration, and were to be\ncriticised, not as we should, by arguing how in an age before shorthand\nwas known such a report was possible or how, in the failure of written\ndocuments, tradition could bring down such an accurate verbal account,\nbut by the higher test of their psychological probability as regards the\npersons in whose mouths they are placed. An ancient historian in answer\nto modern criticism would say, probably, that these fictitious speeches\nwere in reality more truthful than the actual ones, just as Aristotle\nclaimed for poetry a higher degree of truth in comparison to history.\nThe whole point is interesting as showing how far in advance of his age\nPolybius may be said to have been.\n\nThe last scientific historian, it is possible to gather from his writings\nwhat he considered were the characteristics of the ideal writer of\nhistory; and no small light will be thrown on the progress of historical\ncriticism if we strive to collect and analyse what in Polybius are more\nor less scattered expressions. The ideal historian must be contemporary\nwith the events he describes, or removed from them by one generation\nonly. Where it is possible, he is to be an eye-witness of what he writes\nof; where that is out of his power he is to test all traditions and\nstories carefully and not to be ready to accept what is plausible in\nplace of what is true. He is to be no bookworm living aloof from the\nexperiences of the world in the artificial isolation of a university\ntown, but a politician, a soldier, and a traveller, a man not merely of\nthought but of action, one who can do great things as well as write of\nthem, who in the sphere of history could be what Byron and Æschylus were\nin the sphere of poetry, at once _le chantre et le héros_.\n\nHe is to keep before his eyes the fact that chance is merely a synonym\nfor our ignorance; that the reign of law pervades the domain of history\nas much as it does that of political science. He is to accustom himself\nto look on all occasions for rational and natural causes. And while he\nis to recognise the practical utility of the supernatural, in an\neducational point of view, he is not himself to indulge in such\nintellectual beating of the air as to admit the possibility of the\nviolation of inviolable laws, or to argue in a sphere wherein argument is\n_a priori_ annihilated. He is to be free from all bias towards friend\nand country; he is to be courteous and gentle in criticism; he is not to\nregard history as a mere opportunity for splendid and tragic writing; nor\nis he to falsify truth for the sake of a paradox or an epigram.\n\nWhile acknowledging the importance of particular facts as samples of\nhigher truths, he is to take a broad and general view of humanity. He is\nto deal with the whole race and with the world, not with particular\ntribes or separate countries. He is to bear in mind that the world is\nreally an organism wherein no one part can be moved without the others\nbeing affected also. He is to distinguish between cause and occasion,\nbetween the influence of general laws and particular fancies, and he is\nto remember that the greatest lessons of the world are contained in\nhistory and that it is the historian’s duty to manifest them so as to\nsave nations from following those unwise policies which always lead to\ndishonour and ruin, and to teach individuals to apprehend by the\nintellectual culture of history those truths which else they would have\nto learn in the bitter school of experience.\n\nNow, as regards his theory of the necessity of the historian’s being\ncontemporary with the events he describes, so far as the historian is a\nmere narrator the remark is undoubtedly true. But to appreciate the\nharmony and rational position of the facts of a great epoch, to discover\nits laws, the causes which produced it and the effects which it\ngenerates, the scene must be viewed from a certain height and distance to\nbe completely apprehended. A thoroughly contemporary historian such as\nLord Clarendon or Thucydides is in reality part of the history he\ncriticises; and, in the case of such contemporary historians as Fabius\nand Philistus, Polybius in compelled to acknowledge that they are misled\nby patriotic and other considerations. Against Polybius himself no such\naccusation can be made. He indeed of all men is able, as from some lofty\ntower, to discern the whole tendency of the ancient world, the triumph of\nRoman institutions and of Greek thought which is the last message of the\nold world and, in a more spiritual sense, has become the Gospel of the\nnew.\n\nOne thing indeed he did not see, or if he saw it, he thought but little\nof it—how from the East there was spreading over the world, as a wave\nspreads, a spiritual inroad of new religions from the time when the\nPessinuntine mother of the gods, a shapeless mass of stone, was brought\nto the eternal city by her holiest citizen, to the day when the ship\n_Castor and Pollux_ stood in at Puteoli, and St. Paul turned his face\ntowards martyrdom and victory at Rome. Polybius was able to predict,\nfrom his knowledge of the causes of revolutions and the tendencies of the\nvarious forms of governments, the uprising of that democratic tone of\nthought which, as soon as a seed is sown in the murder of the Gracchi and\nthe exile of Marius, culminated as all democratic movements do culminate,\nin the supreme authority of one man, the lordship of the world under the\nworld’s rightful lord, Caius Julius Cæsar. This, indeed, he saw in no\nuncertain way. But the turning of all men’s hearts to the East, the\nfirst glimmering of that splendid dawn which broke over the hills of\nGalilee and flooded the earth like wine, was hidden from his eyes.\n\nThere are many points in the description of the ideal historian which one\nmay compare to the picture which Plato has given us of the ideal\nphilosopher. They are both ‘spectators of all time and all existence.’\nNothing is contemptible in their eyes, for all things have a meaning, and\nthey both walk in august reasonableness before all men, conscious of the\nworkings of God yet free from all terror of mendicant priest or vagrant\nmiracle-worker. But the parallel ends here. For the one stands aloof\nfrom the world-storm of sleet and hail, his eyes fixed on distant and\nsunlit heights, loving knowledge for the sake of knowledge and wisdom for\nthe joy of wisdom, while the other is an eager actor in the world ever\nseeking to apply his knowledge to useful things. Both equally desire\ntruth, but the one because of its utility, the other for its beauty. The\nhistorian regards it as the rational principle of all true history, and\nno more. To the other it comes as an all-pervading and mystic\nenthusiasm, ‘like the desire of strong wine, the craving of ambition, the\npassionate love of what is beautiful.’\n\nStill, though we miss in the historian those higher and more spiritual\nqualities which the philosopher of the Academe alone of all men\npossessed, we must not blind ourselves to the merits of that great\nrationalist who seems to have anticipated the very latest words of modern\nscience. Nor yet is he to be regarded merely in the narrow light in\nwhich he is estimated by most modern critics, as the explicit champion of\nrationalism and nothing more. For he is connected with another idea, the\ncourse of which is as the course of that great river of his native\nArcadia which, springing from some arid and sun-bleached rock, gathers\nstrength and beauty as it flows till it reaches the asphodel meadows of\nOlympia and the light and laughter of Ionian waters.\n\nFor in him we can discern the first notes of that great cult of the\nseven-hilled city which made Virgil write his epic and Livy his history,\nwhich found in Dante its highest exponent, which dreamed of an Empire\nwhere the Emperor would care for the bodies and the Pope for the souls of\nmen, and so has passed into the conception of God’s spiritual empire and\nthe universal brotherhood of man and widened into the huge ocean of\nuniversal thought as the Peneus loses itself in the sea.\n\nPolybius is the last scientific historian of Greece. The writer who\nseems fittingly to complete the progress of thought is a writer of\nbiographies only. I will not here touch on Plutarch’s employment of the\ninductive method as shown in his constant use of inscription and statue,\nof public document and building and the like, because it involves no new\nmethod. It is his attitude towards miracles of which I desire to treat.\n\nPlutarch is philosophic enough to see that in the sense of a violation of\nthe laws of nature a miracle is impossible. It is absurd, he says, to\nimagine that the statue of a saint can speak, and that an inanimate\nobject not possessing the vocal organs should be able to utter an\narticulate sound. Upon the other hand, he protests against science\nimagining that, by explaining the natural causes of things, it has\nexplained away their transcendental meaning. ‘When the tears on the\ncheek of some holy statue have been analysed into the moisture which\ncertain temperatures produce on wood and marble, it yet by no means\nfollows that they were not a sign of grief and mourning set there by God\nHimself.’ When Lampon saw in the prodigy of the one-horned ram the omen\nof the supreme rule of Pericles, and when Anaxagoras showed that the\nabnormal development was the rational resultant of the peculiar formation\nof the skull, the dreamer and the man of science were both right; it was\nthe business of the latter to consider how the prodigy came about, of the\nformer to show why it was so formed and what it so portended. The\nprogression of thought is exemplified in all particulars. Herodotus had\na glimmering sense of the impossibility of a violation of nature.\nThucydides ignored the supernatural. Polybius rationalised it. Plutarch\nraises it to its mystical heights again, though he bases it on law. In a\nword, Plutarch felt that while science brings the supernatural down to\nthe natural, yet ultimately all that is natural is really supernatural.\nTo him, as to many of our own day, religion was that transcendental\nattitude of the mind which, contemplating a world resting on inviolable\nlaw, is yet comforted and seeks to worship God not in the violation but\nin the fulfilment of nature.\n\nIt may seem paradoxical to quote in connection with the priest of\nChæronea such a pure rationalist as Mr. Herbert Spencer; yet when we read\nas the last message of modern science that ‘when the equation of life has\nbeen reduced to its lowest terms the symbols are symbols still,’ mere\nsigns, that is, of that unknown reality which underlies all matter and\nall spirit, we may feel how over the wide strait of centuries thought\ncalls to thought and how Plutarch has a higher position than is usually\nclaimed for him in the progress of the Greek intellect.\n\nAnd, indeed, it seems that not merely the importance of Plutarch himself\nbut also that of the land of his birth in the evolution of Greek\ncivilisation has been passed over by modern critics. To us, indeed, the\nbare rock to which the Parthenon serves as a crown, and which lies\nbetween Colonus and Attica’s violet hills, will always be the holiest\nspot in the land of Greece: and Delphi will come next, and then the\nmeadows of Eurotas where that noble people lived who represented in\nHellenic thought the reaction of the law of duty against the law of\nbeauty, the opposition of conduct to culture. Yet, as one stands on the\n_σχιστὴ ὁδός_ of Cithæron and looks out on the great double plain of\nBoeotia, the enormous importance of the division of Hellas comes to one’s\nmind with great force. To the north are Orchomenus and the Minyan\ntreasure-house, seat of those merchant princes of Phoenicia who brought\nto Greece the knowledge of letters and the art of working in gold.\nThebes is at our feet with the gloom of the terrible legends of Greek\ntragedy still lingering about it, the birthplace of Pindar, the nurse of\nEpaminondas and the Sacred Band.\n\nAnd from out of the plain where ‘Mars loved to dance,’ rises the Muses’\nhaunt, Helicon, by whose silver streams Corinna and Hesiod sang; while\nfar away under the white ægis of those snow-capped mountains lies\nChæronea and the Lion plain where with vain chivalry the Greeks strove to\ncheck Macedon first and afterwards Rome; Chæronea, where in the Martinmas\nsummer of Greek civilisation Plutarch rose from the drear waste of a\ndying religion as the aftermath rises when the mowers think they have\nleft the field bare.\n\nGreek philosophy began and ended in scepticism: the first and the last\nword of Greek history was Faith.\n\nSplendid thus in its death, like winter sunsets, the Greek religion\npassed away into the horror of night. For the Cimmerian darkness was at\nhand, and when the schools of Athens were closed and the statue of Athena\nbroken, the Greek spirit passed from the gods and the history of its own\nland to the subtleties of defining the doctrine of the Trinity and the\nmystical attempts to bring Plato into harmony with Christ and to\nreconcile Gethsemane and the Sermon on the Mount with the Athenian prison\nand the discussion in the woods of Colonus. The Greek spirit slept for\nwellnigh a thousand years. When it woke again, like Antæus it had\ngathered strength from the earth where it lay; like Apollo it had lost\nnone of its divinity through its long servitude.\n\nIn the history of Roman thought we nowhere find any of those\ncharacteristics of the Greek Illumination which I have pointed out are\nthe necessary concomitants of the rise of historical criticism. The\nconservative respect for tradition which made the Roman people delight in\nthe ritual and formulas of law, and is as apparent in their politics as\nin their religion, was fatal to any rise of that spirit of revolt against\nauthority the importance of which, as a factor in intellectual progress,\nwe have already seen.\n\nThe whitened tables of the Pontifices preserved carefully the records of\nthe eclipses and other atmospherical phenomena, and what we call the art\nof verifying dates was known to them at an early time; but there was no\nspontaneous rise of physical science to suggest by its analogies of law\nand order a new method of research, nor any natural springing up of the\nquestioning spirit of philosophy with its unification of all phenomena\nand all knowledge. At the very time when the whole tide of Eastern\nsuperstition was sweeping into the heart of the Capital the Senate\nbanished the Greek philosophers from Rome. And of the three systems\nwhich did at length take some root in the city, those of Zeno and\nEpicurus were used merely as the rule for the ordering of life, while the\ndogmatic scepticism of Carneades, by its very principles, annihilated the\npossibility of argument and encouraged a perfect indifference to\nresearch.\n\nNor were the Romans ever fortunate enough like the Greeks to have to face\nthe incubus of any dogmatic system of legends and myths, the immoralities\nand absurdities of which might excite a revolutionary outbreak of\nsceptical criticism. For the Roman religion became as it were\ncrystallised and isolated from progress at an early period of its\nevolution. Their gods remained mere abstractions of commonplace virtues\nor uninteresting personifications of the useful things of life. The old\nprimitive creed was indeed always upheld as a state institution on\naccount of the enormous facilities it offered for cheating in politics,\nbut as a spiritual system of belief it was unanimously rejected at a very\nearly period both by the common people and the educated classes, for the\nsensible reason that it was so extremely dull. The former took refuge in\nthe mystic sensualities of the worship of Isis, the latter in the Stoical\nrules of life. The Romans classified their gods carefully in their order\nof precedence, analysed their genealogies in the laborious spirit of\nmodern heraldry, fenced them round with a ritual as intricate as their\nlaw, but never quite cared enough about them to believe in them. So it\nwas of no account with them when the philosophers announced that Minerva\nwas merely memory. She had never been much else. Nor did they protest\nwhen Lucretius dared to say of Ceres and of Liber that they were only the\ncorn of the field and the fruit of the vine. For they had never mourned\nfor the daughter of Demeter in the asphodel meadows of Sicily, nor\ntraversed the glades of Cithæron with fawn-skin and with spear.\n\nThis brief sketch of the condition of Roman thought will serve to prepare\nus for the almost total want of scientific historical criticism which we\nshall discern in their literature, and has, besides, afforded fresh\ncorroboration of the conditions essential to the rise of this spirit, and\nof the modes of thought which it reflects and in which it is always to be\nfound. Roman historical composition had its origin in the pontifical\ncollege of ecclesiastical lawyers, and preserved to its close the\nuncritical spirit which characterised its fountain-head. It possessed\nfrom the outset a most voluminous collection of the materials of history,\nwhich, however, produced merely antiquarians, not historians. It is so\nhard to use facts, so easy to accumulate them.\n\nWearied of the dull monotony of the pontifical annals, which dwelt on\nlittle else but the rise and fall in provisions and the eclipses of the\nsun, Cato wrote out a history with his own hand for the instruction of\nhis child, to which he gave the name of Origines, and before his time\nsome aristocratic families had written histories in Greek much in the\nsame spirit in which the Germans of the eighteenth century used French as\nthe literary language. But the first regular Roman historian is Sallust.\nBetween the extravagant eulogies passed on this author by the French\n(such as De Closset), and Dr. Mommsen’s view of him as merely a political\npamphleteer, it is perhaps difficult to reach the _via media_ of\nunbiassed appreciation. He has, at any rate, the credit of being a\npurely rationalistic historian, perhaps the only one in Roman literature.\nCicero had a good many qualifications for a scientific historian, and (as\nhe usually did) thought very highly of his own powers. On passages of\nancient legend, however, he is rather unsatisfactory, for while he is too\nsensible to believe them he is too patriotic to reject them. And this is\nreally the attitude of Livy, who claims for early Roman legend a certain\nuncritical homage from the rest of the subject world. His view in his\nhistory is that it is not worth while to examine the truth of these\nstories.\n\nIn his hands the history of Rome unrolls before our eyes like some\ngorgeous tapestry, where victory succeeds victory, where triumph treads\non the heels of triumph, and the line of heroes seems never to end. It\nis not till we pass behind the canvas and see the slight means by which\nthe effect is produced that we apprehend the fact that like most\npicturesque writers Livy is an indifferent critic. As regards his\nattitude towards the credibility of early Roman history he is quite as\nconscious as we are of its mythical and unsound nature. He will not, for\ninstance, decide whether the Horatii were Albans or Romans; who was the\nfirst dictator; how many tribunes there were, and the like. His method,\nas a rule, is merely to mention all the accounts and sometimes to decide\nin favour of the most probable, but usually not to decide at all. No\ncanons of historical criticism will ever discover whether the Roman women\ninterviewed the mother of Coriolanus of their own accord or at the\nsuggestion of the senate; whether Remus was killed for jumping over his\nbrother’s wall or because they quarrelled about birds; whether the\nambassadors found Cincinnatus ploughing or only mending a hedge. Livy\nsuspends his judgment over these important facts and history when\nquestioned on their truth is dumb. If he does select between two\nhistorians he chooses the one who is nearer to the facts he describes.\nBut he is no critic, only a conscientious writer. It is mere vain waste\nto dwell on his critical powers, for they do not exist.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the case of Tacitus imagination has taken the place of history. The\npast lives again in his pages, but through no laborious criticism; rather\nthrough a dramatic and psychological faculty which he specially\npossessed.\n\nIn the philosophy of history he has no belief. He can never make up his\nmind what to believe as regards God’s government of the world. There is\nno method in him and none elsewhere in Roman literature.\n\nNations may not have missions but they certainly have functions. And the\nfunction of ancient Italy was not merely to give us what is statical in\nour institutions and rational in our law, but to blend into one elemental\ncreed the spiritual aspirations of Aryan and of Semite. Italy was not a\npioneer in intellectual progress, nor a motive power in the evolution of\nthought. The owl of the goddess of Wisdom traversed over the whole land\nand found nowhere a resting-place. The dove, which is the bird of\nChrist, flew straight to the city of Rome and the new reign began. It\nwas the fashion of early Italian painters to represent in mediæval\ncostume the soldiers who watched over the tomb of Christ, and this, which\nwas the result of the frank anachronism of all true art, may serve to us\nas an allegory. For it was in vain that the Middle Ages strove to guard\nthe buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose,\nthe sepulchre was empty, the grave-clothes laid aside. Humanity had\nrisen from the dead.\n\nThe study of Greek, it has been well said, implies the birth of\ncriticism, comparison and research. At the opening of that education of\nmodern by ancient thought which we call the Renaissance, it was the words\nof Aristotle which sent Columbus sailing to the New World, while a\nfragment of Pythagorean astronomy set Copernicus thinking on that train\nof reasoning which has revolutionised the whole position of our planet in\nthe universe. Then it was seen that the only meaning of progress is a\nreturn to Greek modes of thought. The monkish hymns which obscured the\npages of Greek manuscripts were blotted out, the splendours of a new\nmethod were unfolded to the world, and out of the melancholy sea of\nmediævalism rose the free spirit of man in all that splendour of glad\nadolescence, when the bodily powers seem quickened by a new vitality,\nwhen the eye sees more clearly than its wont and the mind apprehends what\nwas beforetime hidden from it. To herald the opening of the sixteenth\ncentury, from the little Venetian printing press came forth all the great\nauthors of antiquity, each bearing on the title-page the words _Ἅλδος ὁ\nΜανούτιος Ῥωμαῖος καὶ Φιλέλλην_; words which may serve to remind us with\nwhat wondrous prescience Polybius saw the world’s fate when he foretold\nthe material sovereignty of Roman institutions and exemplified in himself\nthe intellectual empire of Greece.\n\nThe course of the study of the spirit of historical criticism has not\nbeen a profitless investigation into modes and forms of thought now\nantiquated and of no account. The only spirit which is entirely removed\nfrom us is the mediæval; the Greek spirit is essentially modern. The\nintroduction of the comparative method of research which has forced\nhistory to disclose its secrets belongs in a measure to us. Ours, too,\nis a more scientific knowledge of philology and the method of survival.\nNor did the ancients know anything of the doctrine of averages or of\ncrucial instances, both of which methods have proved of such importance\nin modern criticism, the one adding a most important proof of the\nstatical elements of history, and exemplifying the influences of all\nphysical surroundings on the life of man; the other, as in the single\ninstance of the Moulin Quignon skull, serving to create a whole new\nscience of prehistoric archæology and to bring us back to a time when man\nwas coeval with the stone age, the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros.\nBut, except these, we have added no new canon or method to the science of\nhistorical criticism. Across the drear waste of a thousand years the\nGreek and the modern spirit join hands.\n\nIn the torch race which the Greek boys ran from the Cerameician field of\ndeath to the home of the goddess of Wisdom, not merely he who first\nreached the goal but he also who first started with the torch aflame\nreceived a prize. In the Lampadephoria of civilisation and free thought\nlet us not forget to render due meed of honour to those who first lit\nthat sacred flame, the increasing splendour of which lights our footsteps\nto the far-off divine event of the attainment of perfect truth.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE OF ART\n\n\n‘The English Renaissance of Art’ was delivered as a lecture for the first\ntime in the Chickering Hall, New York, on January 9, 1882. A portion of\nit was reported in the _New York Tribune_ on the following day and in\nother American papers subsequently. Since then this portion has been\nreprinted, more or less accurately, from time to time, in unauthorised\neditions.\n\nThere are in existence no less than four copies of the lecture, the\nearliest of which is entirely in the author’s handwriting. The others\nare type-written and contain many corrections and additions made by the\nauthor in manuscript. These have all been collated and the text here\ngiven contains, as nearly as possible, the lecture in the original form\nas delivered by the author during his tour in the United States.\n\nAMONG the many debts which we owe to the supreme æsthetic faculty of\nGoethe is that he was the first to teach us to define beauty in terms the\nmost concrete possible, to realise it, I mean, always in its special\nmanifestations. So, in the lecture which I have the honour to deliver\nbefore you, I will not try to give you any abstract definition of\nbeauty—any such universal formula for it as was sought for by the\nphilosophy of the eighteenth century—still less to communicate to you\nthat which in its essence is incommunicable, the virtue by which a\nparticular picture or poem affects us with a unique and special joy; but\nrather to point out to you the general ideas which characterise the great\nEnglish Renaissance of Art in this century, to discover their source, as\nfar as that is possible, and to estimate their future as far as that is\npossible.\n\nI call it our English Renaissance because it is indeed a sort of new\nbirth of the spirit of man, like the great Italian Renaissance of the\nfifteenth century, in its desire for a more gracious and comely way of\nlife, its passion for physical beauty, its exclusive attention to form,\nits seeking for new subjects for poetry, new forms of art, new\nintellectual and imaginative enjoyments: and I call it our romantic\nmovement because it is our most recent expression of beauty.\n\nIt has been described as a mere revival of Greek modes of thought, and\nagain as a mere revival of mediæval feeling. Rather I would say that to\nthese forms of the human spirit it has added whatever of artistic value\nthe intricacy and complexity and experience of modern life can give:\ntaking from the one its clearness of vision and its sustained calm, from\nthe other its variety of expression and the mystery of its vision. For\nwhat, as Goethe said, is the study of the ancients but a return to the\nreal world (for that is what they did); and what, said Mazzini, is\nmediævalism but individuality?\n\nIt is really from the union of Hellenism, in its breadth, its sanity of\npurpose, its calm possession of beauty, with the adventive, the\nintensified individualism, the passionate colour of the romantic spirit,\nthat springs the art of the nineteenth century in England, as from the\nmarriage of Faust and Helen of Troy sprang the beautiful boy Euphorion.\n\nSuch expressions as ‘classical’ and ‘romantic’ are, it is true, often apt\nto become the mere catchwords of schools. We must always remember that\nart has only one sentence to utter: there is for her only one high law,\nthe law of form or harmony—yet between the classical and romantic spirit\nwe may say that there lies this difference at least, that the one deals\nwith the type and the other with the exception. In the work produced\nunder the modern romantic spirit it is no longer the permanent, the\nessential truths of life that are treated of; it is the momentary\nsituation of the one, the momentary aspect of the other that art seeks to\nrender. In sculpture, which is the type of one spirit, the subject\npredominates over the situation; in painting, which is the type of the\nother, the situation predominates over the subject.\n\nThere are two spirits, then: the Hellenic spirit and the spirit of\nromance may be taken as forming the essential elements of our conscious\nintellectual tradition, of our permanent standard of taste. As regards\ntheir origin, in art as in politics there is but one origin for all\nrevolutions, a desire on the part of man for a nobler form of life, for a\nfreer method and opportunity of expression. Yet, I think that in\nestimating the sensuous and intellectual spirit which presides over our\nEnglish Renaissance, any attempt to isolate it in any way from in the\nprogress and movement and social life of the age that has produced it\nwould be to rob it of its true vitality, possibly to mistake its true\nmeaning. And in disengaging from the pursuits and passions of this\ncrowded modern world those passions and pursuits which have to do with\nart and the love of art, we must take into account many great events of\nhistory which seem to be the most opposed to any such artistic feeling.\n\nAlien then from any wild, political passion, or from the harsh voice of a\nrude people in revolt, as our English Renaissance must seem, in its\npassionate cult of pure beauty, its flawless devotion to form, its\nexclusive and sensitive nature, it is to the French Revolution that we\nmust look for the most primary factor of its production, the first\ncondition of its birth: that great Revolution of which we are all the\nchildren though the voices of some of us be often loud against it; that\nRevolution to which at a time when even such spirits as Coleridge and\nWordsworth lost heart in England, noble messages of love blown across\nseas came from your young Republic.\n\nIt is true that our modern sense of the continuity of history has shown\nus that neither in politics nor in nature are there revolutions ever but\nevolutions only, and that the prelude to that wild storm which swept over\nFrance in 1789 and made every king in Europe tremble for his throne, was\nfirst sounded in literature years before the Bastille fell and the Palace\nwas taken. The way for those red scenes by Seine and Loire was paved by\nthat critical spirit of Germany and England which accustomed men to bring\nall things to the test of reason or utility or both, while the discontent\nof the people in the streets of Paris was the echo that followed the life\nof Emile and of Werther. For Rousseau, by silent lake and mountain, had\ncalled humanity back to the golden age that still lies before us and\npreached a return to nature, in passionate eloquence whose music still\nlingers about our keen northern air. And Goethe and Scott had brought\nromance back again from the prison she had lain in for so many\ncenturies—and what is romance but humanity?\n\nYet in the womb of the Revolution itself, and in the storm and terror of\nthat wild time, tendencies were hidden away that the artistic Renaissance\nbent to her own service when the time came—a scientific tendency first,\nwhich has borne in our own day a brood of somewhat noisy Titans, yet in\nthe sphere of poetry has not been unproductive of good. I do not mean\nmerely in its adding to enthusiasm that intellectual basis which in its\nstrength, or that more obvious influence about which Wordsworth was\nthinking when he said very nobly that poetry was merely the impassioned\nexpression in the face of science, and that when science would put on a\nform of flesh and blood the poet would lend his divine spirit to aid the\ntransfiguration. Nor do I dwell much on the great cosmical emotion and\ndeep pantheism of science to which Shelley has given its first and\nSwinburne its latest glory of song, but rather on its influence on the\nartistic spirit in preserving that close observation and the sense of\nlimitation as well as of clearness of vision which are the\ncharacteristics of the real artist.\n\nThe great and golden rule of art as well as of life, wrote William Blake,\nis that the more distinct, sharp and defined the boundary line, the more\nperfect is the work of art; and the less keen and sharp the greater is\nthe evidence of weak imitation, plagiarism and bungling. ‘Great\ninventors in all ages knew this—Michael Angelo and Albert Durer are known\nby this and by this alone’; and another time he wrote, with all the\nsimple directness of nineteenth-century prose, ‘to generalise is to be an\nidiot.’\n\nAnd this love of definite conception, this clearness of vision, this\nartistic sense of limit, is the characteristic of all great work and\npoetry; of the vision of Homer as of the vision of Dante, of Keats and\nWilliam Morris as of Chaucer and Theocritus. It lies at the base of all\nnoble, realistic and romantic work as opposed to the colourless and empty\nabstractions of our own eighteenth-century poets and of the classical\ndramatists of France, or of the vague spiritualities of the German\nsentimental school: opposed, too, to that spirit of transcendentalism\nwhich also was root and flower itself of the great Revolution, underlying\nthe impassioned contemplation of Wordsworth and giving wings and fire to\nthe eagle-like flight of Shelley, and which in the sphere of philosophy,\nthough displaced by the materialism and positiveness of our day,\nbequeathed two great schools of thought, the school of Newman to Oxford,\nthe school of Emerson to America. Yet is this spirit of\ntranscendentalism alien to the spirit of art. For the artist can accept\nno sphere of life in exchange for life itself. For him there is no\nescape from the bondage of the earth: there is not even the desire of\nescape.\n\nHe is indeed the only true realist: symbolism, which is the essence of\nthe transcendental spirit, is alien to him. The metaphysical mind of\nAsia will create for itself the monstrous, many-breasted idol of Ephesus,\nbut to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual\nlife which conforms most clearly to the perfect facts of physical life.\n\n‘The storm of revolution,’ as Andre Chenier said, ‘blows out the torch of\npoetry.’ It is not for some little time that the real influence of such\na wild cataclysm of things is felt: at first the desire for equality\nseems to have produced personalities of more giant and Titan stature than\nthe world had ever known before. Men heard the lyre of Byron and the\nlegions of Napoleon; it was a period of measureless passions and of\nmeasureless despair; ambition, discontent, were the chords of life and\nart; the age was an age of revolt: a phase through which the human spirit\nmust pass, but one in which it cannot rest. For the aim of culture is\nnot rebellion but peace, the valley perilous where ignorant armies clash\nby night being no dwelling-place meet for her to whom the gods have\nassigned the fresh uplands and sunny heights and clear, untroubled air.\n\nAnd soon that desire for perfection, which lay at the base of the\nRevolution, found in a young English poet its most complete and flawless\nrealisation.\n\nPhidias and the achievements of Greek art are foreshadowed in Homer:\nDante prefigures for us the passion and colour and intensity of Italian\npainting: the modern love of landscape dates from Rousseau, and it is in\nKeats that one discerns the beginning of the artistic renaissance of\nEngland.\n\nByron was a rebel and Shelley a dreamer; but in the calmness and\nclearness of his vision, his perfect self-control, his unerring sense of\nbeauty and his recognition of a separate realm for the imagination, Keats\nwas the pure and serene artist, the forerunner of the pre-Raphaelite\nschool, and so of the great romantic movement of which I am to speak.\n\nBlake had indeed, before him, claimed for art a lofty, spiritual mission,\nand had striven to raise design to the ideal level of poetry and music,\nbut the remoteness of his vision both in painting and poetry and the\nincompleteness of his technical powers had been adverse to any real\ninfluence. It is in Keats that the artistic spirit of this century first\nfound its absolute incarnation.\n\nAnd these pre-Raphaelites, what were they? If you ask nine-tenths of the\nBritish public what is the meaning of the word æsthetics, they will tell\nyou it is the French for affectation or the German for a dado; and if you\ninquire about the pre-Raphaelites you will hear something about an\neccentric lot of young men to whom a sort of divine crookedness and holy\nawkwardness in drawing were the chief objects of art. To know nothing\nabout their great men is one of the necessary elements of English\neducation.\n\nAs regards the pre-Raphaelites the story is simple enough. In the year\n1847 a number of young men in London, poets and painters, passionate\nadmirers of Keats all of them, formed the habit of meeting together for\ndiscussions on art, the result of such discussions being that the English\nPhilistine public was roused suddenly from its ordinary apathy by hearing\nthat there was in its midst a body of young men who had determined to\nrevolutionise English painting and poetry. They called themselves the\npre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.\n\nIn England, then as now, it was enough for a man to try and produce any\nserious beautiful work to lose all his rights as a citizen; and besides\nthis, the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood—among whom the names of Dante\nRossetti, Holman Hunt and Millais will be familiar to you—had on their\nside three things that the English public never forgives: youth, power\nand enthusiasm.\n\nSatire, always as sterile as it in shameful and as impotent as it is\ninsolent, paid them that usual homage which mediocrity pays to\ngenius—doing, here as always, infinite harm to the public, blinding them\nto what is beautiful, teaching them that irreverence which is the source\nof all vileness and narrowness of life, but harming the artist not at\nall, rather confirming him in the perfect rightness of his work and\nambition. For to disagree with three-fourths of the British public on\nall points is one of the first elements of sanity, one of the deepest\nconsolations in all moments of spiritual doubt.\n\nAs regards the ideas these young men brought to the regeneration of\nEnglish art, we may see at the base of their artistic creations a desire\nfor a deeper spiritual value to be given to art as well as a more\ndecorative value.\n\nPre-Raphaelites they called themselves; not that they imitated the early\nItalian masters at all, but that in their work, as opposed to the facile\nabstractions of Raphael, they found a stronger realism of imagination, a\nmore careful realism of technique, a vision at once more fervent and more\nvivid, an individuality more intimate and more intense.\n\nFor it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic\ndemands of its age: there must be also about it, if it is to affect us\nwith any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality, an\nindividuality remote from that of ordinary men, and coming near to us\nonly by virtue of a certain newness and wonder in the work, and through\nchannels whose very strangeness makes us more ready to give them welcome.\n\n_La personnalité_, said one of the greatest of modern French critics,\n_voilà ce qui nous sauvera_.\n\nBut above all things was it a return to Nature—that formula which seems\nto suit so many and such diverse movements: they would draw and paint\nnothing but what they saw, they would try and imagine things as they\nreally happened. Later there came to the old house by Blackfriars\nBridge, where this young brotherhood used to meet and work, two young men\nfrom Oxford, Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris—the latter\nsubstituting for the simpler realism of the early days a more exquisite\nspirit of choice, a more faultless devotion to beauty, a more intense\nseeking for perfection: a master of all exquisite design and of all\nspiritual vision. It is of the school of Florence rather than of that of\nVenice that he is kinsman, feeling that the close imitation of Nature is\na disturbing element in imaginative art. The visible aspect of modern\nlife disturbs him not; rather is it for him to render eternal all that is\nbeautiful in Greek, Italian, and Celtic legend. To Morris we owe poetry\nwhose perfect precision and clearness of word and vision has not been\nexcelled in the literature of our country, and by the revival of the\ndecorative arts he has given to our individualised romantic movement the\nsocial idea and the social factor also.\n\nBut the revolution accomplished by this clique of young men, with\nRuskin’s faultless and fervent eloquence to help them, was not one of\nideas merely but of execution, not one of conceptions but of creations.\n\nFor the great eras in the history of the development of all the arts have\nbeen eras not of increased feeling or enthusiasm in feeling for art, but\nof new technical improvements primarily and specially. The discovery of\nmarble quarries in the purple ravines of Pentelicus and on the little\nlow-lying hills of the island of Paros gave to the Greeks the opportunity\nfor that intensified vitality of action, that more sensuous and simple\nhumanism, to which the Egyptian sculptor working laboriously in the hard\nporphyry and rose-coloured granite of the desert could not attain. The\nsplendour of the Venetian school began with the introduction of the new\noil medium for painting. The progress in modern music has been due to\nthe invention of new instruments entirely, and in no way to an increased\nconsciousness on the part of the musician of any wider social aim. The\ncritic may try and trace the deferred resolutions of Beethoven {124} to\nsome sense of the incompleteness of the modern intellectual spirit, but\nthe artist would have answered, as one of them did afterwards, ‘Let them\npick out the fifths and leave us at peace.’\n\nAnd so it is in poetry also: all this love of curious French metres like\nthe Ballade, the Villanelle, the Rondel; all this increased value laid on\nelaborate alliterations, and on curious words and refrains, such as you\nwill find in Dante Rossetti and Swinburne, is merely the attempt to\nperfect flute and viol and trumpet through which the spirit of the age\nand the lips of the poet may blow the music of their many messages.\n\nAnd so it has been with this romantic movement of ours: it is a reaction\nagainst the empty conventional workmanship, the lax execution of previous\npoetry and painting, showing itself in the work of such men as Rossetti\nand Burne-Jones by a far greater splendour of colour, a far more\nintricate wonder of design than English imaginative art has shown before.\nIn Rossetti’s poetry and the poetry of Morris, Swinburne and Tennyson a\nperfect precision and choice of language, a style flawless and fearless,\na seeking for all sweet and precious melodies and a sustaining\nconsciousness of the musical value of each word are opposed to that value\nwhich is merely intellectual. In this respect they are one with the\nromantic movement of France of which not the least characteristic note\nwas struck by Théophile Gautier’s advice to the young poet to read his\ndictionary every day, as being the only book worth a poet’s reading.\n\nWhile, then, the material of workmanship is being thus elaborated and\ndiscovered to have in itself incommunicable and eternal qualities of its\nown, qualities entirely satisfying to the poetic sense and not needing\nfor their æsthetic effect any lofty intellectual vision, any deep\ncriticism of life or even any passionate human emotion at all, the spirit\nand the method of the poet’s working—what people call his\ninspiration—have not escaped the controlling influence of the artistic\nspirit. Not that the imagination has lost its wings, but we have\naccustomed ourselves to count their innumerable pulsations, to estimate\ntheir limitless strength, to govern their ungovernable freedom.\n\nTo the Greeks this problem of the conditions of poetic production, and\nthe places occupied by either spontaneity or self-consciousness in any\nartistic work, had a peculiar fascination. We find it in the mysticism\nof Plato and in the rationalism of Aristotle. We find it later in the\nItalian Renaissance agitating the minds of such men as Leonardo da Vinci.\nSchiller tried to adjust the balance between form and feeling, and Goethe\nto estimate the position of self-consciousness in art. Wordsworth’s\ndefinition of poetry as ‘emotion remembered in tranquillity’ may be taken\nas an analysis of one of the stages through which all imaginative work\nhas to pass; and in Keats’s longing to be ‘able to compose without this\nfever’ (I quote from one of his letters), his desire to substitute for\npoetic ardour ‘a more thoughtful and quiet power,’ we may discern the\nmost important moment in the evolution of that artistic life. The\nquestion made an early and strange appearance in your literature too; and\nI need not remind you how deeply the young poets of the French romantic\nmovement were excited and stirred by Edgar Allan Poe’s analysis of the\nworkings of his own imagination in the creating of that supreme\nimaginative work which we know by the name of _The Raven_.\n\nIn the last century, when the intellectual and didactic element had\nintruded to such an extent into the kingdom which belongs to poetry, it\nwas against the claims of the understanding that an artist like Goethe\nhad to protest. ‘The more incomprehensible to the understanding a poem\nis the better for it,’ he said once, asserting the complete supremacy of\nthe imagination in poetry as of reason in prose. But in this century it\nis rather against the claims of the emotional faculties, the claims of\nmere sentiment and feeling, that the artist must react. The simple\nutterance of joy is not poetry any more than a mere personal cry of pain,\nand the real experiences of the artist are always those which do not find\ntheir direct expression but are gathered up and absorbed into some\nartistic form which seems, from such real experiences, to be the farthest\nremoved and the most alien.\n\n‘The heart contains passion but the imagination alone contains poetry,’\nsays Charles Baudelaire. This too was the lesson that Théophile Gautier,\nmost subtle of all modern critics, most fascinating of all modern poets,\nwas never tired of teaching—‘Everybody is affected by a sunrise or a\nsunset.’ The absolute distinction of the artist is not his capacity to\nfeel nature so much as his power of rendering it. The entire\nsubordination of all intellectual and emotional faculties to the vital\nand informing poetic principle is the surest sign of the strength of our\nRenaissance.\n\nWe have seen the artistic spirit working, first in the delightful and\ntechnical sphere of language, the sphere of expression as opposed to\nsubject, then controlling the imagination of the poet in dealing with his\nsubject. And now I would point out to you its operation in the choice of\nsubject. The recognition of a separate realm for the artist, a\nconsciousness of the absolute difference between the world of art and the\nworld of real fact, between classic grace and absolute reality, forms not\nmerely the essential element of any æsthetic charm but is the\ncharacteristic of all great imaginative work and of all great eras of\nartistic creation—of the age of Phidias as of the age of Michael Angelo,\nof the age of Sophocles as of the age of Goethe.\n\nArt never harms itself by keeping aloof from the social problems of the\nday: rather, by so doing, it more completely realises for us that which\nwe desire. For to most of us the real life is the life we do not lead,\nand thus, remaining more true to the essence of its own perfection, more\njealous of its own unattainable beauty, is less likely to forget form in\nfeeling or to accept the passion of creation as any substitute for the\nbeauty of the created thing.\n\nThe artist is indeed the child of his own age, but the present will not\nbe to him a whit more real than the past; for, like the philosopher of\nthe Platonic vision, the poet is the spectator of all time and of all\nexistence. For him no form is obsolete, no subject out of date; rather,\nwhatever of life and passion the world has known, in desert of Judæa or\nin Arcadian valley, by the rivers of Troy or the rivers of Damascus, in\nthe crowded and hideous streets of a modern city or by the pleasant ways\nof Camelot—all lies before him like an open scroll, all is still instinct\nwith beautiful life. He will take of it what is salutary for his own\nspirit, no more; choosing some facts and rejecting others with the calm\nartistic control of one who is in possession of the secret of beauty.\n\nThere is indeed a poetical attitude to be adopted towards all things, but\nall things are not fit subjects for poetry. Into the secure and sacred\nhouse of Beauty the true artist will admit nothing that is harsh or\ndisturbing, nothing that gives pain, nothing that is debatable, nothing\nabout which men argue. He can steep himself, if he wishes, in the\ndiscussion of all the social problems of his day, poor-laws and local\ntaxation, free trade and bimetallic currency, and the like; but when he\nwrites on these subjects it will be, as Milton nobly expressed it, with\nhis left hand, in prose and not in verse, in a pamphlet and not in a\nlyric. This exquisite spirit of artistic choice was not in Byron:\nWordsworth had it not. In the work of both these men there is much that\nwe have to reject, much that does not give us that sense of calm and\nperfect repose which should be the effect of all fine, imaginative work.\nBut in Keats it seemed to have been incarnate, and in his lovely _Ode on\na Grecian Urn_ it found its most secure and faultless expression; in the\npageant of the _Earthly Paradise_ and the knights and ladies of\nBurne-Jones it is the one dominant note.\n\nIt is to no avail that the Muse of Poetry be called, even by such a\nclarion note as Whitman’s, to migrate from Greece and Ionia and to\nplacard REMOVED and TO LET on the rocks of the snowy Parnassus.\nCalliope’s call is not yet closed, nor are the epics of Asia ended; the\nSphinx is not yet silent, nor the fountain of Castaly dry. For art is\nvery life itself and knows nothing of death; she is absolute truth and\ntakes no care of fact; she sees (as I remember Mr. Swinburne insisting on\nat dinner) that Achilles is even now more actual and real than\nWellington, not merely more noble and interesting as a type and figure\nbut more positive and real.\n\nLiterature must rest always on a principle, and temporal considerations\nare no principle at all. For to the poet all times and places are one;\nthe stuff he deals with is eternal and eternally the same: no theme is\ninept, no past or present preferable. The steam whistle will not\naffright him nor the flutes of Arcadia weary him: for him there is but\none time, the artistic moment; but one law, the law of form; but one\nland, the land of Beauty—a land removed indeed from the real world and\nyet more sensuous because more enduring; calm, yet with that calm which\ndwells in the faces of the Greek statues, the calm which comes not from\nthe rejection but from the absorption of passion, the calm which despair\nand sorrow cannot disturb but intensify only. And so it comes that he\nwho seems to stand most remote from his age is he who mirrors it best,\nbecause he has stripped life of what is accidental and transitory,\nstripped it of that ‘mist of familiarity which makes life obscure to us.’\n\nThose strange, wild-eyed sibyls fixed eternally in the whirlwind of\necstasy, those mighty-limbed and Titan prophets, labouring with the\nsecret of the earth and the burden of mystery, that guard and glorify the\nchapel of Pope Sixtus at Rome—do they not tell us more of the real spirit\nof the Italian Renaissance, of the dream of Savonarola and of the sin of\nBorgia, than all the brawling boors and cooking women of Dutch art can\nteach us of the real spirit of the history of Holland?\n\nAnd so in our own day, also, the two most vital tendencies of the\nnineteenth century—the democratic and pantheistic tendency and the\ntendency to value life for the sake of art—found their most complete and\nperfect utterance in the poetry of Shelley and Keats who, to the blind\neyes of their own time, seemed to be as wanderers in the wilderness,\npreachers of vague or unreal things. And I remember once, in talking to\nMr. Burne-Jones about modern science, his saying to me, ‘the more\nmaterialistic science becomes, the more angels shall I paint: their wings\nare my protest in favour of the immortality of the soul.’\n\nBut these are the intellectual speculations that underlie art. Where in\nthe arts themselves are we to find that breadth of human sympathy which\nis the condition of all noble work; where in the arts are we to look for\nwhat Mazzini would call the social ideas as opposed to the merely\npersonal ideas? By virtue of what claim do I demand for the artist the\nlove and loyalty of the men and women of the world? I think I can answer\nthat.\n\nWhatever spiritual message an artist brings to his aid is a matter for\nhis own soul. He may bring judgment like Michael Angelo or peace like\nAngelico; he may come with mourning like the great Athenian or with mirth\nlike the singer of Sicily; nor is it for us to do aught but accept his\nteaching, knowing that we cannot smite the bitter lips of Leopardi into\nlaughter or burden with our discontent Goethe’s serene calm. But for\nwarrant of its truth such message must have the flame of eloquence in the\nlips that speak it, splendour and glory in the vision that is its\nwitness, being justified by one thing only—the flawless beauty and\nperfect form of its expression: this indeed being the social idea, being\nthe meaning of joy in art.\n\nNot laughter where none should laugh, nor the calling of peace where\nthere is no peace; not in painting the subject ever, but the pictorial\ncharm only, the wonder of its colour, the satisfying beauty of its\ndesign.\n\nYou have most of you seen, probably, that great masterpiece of Rubens\nwhich hangs in the gallery of Brussels, that swift and wonderful pageant\nof horse and rider arrested in its most exquisite and fiery moment when\nthe winds are caught in crimson banner and the air lit by the gleam of\narmour and the flash of plume. Well, that is joy in art, though that\ngolden hillside be trodden by the wounded feet of Christ and it is for\nthe death of the Son of Man that that gorgeous cavalcade is passing.\n\nBut this restless modern intellectual spirit of ours is not receptive\nenough of the sensuous element of art; and so the real influence of the\narts is hidden from many of us: only a few, escaping from the tyranny of\nthe soul, have learned the secret of those high hours when thought is\nnot.\n\nAnd this indeed is the reason of the influence which Eastern art is\nhaving on us in Europe, and of the fascination of all Japanese work.\nWhile the Western world has been laying on art the intolerable burden of\nits own intellectual doubts and the spiritual tragedy of its own sorrows,\nthe East has always kept true to art’s primary and pictorial conditions.\n\nIn judging of a beautiful statue the æsthetic faculty is absolutely and\ncompletely gratified by the splendid curves of those marble lips that are\ndumb to our complaint, the noble modelling of those limbs that are\npowerless to help us. In its primary aspect a painting has no more\nspiritual message or meaning than an exquisite fragment of Venetian glass\nor a blue tile from the wall of Damascus: it is a beautifully coloured\nsurface, nothing more. The channels by which all noble imaginative work\nin painting should touch, and do touch the soul, are not those of the\ntruths of life, nor metaphysical truths. But that pictorial charm which\ndoes not depend on any literary reminiscence for its effect on the one\nhand, nor is yet a mere result of communicable technical skill on the\nother, comes of a certain inventive and creative handling of colour.\nNearly always in Dutch painting and often in the works of Giorgione or\nTitian, it is entirely independent of anything definitely poetical in the\nsubject, a kind of form and choice in workmanship which is itself\nentirely satisfying, and is (as the Greeks would say) an end in itself.\n\nAnd so in poetry too, the real poetical quality, the joy of poetry, comes\nnever from the subject but from an inventive handling of rhythmical\nlanguage, from what Keats called the ‘sensuous life of verse.’ The\nelement of song in the singing accompanied by the profound joy of motion,\nis so sweet that, while the incomplete lives of ordinary men bring no\nhealing power with them, the thorn-crown of the poet will blossom into\nroses for our pleasure; for our delight his despair will gild its own\nthorns, and his pain, like Adonis, be beautiful in its agony; and when\nthe poet’s heart breaks it will break in music.\n\nAnd health in art—what is that? It has nothing to do with a sane\ncriticism of life. There is more health in Baudelaire than there is in\n[Kingsley]. Health is the artist’s recognition of the limitations of the\nform in which he works. It is the honour and the homage which he gives\nto the material he uses—whether it be language with its glories, or\nmarble or pigment with their glories—knowing that the true brotherhood of\nthe arts consists not in their borrowing one another’s method, but in\ntheir producing, each of them by its own individual means, each of them\nby keeping its objective limits, the same unique artistic delight. The\ndelight is like that given to us by music—for music is the art in which\nform and matter are always one, the art whose subject cannot be separated\nfrom the method of its expression, the art which most completely realises\nthe artistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts are\nconstantly aspiring.\n\nAnd criticism—what place is that to have in our culture? Well, I think\nthat the first duty of an art critic is to hold his tongue at all times,\nand upon all subjects: _C’est un grand avantage de n’avoir rien fait_,\n_mais il ne faut pas en abuser_.\n\nIt is only through the mystery of creation that one can gain any\nknowledge of the quality of created things. You have listened to\n_Patience_ for a hundred nights and you have heard me for one only. It\nwill make, no doubt, that satire more piquant by knowing something about\nthe subject of it, but you must not judge of æstheticism by the satire of\nMr. Gilbert. As little should you judge of the strength and splendour of\nsun or sea by the dust that dances in the beam, or the bubble that breaks\non the wave, as take your critic for any sane test of art. For the\nartists, like the Greek gods, are revealed only to one another, as\nEmerson says somewhere; their real value and place time only can show.\nIn this respect also omnipotence is with the ages. The true critic\naddresses not the artist ever but the public only. His work lies with\nthem. Art can never have any other claim but her own perfection: it is\nfor the critic to create for art the social aim, too, by teaching the\npeople the spirit in which they are to approach all artistic work, the\nlove they are to give it, the lesson they are to draw from it.\n\nAll these appeals to art to set herself more in harmony with modern\nprogress and civilisation, and to make herself the mouthpiece for the\nvoice of humanity, these appeals to art ‘to have a mission,’ are appeals\nwhich should be made to the public. The art which has fulfilled the\nconditions of beauty has fulfilled all conditions: it is for the critic\nto teach the people how to find in the calm of such art the highest\nexpression of their own most stormy passions. ‘I have no reverence,’\nsaid Keats, ‘for the public, nor for anything in existence but the\nEternal Being, the memory of great men and the principle of Beauty.’\n\nSuch then is the principle which I believe to be guiding and underlying\nour English Renaissance, a Renaissance many-sided and wonderful,\nproductive of strong ambitions and lofty personalities, yet for all its\nsplendid achievements in poetry and in the decorative arts and in\npainting, for all the increased comeliness and grace of dress, and the\nfurniture of houses and the like, not complete. For there can be no\ngreat sculpture without a beautiful national life, and the commercial\nspirit of England has killed that; no great drama without a noble\nnational life, and the commercial spirit of England has killed that too.\n\nIt is not that the flawless serenity of marble cannot bear the burden of\nthe modern intellectual spirit, or become instinct with the fire of\nromantic passion—the tomb of Duke Lorenzo and the chapel of the Medici\nshow us that—but it is that, as Théophile Gautier used to say, the\nvisible world is dead, _le monde visible a disparu_.\n\nNor is it again that the novel has killed the play, as some critics would\npersuade us—the romantic movement of France shows us that. The work of\nBalzac and of Hugo grew up side by side together; nay, more, were\ncomplementary to each other, though neither of them saw it. While all\nother forms of poetry may flourish in an ignoble age, the splendid\nindividualism of the lyrist, fed by its own passion, and lit by its own\npower, may pass as a pillar of fire as well across the desert as across\nplaces that are pleasant. It is none the less glorious though no man\nfollow it—nay, by the greater sublimity of its loneliness it may be\nquickened into loftier utterance and intensified into clearer song. From\nthe mean squalor of the sordid life that limits him, the dreamer or the\nidyllist may soar on poesy’s viewless wings, may traverse with fawn-skin\nand spear the moonlit heights of Cithæron though Faun and Bassarid dance\nthere no more. Like Keats he may wander through the old-world forests of\nLatmos, or stand like Morris on the galley’s deck with the Viking when\nking and galley have long since passed away. But the drama is the\nmeeting-place of art and life; it deals, as Mazzini said, not merely with\nman, but with social man, with man in his relation to God and to\nHumanity. It is the product of a period of great national united energy;\nit is impossible without a noble public, and belongs to such ages as the\nage of Elizabeth in London and of Pericles at Athens; it is part of such\nlofty moral and spiritual ardour as came to Greek after the defeat of the\nPersian fleet, and to Englishman after the wreck of the Armada of Spain.\n\nShelley felt how incomplete our movement was in this respect, and has\nshown in one great tragedy by what terror and pity he would have purified\nour age; but in spite of _The Cenci_ the drama is one of the artistic\nforms through which the genius of the England of this century seeks in\nvain to find outlet and expression. He has had no worthy imitators.\n\nIt is rather, perhaps, to you that we should turn to complete and perfect\nthis great movement of ours, for there is something Hellenic in your air\nand world, something that has a quicker breath of the joy and power of\nElizabeth’s England about it than our ancient civilisation can give us.\nFor you, at least, are young; ‘no hungry generations tread you down,’ and\nthe past does not weary you with the intolerable burden of its memories\nnor mock you with the ruins of a beauty, the secret of whose creation you\nhave lost. That very absence of tradition, which Mr. Ruskin thought\nwould rob your rivers of their laughter and your flowers of their light,\nmay be rather the source of your freedom and your strength.\n\nTo speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the\nmovements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees\nin the woods and grass by the roadside, has been defined by one of your\npoets as a flawless triumph of art. It is a triumph which you above all\nnations may be destined to achieve. For the voices that have their\ndwelling in sea and mountain are not the chosen music of Liberty only;\nother messages are there in the wonder of wind-swept height and the\nmajesty of silent deep—messages that, if you will but listen to them, may\nyield you the splendour of some new imagination, the marvel of some new\nbeauty.\n\n‘I foresee,’ said Goethe, ‘the dawn of a new literature which all people\nmay claim as their own, for all have contributed to its foundation.’ If,\nthen, this is so, and if the materials for a civilisation as great as\nthat of Europe lie all around you, what profit, you will ask me, will all\nthis study of our poets and painters be to you? I might answer that the\nintellect can be engaged without direct didactic object on an artistic\nand historical problem; that the demand of the intellect is merely to\nfeel itself alive; that nothing which has ever interested men or women\ncan cease to be a fit subject for culture.\n\nI might remind you of what all Europe owes to the sorrow of a single\nFlorentine in exile at Verona, or to the love of Petrarch by that little\nwell in Southern France; nay, more, how even in this dull, materialistic\nage the simple expression of an old man’s simple life, passed away from\nthe clamour of great cities amid the lakes and misty hills of Cumberland,\nhas opened out for England treasures of new joy compared with which the\ntreasures of her luxury are as barren as the sea which she has made her\nhighway, and as bitter as the fire which she would make her slave.\n\nBut I think it will bring you something besides this, something that is\nthe knowledge of real strength in art: not that you should imitate the\nworks of these men; but their artistic spirit, their artistic attitude, I\nthink you should absorb that.\n\nFor in nations, as in individuals, if the passion for creation be not\naccompanied by the critical, the æsthetic faculty also, it will be sure\nto waste its strength aimlessly, failing perhaps in the artistic spirit\nof choice, or in the mistaking of feeling for form, or in the following\nof false ideals.\n\nFor the various spiritual forms of the imagination have a natural\naffinity with certain sensuous forms of art—and to discern the qualities\nof each art, to intensify as well its limitations as its powers of\nexpression, is one of the aims that culture sets before us. It is not an\nincreased moral sense, an increased moral supervision that your\nliterature needs. Indeed, one should never talk of a moral or an immoral\npoem—poems are either well written or badly written, that is all. And,\nindeed, any element of morals or implied reference to a standard of good\nor evil in art is often a sign of a certain incompleteness of vision,\noften a note of discord in the harmony of an imaginative creation; for\nall good work aims at a purely artistic effect. ‘We must be careful,’\nsaid Goethe, ‘not to be always looking for culture merely in what is\nobviously moral. Everything that is great promotes civilisation as soon\nas we are aware of it.’\n\nBut, as in your cities so in your literature, it is a permanent canon and\nstandard of taste, an increased sensibility to beauty (if I may say so)\nthat is lacking. All noble work is not national merely, but universal.\nThe political independence of a nation must not be confused with any\nintellectual isolation. The spiritual freedom, indeed, your own generous\nlives and liberal air will give you. From us you will learn the\nclassical restraint of form.\n\nFor all great art is delicate art, roughness having very little to do\nwith strength, and harshness very little to do with power. ‘The artist,’\nas Mr. Swinburne says, ‘must be perfectly articulate.’\n\nThis limitation is for the artist perfect freedom: it is at once the\norigin and the sign of his strength. So that all the supreme masters of\nstyle—Dante, Sophocles, Shakespeare—are the supreme masters of spiritual\nand intellectual vision also.\n\nLove art for its own sake, and then all things that you need will be\nadded to you.\n\nThis devotion to beauty and to the creation of beautiful things is the\ntest of all great civilised nations. Philosophy may teach us to bear\nwith equanimity the misfortunes of our neighbours, and science resolve\nthe moral sense into a secretion of sugar, but art is what makes the life\nof each citizen a sacrament and not a speculation, art is what makes the\nlife of the whole race immortal.\n\nFor beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fall\naway like sand, and creeds follow one another like the withered leaves of\nautumn; but what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons and a possession\nfor all eternity.\n\nWars and the clash of armies and the meeting of men in battle by trampled\nfield or leaguered city, and the rising of nations there must always be.\nBut I think that art, by creating a common intellectual atmosphere\nbetween all countries, might—if it could not overshadow the world with\nthe silver wings of peace—at least make men such brothers that they would\nnot go out to slay one another for the whim or folly of some king or\nminister, as they do in Europe. Fraternity would come no more with the\nhands of Cain, nor Liberty betray freedom with the kiss of Anarchy; for\nnational hatreds are always strongest where culture is lowest.\n\n‘How could I?’ said Goethe, when reproached for not writing like Korner\nagainst the French. ‘How could I, to whom barbarism and culture alone\nare of importance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated of\nthe earth, a nation to which I owe a great part of my own cultivation?’\n\nMighty empires, too, there must always be as long as personal ambition\nand the spirit of the age are one, but art at least is the only empire\nwhich a nation’s enemies cannot take from her by conquest, but which is\ntaken by submission only. The sovereignty of Greece and Rome is not yet\npassed away, though the gods of the one be dead and the eagles of the\nother tired.\n\nAnd we in our Renaissance are seeking to create a sovereignty that will\nstill be England’s when her yellow leopards have grown weary of wars and\nthe rose of her shield is crimsoned no more with the blood of battle; and\nyou, too, absorbing into the generous heart of a great people this\npervading artistic spirit, will create for yourselves such riches as you\nhave never yet created, though your land be a network of railways and\nyour cities the harbours for the galleys of the world.\n\nI know, indeed, that the divine natural prescience of beauty which is the\ninalienable inheritance of Greek and Italian is not our inheritance. For\nsuch an informing and presiding spirit of art to shield us from all harsh\nand alien influences, we of the Northern races must turn rather to that\nstrained self-consciousness of our age which, as it is the key-note of\nall our romantic art, must be the source of all or nearly all our\nculture. I mean that intellectual curiosity of the nineteenth century\nwhich is always looking for the secret of the life that still lingers\nround old and bygone forms of culture. It takes from each what is\nserviceable for the modern spirit—from Athens its wonder without its\nworship, from Venice its splendour without its sin. The same spirit is\nalways analysing its own strength and its own weakness, counting what it\nowes to East and to West, to the olive-trees of Colonus and to the\npalm-trees of Lebanon, to Gethsemane and to the garden of Proserpine.\n\nAnd yet the truths of art cannot be taught: they are revealed only,\nrevealed to natures which have made themselves receptive of all beautiful\nimpressions by the study and worship of all beautiful things. And hence\nthe enormous importance given to the decorative arts in our English\nRenaissance; hence all that marvel of design that comes from the hand of\nEdward Burne-Jones, all that weaving of tapestry and staining of glass,\nthat beautiful working in clay and metal and wood which we owe to William\nMorris, the greatest handicraftsman we have had in England since the\nfourteenth century.\n\nSo, in years to come there will be nothing in any man’s house which has\nnot given delight to its maker and does not give delight to its user.\nThe children, like the children of Plato’s perfect city, will grow up ‘in\na simple atmosphere of all fair things’—I quote from the passage in the\n_Republic_—‘a simple atmosphere of all fair things, where beauty, which\nis the spirit of art, will come on eye and ear like a fresh breath of\nwind that brings health from a clear upland, and insensibly and gradually\ndraw the child’s soul into harmony with all knowledge and all wisdom, so\nthat he will love what is beautiful and good, and hate what is evil and\nugly (for they always go together) long before he knows the reason why;\nand then when reason comes will kiss her on the cheek as a friend.’\n\nThat is what Plato thought decorative art could do for a nation, feeling\nthat the secret not of philosophy merely but of all gracious existence\nmight be externally hidden from any one whose youth had been passed in\nuncomely and vulgar surroundings, and that the beauty of form and colour\neven, as he says, in the meanest vessels of the house, will find its way\ninto the inmost places of the soul and lead the boy naturally to look for\nthat divine harmony of spiritual life of which art was to him the\nmaterial symbol and warrant.\n\nPrelude indeed to all knowledge and all wisdom will this love of\nbeautiful things be for us; yet there are times when wisdom becomes a\nburden and knowledge is one with sorrow: for as every body has its shadow\nso every soul has its scepticism. In such dread moments of discord and\ndespair where should we, of this torn and troubled age, turn our steps if\nnot to that secure house of beauty where there is always a little\nforgetfulness, always a great joy; to that _città divina_, as the old\nItalian heresy called it, the divine city where one can stand, though\nonly for a brief moment, apart from the division and terror of the world\nand the choice of the world too?\n\nThis is that _consolation des arts_ which is the key-note of Gautier’s\npoetry, the secret of modern life foreshadowed—as indeed what in our\ncentury is not?—by Goethe. You remember what he said to the German\npeople: ‘Only have the courage,’ he said, ‘to give yourselves up to your\nimpressions, allow yourselves to be delighted, moved, elevated, nay\ninstructed, inspired for something great.’ The courage to give\nyourselves up to your impressions: yes, that is the secret of the\nartistic life—for while art has been defined as an escape from the\ntyranny of the senses, it is an escape rather from the tyranny of the\nsoul. But only to those who worship her above all things does she ever\nreveal her true treasure: else will she be as powerless to aid you as the\nmutilated Venus of the Louvre was before the romantic but sceptical\nnature of Heine.\n\nAnd indeed I think it would be impossible to overrate the gain that might\nfollow if we had about us only what gave pleasure to the maker of it and\ngives pleasure to its user, that being the simplest of all rules about\ndecoration. One thing, at least, I think it would do for us: there is no\nsurer test of a great country than how near it stands to its own poets;\nbut between the singers of our day and the workers to whom they would\nsing there seems to be an ever-widening and dividing chasm, a chasm which\nslander and mockery cannot traverse, but which is spanned by the luminous\nwings of love.\n\nAnd of such love I think that the abiding presence in our houses of noble\nimaginative work would be the surest seed and preparation. I do not mean\nmerely as regards that direct literary expression of art by which, from\nthe little red-and-black cruse of oil or wine, a Greek boy could learn of\nthe lionlike splendour of Achilles, of the strength of Hector and the\nbeauty of Paris and the wonder of Helen, long before he stood and\nlistened in crowded market-place or in theatre of marble; or by which an\nItalian child of the fifteenth century could know of the chastity of\nLucrece and the death of Camilla from carven doorway and from painted\nchest. For the good we get from art is not what we learn from it; it is\nwhat we become through it. Its real influence will be in giving the mind\nthat enthusiasm which is the secret of Hellenism, accustoming it to\ndemand from art all that art can do in rearranging the facts of common\nlife for us—whether it be by giving the most spiritual interpretation of\none’s own moments of highest passion or the most sensuous expression of\nthose thoughts that are the farthest removed from sense; in accustoming\nit to love the things of the imagination for their own sake, and to\ndesire beauty and grace in all things. For he who does not love art in\nall things does not love it at all, and he who does not need art in all\nthings does not need it at all.\n\nI will not dwell here on what I am sure has delighted you all in our\ngreat Gothic cathedrals. I mean how the artist of that time,\nhandicraftsman himself in stone or glass, found the best motives for his\nart, always ready for his hand and always beautiful, in the daily work of\nthe artificers he saw around him—as in those lovely windows of\nChartres—where the dyer dips in the vat and the potter sits at the wheel,\nand the weaver stands at the loom: real manufacturers these, workers with\nthe hand, and entirely delightful to look at, not like the smug and vapid\nshopman of our time, who knows nothing of the web or vase he sells,\nexcept that he is charging you double its value and thinking you a fool\nfor buying it. Nor can I but just note, in passing, the immense\ninfluence the decorative work of Greece and Italy had on its artists, the\none teaching the sculptor that restraining influence of design which is\nthe glory of the Parthenon, the other keeping painting always true to its\nprimary, pictorial condition of noble colour which is the secret of the\nschool of Venice; for I wish rather, in this lecture at least, to dwell\non the effect that decorative art has on human life—on its social not its\npurely artistic effect.\n\nThere are two kinds of men in the world, two great creeds, two different\nforms of natures: men to whom the end of life is action, and men to whom\nthe end of life is thought. As regards the latter, who seek for\nexperience itself and not for the fruits of experience, who must burn\nalways with one of the passions of this fiery-coloured world, who find\nlife interesting not for its secret but for its situations, for its\npulsations and not for its purpose; the passion for beauty engendered by\nthe decorative arts will be to them more satisfying than any political or\nreligious enthusiasm, any enthusiasm for humanity, any ecstasy or sorrow\nfor love. For art comes to one professing primarily to give nothing but\nthe highest quality to one’s moments, and for those moments’ sake. So\nfar for those to whom the end of life is thought. As regards the others,\nwho hold that life is inseparable from labour, to them should this\nmovement be specially dear: for, if our days are barren without industry,\nindustry without art is barbarism.\n\nHewers of wood and drawers of water there must be always indeed among us.\nOur modern machinery has not much lightened the labour of man after all:\nbut at least let the pitcher that stands by the well be beautiful and\nsurely the labour of the day will be lightened: let the wood be made\nreceptive of some lovely form, some gracious design, and there will come\nno longer discontent but joy to the toiler. For what is decoration but\nthe worker’s expression of joy in his work? And not joy merely—that is a\ngreat thing yet not enough—but that opportunity of expressing his own\nindividuality which, as it is the essence of all life, is the source of\nall art. ‘I have tried,’ I remember William Morris saying to me once, ‘I\nhave tried to make each of my workers an artist, and when I say an artist\nI mean a man.’ For the worker then, handicraftsman of whatever kind he\nis, art is no longer to be a purple robe woven by a slave and thrown over\nthe whitened body of a leprous king to hide and to adorn the sin of his\nluxury, but rather the beautiful and noble expression of a life that has\nin it something beautiful and noble.\n\nAnd so you must seek out your workman and give him, as far as possible,\nthe right surroundings, for remember that the real test and virtue of a\nworkman is not his earnestness nor his industry even, but his power of\ndesign merely; and that ‘design is not the offspring of idle fancy: it is\nthe studied result of accumulative observation and delightful habit.’\nAll the teaching in the world is of no avail if you do not surround your\nworkman with happy influences and with beautiful things. It is\nimpossible for him to have right ideas about colour unless he sees the\nlovely colours of Nature unspoiled; impossible for him to supply\nbeautiful incident and action unless he sees beautiful incident and\naction in the world about him.\n\nFor to cultivate sympathy you must be among living things and thinking\nabout them, and to cultivate admiration you must be among beautiful\nthings and looking at them. ‘The steel of Toledo and the silk of Genoa\ndid but give strength to oppression and lustre to pride,’ as Mr. Ruskin\nsays; let it be for you to create an art that is made by the hands of the\npeople for the joy of the people, to please the hearts of the people,\ntoo; an art that will be your expression of your delight in life. There\nis nothing ‘in common life too mean, in common things too trivial to be\nennobled by your touch’; nothing in life that art cannot sanctify.\n\nYou have heard, I think, a few of you, of two flowers connected with the\næsthetic movement in England, and said (I assure you, erroneously) to be\nthe food of some æsthetic young men. Well, let me tell you that the\nreason we love the lily and the sunflower, in spite of what Mr. Gilbert\nmay tell you, is not for any vegetable fashion at all. It is because\nthese two lovely flowers are in England the two most perfect models of\ndesign, the most naturally adapted for decorative art—the gaudy leonine\nbeauty of the one and the precious loveliness of the other giving to the\nartist the most entire and perfect joy. And so with you: let there be no\nflower in your meadows that does not wreathe its tendrils around your\npillows, no little leaf in your Titan forests that does not lend its form\nto design, no curving spray of wild rose or brier that does not live for\never in carven arch or window or marble, no bird in your air that is not\ngiving the iridescent wonder of its colour, the exquisite curves of its\nwings in flight, to make more precious the preciousness of simple\nadornment.\n\nWe spend our days, each one of us, in looking for the secret of life.\nWell, the secret of life is in art.\n\n\n\n\nHOUSE DECORATION\n\n\nA lecture delivered in America during Wilde’s tour in 1882. It was\nannounced as a lecture on ‘The Practical Application of the Principles of\nÆsthetic Theory to Exterior and Interior House Decoration, With\nObservations upon Dress and Personal Ornaments.’ The earliest date on\nwhich it is known to have been given is May 11, 1882.\n\nIN my last lecture I gave you something of the history of Art in England.\nI sought to trace the influence of the French Revolution upon its\ndevelopment. I said something of the song of Keats and the school of the\npre-Raphaelites. But I do not want to shelter the movement, which I have\ncalled the English Renaissance, under any palladium however noble, or any\nname however revered. The roots of it have, indeed, to be sought for in\nthings that have long passed away, and not, as some suppose, in the fancy\nof a few young men—although I am not altogether sure that there is\nanything much better than the fancy of a few young men.\n\nWhen I appeared before you on a previous occasion, I had seen nothing of\nAmerican art save the Doric columns and Corinthian chimney-pots visible\non your Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Since then, I have been through your\ncountry to some fifty or sixty different cities, I think. I find that\nwhat your people need is not so much high imaginative art but that which\nhallows the vessels of everyday use. I suppose that the poet will sing\nand the artist will paint regardless whether the world praises or blames.\nHe has his own world and is independent of his fellow-men. But the\nhandicraftsman is dependent on your pleasure and opinion. He needs your\nencouragement and he must have beautiful surroundings. Your people love\nart but do not sufficiently honour the handicraftsman. Of course, those\nmillionaires who can pillage Europe for their pleasure need have no care\nto encourage such; but I speak for those whose desire for beautiful\nthings is larger than their means. I find that one great trouble all\nover is that your workmen are not given to noble designs. You cannot be\nindifferent to this, because Art is not something which you can take or\nleave. It is a necessity of human life.\n\nAnd what is the meaning of this beautiful decoration which we call art?\nIn the first place, it means value to the workman and it means the\npleasure which he must necessarily take in making a beautiful thing. The\nmark of all good art is not that the thing done is done exactly or\nfinely, for machinery may do as much, but that it is worked out with the\nhead and the workman’s heart. I cannot impress the point too frequently\nthat beautiful and rational designs are necessary in all work. I did not\nimagine, until I went into some of your simpler cities, that there was so\nmuch bad work done. I found, where I went, bad wall-papers horribly\ndesigned, and coloured carpets, and that old offender the horse-hair\nsofa, whose stolid look of indifference is always so depressing. I found\nmeaningless chandeliers and machine-made furniture, generally of\nrosewood, which creaked dismally under the weight of the ubiquitous\ninterviewer. I came across the small iron stove which they always\npersist in decorating with machine-made ornaments, and which is as great\na bore as a wet day or any other particularly dreadful institution. When\nunusual extravagance was indulged in, it was garnished with two funeral\nurns.\n\nIt must always be remembered that what is well and carefully made by an\nhonest workman, after a rational design, increases in beauty and value as\nthe years go on. The old furniture brought over by the Pilgrims, two\nhundred years ago, which I saw in New England, is just as good and as\nbeautiful to-day as it was when it first came here. Now, what you must\ndo is to bring artists and handicraftsmen together. Handicraftsmen\ncannot live, certainly cannot thrive, without such companionship.\nSeparate these two and you rob art of all spiritual motive.\n\nHaving done this, you must place your workman in the midst of beautiful\nsurroundings. The artist is not dependent on the visible and the\ntangible. He has his visions and his dreams to feed on. But the workman\nmust see lovely forms as he goes to his work in the morning and returns\nat eventide. And, in connection with this, I want to assure you that\nnoble and beautiful designs are never the result of idle fancy or\npurposeless day-dreaming. They come only as the accumulation of habits\nof long and delightful observation. And yet such things may not be\ntaught. Right ideas concerning them can certainly be obtained only by\nthose who have been accustomed to rooms that are beautiful and colours\nthat are satisfying.\n\nPerhaps one of the most difficult things for us to do is to choose a\nnotable and joyous dress for men. There would be more joy in life if we\nwere to accustom ourselves to use all the beautiful colours we can in\nfashioning our own clothes. The dress of the future, I think, will use\ndrapery to a great extent and will abound with joyous colour. At present\nwe have lost all nobility of dress and, in doing so, have almost\nannihilated the modern sculptor. And, in looking around at the figures\nwhich adorn our parks, one could almost wish that we had completely\nkilled the noble art. To see the frock-coat of the drawing-room done in\nbronze, or the double waistcoat perpetuated in marble, adds a new horror\nto death. But indeed, in looking through the history of costume, seeking\nan answer to the questions we have propounded, there is little that is\neither beautiful or appropriate. One of the earliest forms is the Greek\ndrapery which is exquisite for young girls. And then, I think we may be\npardoned a little enthusiasm over the dress of the time of Charles I., so\nbeautiful indeed, that in spite of its invention being with the Cavaliers\nit was copied by the Puritans. And the dress for the children of that\ntime must not be passed over. It was a very golden age of the little\nones. I do not think that they have ever looked so lovely as they do in\nthe pictures of that time. The dress of the last century in England is\nalso peculiarly gracious and graceful. There is nothing bizarre or\nstrange about it, but it is full of harmony and beauty. In these days,\nwhen we have suffered dreadfully from the incursions of the modern\nmilliner, we hear ladies boast that they do not wear a dress more than\nonce. In the old days, when the dresses were decorated with beautiful\ndesigns and worked with exquisite embroidery, ladies rather took a pride\nin bringing out the garment and wearing it many times and handing it down\nto their daughters—a process that would, I think, be quite appreciated by\na modern husband when called upon to settle his wife’s bills.\n\nAnd how shall men dress? Men say that they do not particularly care how\nthey dress, and that it is little matter. I am bound to reply that I do\nnot think that you do. In all my journeys through the country, the only\nwell-dressed men that I saw—and in saying this I earnestly deprecate the\npolished indignation of your Fifth Avenue dandies—were the Western\nminers. Their wide-brimmed hats, which shaded their faces from the sun\nand protected them from the rain, and the cloak, which is by far the most\nbeautiful piece of drapery ever invented, may well be dwelt on with\nadmiration. Their high boots, too, were sensible and practical. They\nwore only what was comfortable, and therefore beautiful. As I looked at\nthem I could not help thinking with regret of the time when these\npicturesque miners would have made their fortunes and would go East to\nassume again all the abominations of modern fashionable attire. Indeed,\nso concerned was I that I made some of them promise that when they again\nappeared in the more crowded scenes of Eastern civilisation they would\nstill continue to wear their lovely costume. But I do not believe they\nwill.\n\nNow, what America wants to-day is a school of rational art. Bad art is a\ngreat deal worse than no art at all. You must show your workmen\nspecimens of good work so that they come to know what is simple and true\nand beautiful. To that end I would have you have a museum attached to\nthese schools—not one of those dreadful modern institutions where there\nis a stuffed and very dusty giraffe, and a case or two of fossils, but a\nplace where there are gathered examples of art decoration from various\nperiods and countries. Such a place is the South Kensington Museum in\nLondon, whereon we build greater hopes for the future than on any other\none thing. There I go every Saturday night, when the museum is open\nlater than usual, to see the handicraftsman, the wood-worker, the\nglass-blower and the worker in metals. And it is here that the man of\nrefinement and culture comes face to face with the workman who ministers\nto his joy. He comes to know more of the nobility of the workman, and\nthe workman, feeling the appreciation, comes to know more of the nobility\nof his work.\n\nYou have too many white walls. More colour is wanted. You should have\nsuch men as Whistler among you to teach you the beauty and joy of colour.\nTake Mr. Whistler’s ‘Symphony in White,’ which you no doubt have imagined\nto be something quite bizarre. It is nothing of the sort. Think of a\ncool grey sky flecked here and there with white clouds, a grey ocean and\nthree wonderfully beautiful figures robed in white, leaning over the\nwater and dropping white flowers from their fingers. Here is no\nextensive intellectual scheme to trouble you, and no metaphysics of which\nwe have had quite enough in art. But if the simple and unaided colour\nstrike the right key-note, the whole conception is made clear. I regard\nMr. Whistler’s famous Peacock Room as the finest thing in colour and art\ndecoration which the world has known since Correggio painted that\nwonderful room in Italy where the little children are dancing on the\nwalls. Mr. Whistler finished another room just before I came away—a\nbreakfast room in blue and yellow. The ceiling was a light blue, the\ncabinet-work and the furniture were of a yellow wood, the curtains at the\nwindows were white and worked in yellow, and when the table was set for\nbreakfast with dainty blue china nothing can be conceived at once so\nsimple and so joyous.\n\nThe fault which I have observed in most of your rooms is that there is\napparent no definite scheme of colour. Everything is not attuned to a\nkey-note as it should be. The apartments are crowded with pretty things\nwhich have no relation to one another. Again, your artists must decorate\nwhat is more simply useful. In your art schools I found no attempt to\ndecorate such things as the vessels for water. I know of nothing uglier\nthan the ordinary jug or pitcher. A museum could be filled with the\ndifferent kinds of water vessels which are used in hot countries. Yet we\ncontinue to submit to the depressing jug with the handle all on one side.\nI do not see the wisdom of decorating dinner-plates with sunsets and\nsoup-plates with moonlight scenes. I do not think it adds anything to\nthe pleasure of the canvas-back duck to take it out of such glories.\nBesides, we do not want a soup-plate whose bottom seems to vanish in the\ndistance. One feels neither safe nor comfortable under such conditions.\nIn fact, I did not find in the art schools of the country that the\ndifference was explained between decorative and imaginative art.\n\nThe conditions of art should be simple. A great deal more depends upon\nthe heart than upon the head. Appreciation of art is not secured by any\nelaborate scheme of learning. Art requires a good healthy atmosphere.\nThe motives for art are still around about us as they were round about\nthe ancients. And the subjects are also easily found by the earnest\nsculptor and the painter. Nothing is more picturesque and graceful than\na man at work. The artist who goes to the children’s playground, watches\nthem at their sport and sees the boy stoop to tie his shoe, will find the\nsame themes that engaged the attention of the ancient Greeks, and such\nobservation and the illustrations which follow will do much to correct\nthat foolish impression that mental and physical beauty are always\ndivorced.\n\nTo you, more than perhaps to any other country, has Nature been generous\nin furnishing material for art workers to work in. You have marble\nquarries where the stone is more beautiful in colour than any the Greeks\never had for their beautiful work, and yet day after day I am confronted\nwith the great building of some stupid man who has used the beautiful\nmaterial as if it were not precious almost beyond speech. Marble should\nnot be used save by noble workmen. There is nothing which gave me a\ngreater sense of barrenness in travelling through the country than the\nentire absence of wood carving on your houses. Wood carving is the\nsimplest of the decorative arts. In Switzerland the little barefooted\nboy beautifies the porch of his father’s house with examples of skill in\nthis direction. Why should not American boys do a great deal more and\nbetter than Swiss boys?\n\nThere is nothing to my mind more coarse in conception and more vulgar in\nexecution than modern jewellery. This is something that can easily be\ncorrected. Something better should be made out of the beautiful gold\nwhich is stored up in your mountain hollows and strewn along your river\nbeds. When I was at Leadville and reflected that all the shining silver\nthat I saw coming from the mines would be made into ugly dollars, it made\nme sad. It should be made into something more permanent. The golden\ngates at Florence are as beautiful to-day as when Michael Angelo saw\nthem.\n\nWe should see more of the workman than we do. We should not be content\nto have the salesman stand between us—the salesman who knows nothing of\nwhat he is selling save that he is charging a great deal too much for it.\nAnd watching the workman will teach that most important lesson—the\nnobility of all rational workmanship.\n\nI said in my last lecture that art would create a new brotherhood among\nmen by furnishing a universal language. I said that under its beneficent\ninfluences war might pass away. Thinking this, what place can I ascribe\nto art in our education? If children grow up among all fair and lovely\nthings, they will grow to love beauty and detest ugliness before they\nknow the reason why. If you go into a house where everything is coarse,\nyou find things chipped and broken and unsightly. Nobody exercises any\ncare. If everything is dainty and delicate, gentleness and refinement of\nmanner are unconsciously acquired. When I was in San Francisco I used to\nvisit the Chinese Quarter frequently. There I used to watch a great\nhulking Chinese workman at his task of digging, and used to see him every\nday drink his tea from a little cup as delicate in texture as the petal\nof a flower, whereas in all the grand hotels of the land, where thousands\nof dollars have been lavished on great gilt mirrors and gaudy columns, I\nhave been given my coffee or my chocolate in cups an inch and a quarter\nthick. I think I have deserved something nicer.\n\nThe art systems of the past have been devised by philosophers who looked\nupon human beings as obstructions. They have tried to educate boys’\nminds before they had any. How much better it would be in these early\nyears to teach children to use their hands in the rational service of\nmankind. I would have a workshop attached to every school, and one hour\na day given up to the teaching of simple decorative arts. It would be a\ngolden hour to the children. And you would soon raise up a race of\nhandicraftsmen who would transform the face of your country. I have seen\nonly one such school in the United States, and this was in Philadelphia\nand was founded by my friend Mr. Leyland. I stopped there yesterday and\nhave brought some of the work here this afternoon to show you. Here are\ntwo disks of beaten brass: the designs on them are beautiful, the\nworkmanship is simple, and the entire result is satisfactory. The work\nwas done by a little boy twelve years old. This is a wooden bowl\ndecorated by a little girl of thirteen. The design is lovely and the\ncolouring delicate and pretty. Here you see a piece of beautiful wood\ncarving accomplished by a little boy of nine. In such work as this,\nchildren learn sincerity in art. They learn to abhor the liar in art—the\nman who paints wood to look like iron, or iron to look like stone. It is\na practical school of morals. No better way is there to learn to love\nNature than to understand Art. It dignifies every flower of the field.\nAnd, the boy who sees the thing of beauty which a bird on the wing\nbecomes when transferred to wood or canvas will probably not throw the\ncustomary stone. What we want is something spiritual added to life.\nNothing is so ignoble that Art cannot sanctify it.\n\n\n\n\nART AND THE HANDICRAFTSMAN\n\n\nThe fragments of which this lecture is composed are taken entirely from\nthe original manuscripts which have but recently been discovered. It is\nnot certain that they all belong to the same lecture, nor that all were\nwritten at the same period. Some portions were written in Philadelphia\nin 1882.\n\nPEOPLE often talk as if there was an opposition between what is beautiful\nand what is useful. There is no opposition to beauty except ugliness:\nall things are either beautiful or ugly, and utility will be always on\nthe side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration is always\non the side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration is\nalways an expression of the use you put a thing to and the value placed\non it. No workman will beautifully decorate bad work, nor can you\npossibly get good handicraftsmen or workmen without having beautiful\ndesigns. You should be quite sure of that. If you have poor and\nworthless designs in any craft or trade you will get poor and worthless\nworkmen only, but the minute you have noble and beautiful designs, then\nyou get men of power and intellect and feeling to work for you. By\nhaving good designs you have workmen who work not merely with their hands\nbut with their hearts and heads too; otherwise you will get merely the\nfool or the loafer to work for you.\n\nThat the beauty of life is a thing of no moment, I suppose few people\nwould venture to assert. And yet most civilised people act as if it were\nof none, and in so doing are wronging both themselves and those that are\nto come after them. For that beauty which is meant by art is no mere\naccident of human life which people can take or leave, but a positive\nnecessity of life if we are to live as nature meant us to, that is to say\nunless we are content to be less than men.\n\nDo not think that the commercial spirit which is the basis of your life\nand cities here is opposed to art. Who built the beautiful cities of the\nworld but commercial men and commercial men only? Genoa built by its\ntraders, Florence by its bankers, and Venice, most lovely of all, by its\nnoble and honest merchants.\n\nI do not wish you, remember, ‘to build a new Pisa,’ nor to bring ‘the\nlife or the decorations of the thirteenth century back again.’ ‘The\ncircumstances with which you must surround your workmen are those’ of\nmodern American life, ‘because the designs you have now to ask for from\nyour workmen are such as will make modern’ American ‘life beautiful.’\nThe art we want is the art based on all the inventions of modern\ncivilisation, and to suit all the needs of nineteenth-century life.\n\nDo you think, for instance, that we object to machinery? I tell you we\nreverence it; we reverence it when it does its proper work, when it\nrelieves man from ignoble and soulless labour, not when it seeks to do\nthat which is valuable only when wrought by the hands and hearts of men.\nLet us have no machine-made ornament at all; it is all bad and worthless\nand ugly. And let us not mistake the means of civilisation for the end\nof civilisation; steam-engine, telephone and the like, are all wonderful,\nbut remember that their value depends entirely on the noble uses we make\nof them, on the noble spirit in which we employ them, not on the things\nthemselves.\n\nIt is, no doubt, a great advantage to talk to a man at the Antipodes\nthrough a telephone; its advantage depends entirely on the value of what\nthe two men have to say to one another. If one merely shrieks slander\nthrough a tube and the other whispers folly into a wire, do not think\nthat anybody is very much benefited by the invention.\n\nThe train that whirls an ordinary Englishman through Italy at the rate of\nforty miles an hour and finally sends him home without any memory of that\nlovely country but that he was cheated by a courier at Rome, or that he\ngot a bad dinner at Verona, does not do him or civilisation much good.\nBut that swift legion of fiery-footed engines that bore to the burning\nruins of Chicago the loving help and generous treasure of the world was\nas noble and as beautiful as any golden troop of angels that ever fed the\nhungry and clothed the naked in the antique times. As beautiful, yes;\nall machinery may be beautiful when it is undecorated even. Do not seek\nto decorate it. We cannot but think all good machinery is graceful,\nalso, the line of strength and the line of beauty being one.\n\nGive then, as I said, to your workmen of to-day the bright and noble\nsurroundings that you can yourself create. Stately and simple\narchitecture for your cities, bright and simple dress for your men and\nwomen; those are the conditions of a real artistic movement. For the\nartist is not concerned primarily with any theory of life but with life\nitself, with the joy and loveliness that should come daily on eye and ear\nfor a beautiful external world.\n\nBut the simplicity must not be barrenness nor the bright colour gaudy.\nFor all beautiful colours are graduated colours, the colours that seem\nabout to pass into one another’s realm—colour without tone being like\nmusic without harmony, mere discord. Barren architecture, the vulgar and\nglaring advertisements that desecrate not merely your cities but every\nrock and river that I have seen yet in America—all this is not enough. A\nschool of design we must have too in each city. It should be a stately\nand noble building, full of the best examples of the best art of the\nworld. Furthermore, do not put your designers in a barren whitewashed\nroom and bid them work in that depressing and colourless atmosphere as I\nhave seen many of the American schools of design, but give them beautiful\nsurroundings. Because you want to produce a permanent canon and standard\nof taste in your workman, he must have always by him and before him\nspecimens of the best decorative art of the world, so that you can say to\nhim: ‘This is good work. Greek or Italian or Japanese wrought it so many\nyears ago, but it is eternally young because eternally beautiful.’ Work\nin this spirit and you will be sure to be right. Do not copy it, but\nwork with the same love, the same reverence, the same freedom of\nimagination. You must teach him colour and design, how all beautiful\ncolours are graduated colours and glaring colours the essence of\nvulgarity. Show him the quality of any beautiful work of nature like the\nrose, or any beautiful work of art like an Eastern carpet—being merely\nthe exquisite gradation of colour, one tone answering another like the\nanswering chords of a symphony. Teach him how the true designer is not\nhe who makes the design and then colours it, but he who designs in\ncolour, creates in colour, thinks in colour too. Show him how the most\ngorgeous stained-glass windows of Europe are filled with white glass, and\nthe most gorgeous Eastern tapestry with toned colours—the primary colours\nin both places being set in the white glass, and the tone colours like\nbrilliant jewels set in dusky gold. And then as regards design, show him\nhow the real designer will take first any given limited space, little\ndisk of silver, it may be, like a Greek coin, or wide expanse of fretted\nceiling or lordly wall as Tintoret chose at Venice (it does not matter\nwhich), and to this limited space—the first condition of decoration being\nthe limitation of the size of the material used—he will give the effect\nof its being filled with beautiful decoration, filled with it as a golden\ncup will be filled with wine, so complete that you should not be able to\ntake away anything from it or add anything to it. For from a good piece\nof design you can take away nothing, nor can you add anything to it, each\nlittle bit of design being as absolutely necessary and as vitally\nimportant to the whole effect as a note or chord of music is for a sonata\nof Beethoven.\n\nBut I said the effect of its being so filled, because this, again, is of\nthe essence of good design. With a simple spray of leaves and a bird in\nflight a Japanese artist will give you the impression that he has\ncompletely covered with lovely design the reed fan or lacquer cabinet at\nwhich he is working, merely because he knows the exact spot in which to\nplace them. All good design depends on the texture of the utensil used\nand the use you wish to put it to. One of the first things I saw in an\nAmerican school of design was a young lady painting a romantic moonlight\nlandscape on a large round dish, and another young lady covering a set of\ndinner plates with a series of sunsets of the most remarkable colours.\nLet your ladies paint moonlight landscapes and sunsets, but do not let\nthem paint them on dinner plates or dishes. Let them take canvas or\npaper for such work, but not clay or china. They are merely painting the\nwrong subjects on the wrong material, that is all. They have not been\ntaught that every material and texture has certain qualities of its own.\nThe design suitable for one is quite wrong for the other, just as the\ndesign which you should work on a flat table-cover ought to be quite\ndifferent from the design you would work on a curtain, for the one will\nalways be straight, the other broken into folds; and the use too one puts\nthe object to should guide one in the choice of design. One does not\nwant to eat one’s terrapins off a romantic moonlight nor one’s clams off\na harrowing sunset. Glory of sun and moon, let them be wrought for us by\nour landscape artist and be on the walls of the rooms we sit in to remind\nus of the undying beauty of the sunsets that fade and die, but do not let\nus eat our soup off them and send them down to the kitchen twice a day to\nbe washed and scrubbed by the handmaid.\n\nAll these things are simple enough, yet nearly always forgotten. Your\nschool of design here will teach your girls and your boys, your\nhandicraftsmen of the future (for all your schools of art should be local\nschools, the schools of particular cities). We talk of the Italian\nschool of painting, but there is no Italian school; there were the\nschools of each city. Every town in Italy, from Venice itself, queen of\nthe sea, to the little hill fortress of Perugia, each had its own school\nof art, each different and all beautiful.\n\nSo do not mind what art Philadelphia or New York is having, but make by\nthe hands of your own citizens beautiful art for the joy of your own\ncitizens, for you have here the primary elements of a great artistic\nmovement.\n\nFor, believe me, the conditions of art are much simpler than people\nimagine. For the noblest art one requires a clear healthy atmosphere,\nnot polluted as the air of our English cities is by the smoke and grime\nand horridness which comes from open furnace and from factory chimney.\nYou must have strong, sane, healthy physique among your men and women.\nSickly or idle or melancholy people do not do much in art. And lastly,\nyou require a sense of individualism about each man and woman, for this\nis the essence of art—a desire on the part of man to express himself in\nthe noblest way possible. And this is the reason that the grandest art\nof the world always came from a republic: Athens, Venice, and\nFlorence—there were no kings there and so their art was as noble and\nsimple as sincere. But if you want to know what kind of art the folly of\nkings will impose on a country look at the decorative art of France under\nthe _grand monarque_, under Louis the Fourteenth; the gaudy gilt\nfurniture writhing under a sense of its own horror and ugliness, with a\nnymph smirking at every angle and a dragon mouthing on every claw.\nUnreal and monstrous art this, and fit only for such periwigged\npomposities as the nobility of France at that time, but not at all fit\nfor you or me. We do not want the rich to possess more beautiful things\nbut the poor to create more beautiful things; for ever man is poor who\ncannot create. Nor shall the art which you and I need be merely a purple\nrobe woven by a slave and thrown over the whitened body of some leprous\nking to adorn or to conceal the sin of his luxury, but rather shall it be\nthe noble and beautiful expression of a people’s noble and beautiful\nlife. Art shall be again the most glorious of all the chords through\nwhich the spirit of a great nation finds its noblest utterance.\n\nAll around you, I said, lie the conditions for a great artistic movement\nfor every great art. Let us think of one of them; a sculptor, for\ninstance.\n\nIf a modern sculptor were to come and say, ‘Very well, but where can one\nfind subjects for sculpture out of men who wear frock-coats and\nchimney-pot hats?’ I would tell him to go to the docks of a great city\nand watch the men loading or unloading the stately ships, working at\nwheel or windlass, hauling at rope or gangway. I have never watched a\nman do anything useful who has not been graceful at some moment of his\nlabour: it is only the loafer and the idle saunterer who is as useless\nand uninteresting to the artist as he is to himself. I would ask the\nsculptor to go with me to any of your schools or universities, to the\nrunning ground and gymnasium, to watch the young men start for a race,\nhurling quoit or club, kneeling to tie their shoes before leaping,\nstepping from the boat or bending to the oar, and to carve them; and when\nhe was weary of cities I would ask him to come to your fields and meadows\nto watch the reaper with his sickle and the cattle-driver with lifted\nlasso. For if a man cannot find the noblest motives for his art in such\nsimple daily things as a woman drawing water from the well or a man\nleaning with his scythe, he will not find them anywhere at all. Gods and\ngoddesses the Greek carved because he loved them; saint and king the Goth\nbecause he believed in them. But you, you do not care much for Greek\ngods and goddesses, and you are perfectly and entirely right; and you do\nnot think much of kings either, and you are quite right. But what you do\nlove are your own men and women, your own flowers and fields, your own\nhills and mountains, and these are what your art should represent to you.\n\nOurs has been the first movement which has brought the handicraftsman and\nthe artist together, for remember that by separating the one from the\nother you do ruin to both; you rob the one of all spiritual motive and\nall imaginative joy, you isolate the other from all real technical\nperfection. The two greatest schools of art in the world, the sculptor\nat Athens and the school of painting at Venice, had their origin entirely\nin a long succession of simple and earnest handicraftsmen. It was the\nGreek potter who taught the sculptor that restraining influence of design\nwhich was the glory of the Parthenon; it was the Italian decorator of\nchests and household goods who kept Venetian painting always true to its\nprimary pictorial condition of noble colour. For we should remember that\nall the arts are fine arts and all the arts decorative arts. The\ngreatest triumph of Italian painting was the decoration of a pope’s\nchapel in Rome and the wall of a room in Venice. Michael Angelo wrought\nthe one, and Tintoret, the dyer’s son, the other. And the little ‘Dutch\nlandscape, which you put over your sideboard to-day, and between the\nwindows to-morrow, is’ no less a glorious ‘piece of work than the extents\nof field and forest with which Benozzo has made green and beautiful the\nonce melancholy arcade of the Campo Santo at Pisa,’ as Ruskin says.\n\nDo not imitate the works of a nation, Greek or Japanese, Italian or\nEnglish; but their artistic spirit of design and their artistic attitude\nto-day, their own world, you should absorb but imitate never, copy never.\nUnless you can make as beautiful a design in painted china or embroidered\nscreen or beaten brass out of your American turkey as the Japanese does\nout of his grey silver-winged stork, you will never do anything. Let the\nGreek carve his lions and the Goth his dragons: buffalo and wild deer are\nthe animals for you.\n\nGolden rod and aster and rose and all the flowers that cover your valleys\nin the spring and your hills in the autumn: let them be the flowers for\nyour art. Not merely has Nature given you the noblest motives for a new\nschool of decoration, but to you above all other countries has she given\nthe utensils to work in.\n\nYou have quarries of marble richer than Pentelicus, more varied than\nParos, but do not build a great white square house of marble and think\nthat it is beautiful, or that you are using marble nobly. If you build\nin marble you must either carve it into joyous decoration, like the lives\nof dancing children that adorn the marble castles of the Loire, or fill\nit with beautiful sculpture, frieze and pediment, as the Greeks did, or\ninlay it with other coloured marbles as they did in Venice. Otherwise\nyou had better build in simple red brick as your Puritan fathers, with no\npretence and with some beauty. Do not treat your marble as if it was\nordinary stone and build a house of mere blocks of it. For it is indeed\na precious stone, this marble of yours, and only workmen of nobility of\ninvention and delicacy of hand should be allowed to touch it at all,\ncarving it into noble statues or into beautiful decoration, or inlaying\nit with other coloured marbles: for ‘the true colours of architecture are\nthose of natural stone, and I would fain see them taken advantage of to\nthe full. Every variety is here, from pale yellow to purple passing\nthrough orange, red, and brown, entirely at your command; nearly every\nkind of green and grey also is attainable, and with these and with pure\nwhite what harmony might you not achieve. Of stained and variegated\nstone the quantity is unlimited, the kinds innumerable. Were brighter\ncolours required, let glass, and gold protected by glass, be used in\nmosaic, a kind of work as durable as the solid stone and incapable of\nlosing its lustre by time. And let the painter’s work be reserved for\nthe shadowed loggia and inner chamber.\n\n‘This is the true and faithful way of building. Where this cannot be,\nthe device of external colouring may indeed be employed without\ndishonour—but it must be with the warning reflection that a time will\ncome when such aids will pass away and when the building will be judged\nin its lifelessness, dying the death of the dolphin. Better the less\nbright, more enduring fabric. The transparent alabasters of San Miniato\nand the mosaics of Saint Mark’s are more warmly filled and more brightly\ntouched by every return of morning and evening, while the hues of the\nGothic cathedrals have died like the iris out of the cloud, and the\ntemples, whose azure and purple once flamed above the Grecian promontory,\nstand in their faded whiteness like snows which the sunset has left\ncold.’—Ruskin, _Seven Lamps of Architecture_, II.\n\nI do not know anything so perfectly commonplace in design as most modern\njewellery. How easy for you to change that and to produce goldsmiths’\nwork that would be a joy to all of us. The gold is ready for you in\nunexhausted treasure, stored up in the mountain hollow or strewn on the\nriver sand, and was not given to you merely for barren speculation.\nThere should be some better record of it left in your history than the\nmerchant’s panic and the ruined home. We do not remember often enough\nhow constantly the history of a great nation will live in and by its art.\nOnly a few thin wreaths of beaten gold remain to tell us of the stately\nempire of Etruria; and, while from the streets of Florence the noble\nknight and haughty duke have long since passed away, the gates which the\nsimple goldsmith Ghiberti made for their pleasure still guard their\nlovely house of baptism, worthy still of the praise of Michael Angelo who\ncalled them worthy to be the Gates of Paradise.\n\nHave then your school of design, search out your workmen and, when you\nfind one who has delicacy of hand and that wonder of invention necessary\nfor goldsmiths’ work, do not leave him to toil in obscurity and dishonour\nand have a great glaring shop and two great glaring shop-boys in it (not\nto take your orders: they never do that; but to force you to buy\nsomething you do not want at all). When you want a thing wrought in\ngold, goblet or shield for the feast, necklace or wreath for the women,\ntell him what you like most in decoration, flower or wreath, bird in\nflight or hound in the chase, image of the woman you love or the friend\nyou honour. Watch him as he beats out the gold into those thin plates\ndelicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or draws it into the long wires\nlike tangled sunbeams at dawn. Whoever that workman be, help him,\ncherish him, and you will have such lovely work from his hand as will be\na joy to you for all time.\n\nThis is the spirit of our movement in England, and this is the spirit in\nwhich we would wish you to work, making eternal by your art all that is\nnoble in your men and women, stately in your lakes and mountains,\nbeautiful in your own flowers and natural life. We want to see that you\nhave nothing in your houses that has not been a joy to the man who made\nit, and is not a joy to those that use it. We want to see you create an\nart made by the hands of the people to please the hearts of the people\ntoo. Do you like this spirit or not? Do you think it simple and strong,\nnoble in its aim, and beautiful in its result? I know you do.\n\nFolly and slander have their own way for a little time, but for a little\ntime only. You now know what we mean: you will be able to estimate what\nis said of us—its value and its motive.\n\nThere should be a law that no ordinary newspaper should be allowed to\nwrite about art. The harm they do by their foolish and random writing it\nwould be impossible to overestimate—not to the artist but to the public,\nblinding them to all, but harming the artist not at all. Without them we\nwould judge a man simply by his work; but at present the newspapers are\ntrying hard to induce the public to judge a sculptor, for instance, never\nby his statues but by the way he treats his wife; a painter by the amount\nof his income and a poet by the colour of his neck-tie. I said there\nshould be a law, but there is really no necessity for a new law: nothing\ncould be easier than to bring the ordinary critic under the head of the\ncriminal classes. But let us leave such an inartistic subject and return\nto beautiful and comely things, remembering that the art which would\nrepresent the spirit of modern newspapers would be exactly the art which\nyou and I want to avoid—grotesque art, malice mocking you from every\ngateway, slander sneering at you from every corner.\n\nPerhaps you may be surprised at my talking of labour and the workman.\nYou have heard of me, I fear, through the medium of your somewhat\nimaginative newspapers as, if not a ‘Japanese young man,’ at least a\nyoung man to whom the rush and clamour and reality of the modern world\nwere distasteful, and whose greatest difficulty in life was the\ndifficulty of living up to the level of his blue china—a paradox from\nwhich England has not yet recovered.\n\nWell, let me tell you how it first came to me at all to create an\nartistic movement in England, a movement to show the rich what beautiful\nthings they might enjoy and the poor what beautiful things they might\ncreate.\n\nOne summer afternoon in Oxford—‘that sweet city with her dreaming\nspires,’ lovely as Venice in its splendour, noble in its learning as\nRome, down the long High Street that winds from tower to tower, past\nsilent cloister and stately gateway, till it reaches that long, grey\nseven-arched bridge which Saint Mary used to guard (used to, I say,\nbecause they are now pulling it down to build a tramway and a light\ncast-iron bridge in its place, desecrating the loveliest city in\nEngland)—well, we were coming down the street—a troop of young men, some\nof them like myself only nineteen, going to river or tennis-court or\ncricket-field—when Ruskin going up to lecture in cap and gown met us. He\nseemed troubled and prayed us to go back with him to his lecture, which a\nfew of us did, and there he spoke to us not on art this time but on life,\nsaying that it seemed to him to be wrong that all the best physique and\nstrength of the young men in England should be spent aimlessly on cricket\nground or river, without any result at all except that if one rowed well\none got a pewter-pot, and if one made a good score, a cane-handled bat.\nHe thought, he said, that we should be working at something that would do\ngood to other people, at something by which we might show that in all\nlabour there was something noble. Well, we were a good deal moved, and\nsaid we would do anything he wished. So he went out round Oxford and\nfound two villages, Upper and Lower Hinksey, and between them there lay a\ngreat swamp, so that the villagers could not pass from one to the other\nwithout many miles of a round. And when we came back in winter he asked\nus to help him to make a road across this morass for these village people\nto use. So out we went, day after day, and learned how to lay levels and\nto break stones, and to wheel barrows along a plank—a very difficult\nthing to do. And Ruskin worked with us in the mist and rain and mud of\nan Oxford winter, and our friends and our enemies came out and mocked us\nfrom the bank. We did not mind it much then, and we did not mind it\nafterwards at all, but worked away for two months at our road. And what\nbecame of the road? Well, like a bad lecture it ended abruptly—in the\nmiddle of the swamp. Ruskin going away to Venice, when we came back for\nthe next term there was no leader, and the ‘diggers,’ as they called us,\nfell asunder. And I felt that if there was enough spirit amongst the\nyoung men to go out to such work as road-making for the sake of a noble\nideal of life, I could from them create an artistic movement that might\nchange, as it has changed, the face of England. So I sought them\nout—leader they would call me—but there was no leader: we were all\nsearchers only and we were bound to each other by noble friendship and by\nnoble art. There was none of us idle: poets most of us, so ambitious\nwere we: painters some of us, or workers in metal or modellers,\ndetermined that we would try and create for ourselves beautiful work: for\nthe handicraftsman beautiful work, for those who love us poems and\npictures, for those who love us not epigrams and paradoxes and scorn.\n\nWell, we have done something in England and we will do something more.\nNow, I do not want you, believe me, to ask your brilliant young men, your\nbeautiful young girls, to go out and make a road on a swamp for any\nvillage in America, but I think you might each of you have some art to\npractise.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe must have, as Emerson said, a mechanical craft for our culture, a\nbasis for our higher accomplishments in the work of our hands—the\nuselessness of most people’s hands seems to me one of the most\nunpractical things. ‘No separation from labour can be without some loss\nof power or truth to the seer,’ says Emerson again. The heroism which\nwould make on us the impression of Epaminondas must be that of a domestic\nconqueror. The hero of the future is he who shall bravely and gracefully\nsubdue this Gorgon of fashion and of convention.\n\nWhen you have chosen your own part, abide by it, and do not weakly try\nand reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common\nnor the common the heroic. Congratulate yourself if you have done\nsomething strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorous\nage.\n\nAnd lastly, let us remember that art is the one thing which Death cannot\nharm. The little house at Concord may be desolate, but the wisdom of New\nEngland’s Plato is not silenced nor the brilliancy of that Attic genius\ndimmed: the lips of Longfellow are still musical for us though his dust\nbe turning into the flowers which he loved: and as it is with the greater\nartists, poet and philosopher and song-bird, so let it be with you.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE TO ART STUDENTS\n\n\nDelivered to the Art students of the Royal Academy at their Club in\nGolden Square, Westminster, on June 30, 1883. The text is taken from the\noriginal manuscript.\n\nIN the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before you to-night I\ndo not desire to give you any abstract definition of beauty at all. For\nwe who are working in art cannot accept any theory of beauty in exchange\nfor beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to isolate it in a formula\nappealing to the intellect, we, on the contrary, seek to materialise it\nin a form that gives joy to the soul through the senses. We want to\ncreate it, not to define it. The definition should follow the work: the\nwork should not adapt itself to the definition.\n\nNothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young artist than any\nconception of ideal beauty: he is constantly led by it either into weak\nprettiness or lifeless abstraction: whereas to touch the ideal at all you\nmust not strip it of vitality. You must find it in life and re-create it\nin art.\n\nWhile, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give you any philosophy\nof beauty—for, what I want to-night is to investigate how we can create\nart, not how we can talk of it—on the other hand, I do not wish to deal\nwith anything like a history of English art.\n\nTo begin with, such an expression as English art is a meaningless\nexpression. One might just as well talk of English mathematics. Art is\nthe science of beauty, and Mathematics the science of truth: there is no\nnational school of either. Indeed, a national school is a provincial\nschool, merely. Nor is there any such thing as a school of art even.\nThere are merely artists, that is all.\n\nAnd as regards histories of art, they are quite valueless to you unless\nyou are seeking the ostentatious oblivion of an art professorship. It is\nof no use to you to know the date of Perugino or the birthplace of\nSalvator Rosa: all that you should learn about art is to know a good\npicture when you see it, and a bad picture when you see it. As regards\nthe date of the artist, all good work looks perfectly modern: a piece of\nGreek sculpture, a portrait of Velasquez—they are always modern, always\nof our time. And as regards the nationality of the artist, art is not\nnational but universal. As regards archæology, then, avoid it\naltogether: archæology is merely the science of making excuses for bad\nart; it is the rock on which many a young artist founders and shipwrecks;\nit is the abyss from which no artist, old or young, ever returns. Or, if\nhe does return, he is so covered with the dust of ages and the mildew of\ntime, that he is quite unrecognisable as an artist, and has to conceal\nhimself for the rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as a\nmere illustrator of ancient history. How worthless archæology is in art\nyou can estimate by the fact of its being so popular. Popularity is the\ncrown of laurel which the world puts on bad art. Whatever is popular is\nwrong.\n\nAs I am not going to talk to you, then, about the philosophy of the\nbeautiful, or the history of art, you will ask me what I am going to talk\nabout. The subject of my lecture to-night is what makes an artist and\nwhat does the artist make; what are the relations of the artist to his\nsurroundings, what is the education the artist should get, and what is\nthe quality of a good work of art.\n\nNow, as regards the relations of the artist to his surroundings, by which\nI mean the age and country in which he is born. All good art, as I said\nbefore, has nothing to do with any particular century; but this\nuniversality is the quality of the work of art; the conditions that\nproduce that quality are different. And what, I think, you should do is\nto realise completely your age in order completely to abstract yourself\nfrom it; remembering that if you are an artist at all, you will be not\nthe mouthpiece of a century, but the master of eternity, that all art\nrests on a principle, and that mere temporal considerations are no\nprinciple at all; and that those who advise you to make your art\nrepresentative of the nineteenth century are advising you to produce an\nart which your children, when you have them, will think old-fashioned.\nBut you will tell me this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartistic\npeople, and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century of ours.\n\nOf course he does. I, of all men, am not going to deny that. But\nremember that there never has been an artistic age, or an artistic\npeople, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always been,\nand will always be, an exquisite exception. There is no golden age of\nart; only artists who have produced what is more golden than gold.\n\n_What_, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they an artistic people?\n\nWell, the Greeks certainly not, but, perhaps, you mean the Athenians, the\ncitizens of one out of a thousand cities.\n\nDo you think that they were an artistic people? Take them even at the\ntime of their highest artistic development, the latter part of the fifth\ncentury before Christ, when they had the greatest poets and the greatest\nartists of the antique world, when the Parthenon rose in loveliness at\nthe bidding of a Phidias, and the philosopher spake of wisdom in the\nshadow of the painted portico, and tragedy swept in the perfection of\npageant and pathos across the marble of the stage. Were they an artistic\npeople then? Not a bit of it. What is an artistic people but a people\nwho love their artists and understand their art? The Athenians could do\nneither.\n\nHow did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the great era, not merely\nin Greek, but in all art—I mean of the introduction of the use of the\nliving model.\n\nAnd what would you say if all the English bishops, backed by the English\npeople, came down from Exeter Hall to the Royal Academy one day and took\noff Sir Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate on the charge of\nhaving allowed you to make use of the living model in your designs for\nsacred pictures?\n\nWould you not cry out against the barbarism and the Puritanism of such an\nidea? Would you not explain to them that the worst way to honour God is\nto dishonour man who is made in His image, and is the work of His hands;\nand, that if one wants to paint Christ one must take the most Christlike\nperson one can find, and if one wants to paint the Madonna, the purest\ngirl one knows?\n\nWould you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if necessary, and say that\nsuch a thing was without parallel in history?\n\nWithout parallel? Well, that is exactly what the Athenians did.\n\nIn the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British Museum, you will see\na marble shield on the wall. On it there are two figures; one of a man\nwhose face is half hidden, the other of a man with the godlike lineaments\nof Pericles. For having done this, for having introduced into a bas\nrelief, taken from Greek sacred history, the image of the great statesman\nwho was ruling Athens at the time, Phidias was flung into prison and\nthere, in the common gaol of Athens, died, the supreme artist of the old\nworld.\n\nAnd do you think that this was an exceptional case? The sign of a\nPhilistine age is the cry of immorality against art, and this cry was\nraised by the Athenian people against every great poet and thinker of\ntheir day—Æschylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the same with Florence\nin the thirteenth century. Good handicrafts are due to guilds, not to\nthe people. The moment the guilds lost their power and the people rushed\nin, beauty and honesty of work died.\n\nAnd so, never talk of an artistic people; there never has been such a\nthing.\n\nBut, perhaps, you will tell me that the external beauty of the world has\nalmost entirely passed away from us, that the artist dwells no longer in\nthe midst of the lovely surroundings which, in ages past, were the\nnatural inheritance of every one, and that art is very difficult in this\nunlovely town of ours, where, as you go to your work in the morning, or\nreturn from it at eventide, you have to pass through street after street\nof the most foolish and stupid architecture that the world has ever seen;\narchitecture, where every lovely Greek form is desecrated and defiled,\nand every lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducing\nthree-fourths of the London houses to being, merely, like square boxes of\nthe vilest proportions, as gaunt as they are grimy, and as poor as they\nare pretentious—the hall door always of the wrong colour, and the windows\nof the wrong size, and where, even when wearied of the houses you turn to\ncontemplate the street itself, you have nothing to look at but\nchimney-pot hats, men with sandwich boards, vermilion letter-boxes, and\ndo that even at the risk of being run over by an emerald-green omnibus.\n\nIs not art difficult, you will say to me, in such surroundings as these?\nOf course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you yourselves\nwould not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing except\nwhat the world says is impossible.\n\nStill, you do not care to be answered merely by a paradox. What are the\nrelations of the artist to the external world, and what is the result of\nthe loss of beautiful surroundings to you, is one of the most important\nquestions of modern art; and there is no point on which Mr. Ruskin so\ninsists as that the decadence of art has come from the decadence of\nbeautiful things; and that when the artist cannot feed his eye on beauty,\nbeauty goes from his work.\n\nI remember in one of his lectures, after describing the sordid aspect of\na great English city, he draws for us a picture of what were the artistic\nsurroundings long ago.\n\nThink, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque imagery, whose beauty\nI can but feebly echo, think of what was the scene which presented\nitself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school of\nPisa—Nino Pisano or any of his men: {206}\n\n On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter\n palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and\n with serpentine; along the quays before their gates were riding\n troops of knights, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and\n shield; horse and man one labyrinth of quaint colour and gleaming\n light—the purple, and silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over the\n strong limbs and clashing mall, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset.\n Opening on each side from the river were gardens, courts, and\n cloisters; long successions of white pillars among wreaths of vine;\n leaping of fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange: and\n still along the garden-paths, and under and through the crimson of\n the pomegranate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women\n that Italy ever saw—fairest, because purest and thoughtfullest;\n trained in all high knowledge, as in all courteous art—in dance, in\n song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in loftier courage, in\n loftiest love—able alike to cheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of\n men. Above all this scenery of perfect human life, rose dome and\n bell-tower, burning with white alabaster and gold: beyond dome and\n bell-tower the slopes of mighty hills hoary with olive; far in the\n north, above a purple sea of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear,\n sharp-cloven Carrara mountains sent up their steadfast flames of\n marble summit into amber sky; the great sea itself, scorching with\n expanse of light, stretching from their feet to the Gorgonian isles;\n and over all these, ever present, near or far—seen through the leaves\n of vine, or imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno’s stream,\n or set with its depth of blue close against the golden hair and\n burning cheek of lady and knight,—that untroubled and sacred sky,\n which was to all men, in those days of innocent faith, indeed the\n unquestioned abode of spirits, as the earth was of men; and which\n opened straight through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into the\n awfulness of the eternal world;—a heaven in which every cloud that\n passed was literally the chariot of an angel, and every ray of its\n Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of God.\n\n What think you of that for a school of design?\n\nAnd then look at the depressing, monotonous appearance of any modern\ncity, the sombre dress of men and women, the meaningless and barren\narchitecture, the colourless and dreadful surroundings. Without a\nbeautiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all the arts will die.\n\nWell, as regards the religious feeling of the close of the passage, I do\nnot think I need speak about that. Religion springs from religious\nfeeling, art from artistic feeling: you never get one from the other;\nunless you have the right root you will not get the right flower; and, if\na man sees in a cloud the chariot of an angel, he will probably paint it\nvery unlike a cloud.\n\nBut, as regards the general idea of the early part of that lovely bit of\nprose, is it really true that beautiful surroundings are necessary for\nthe artist? I think not; I am sure not. Indeed, to me the most\ninartistic thing in this age of ours is not the indifference of the\npublic to beautiful things, but the indifference of the artist to the\nthings that are called ugly. For, to the real artist, nothing is\nbeautiful or ugly in itself at all. With the facts of the object he has\nnothing to do, but with its appearance only, and appearance is a matter\nof light and shade, of masses, of position, and of value.\n\nAppearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and it is with the\neffects of nature that you have to deal, not with the real condition of\nthe object. What you, as painters, have to paint is not things as they\nare but things as they seem to be, not things as they are but things as\nthey are not.\n\nNo object is so ugly that, under certain conditions of light and shade,\nor proximity to other things, it will not look beautiful; no object is so\nbeautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly. I\nbelieve that in every twenty-four hours what is beautiful looks ugly, and\nwhat is ugly looks beautiful, once.\n\nAnd, the commonplace character of so much of our English painting seems\nto me due to the fact that so many of our young artists look merely at\nwhat we may call ‘ready-made beauty,’ whereas you exist as artists not to\ncopy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait and watch for it in\nnature.\n\nWhat would you say of a dramatist who would take nobody but virtuous\npeople as characters in his play? Would you not say he was missing half\nof life? Well, of the young artist who paints nothing but beautiful\nthings, I say he misses one half of the world.\n\nDo not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and see life under\npicturesque conditions. These conditions you can create for yourself in\nyour studio, for they are merely conditions of light. In nature, you\nmust wait for them, watch for them, choose them; and, if you wait and\nwatch, come they will.\n\nIn Gower Street at night you may see a letter-box that is picturesque: on\nthe Thames Embankment you may see picturesque policemen. Even Venice is\nnot always beautiful, nor France.\n\nTo paint what you see is a good rule in art, but to see what is worth\npainting is better. See life under pictorial conditions. It is better\nto live in a city of changeable weather than in a city of lovely\nsurroundings.\n\nNow, having seen what makes the artist, and what the artist makes, who is\nthe artist? There is a man living amongst us who unites in himself all\nthe qualities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy for all time, who\nis, himself, a master of all time. That man is Mr. Whistler.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBut, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you cannot paint black\ncloth you could not have painted silken doublet. Ugly dress is better\nfor art—facts of vision, not of the object.\n\nWhat is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beautifully coloured\nsurface, merely, with no more spiritual message or meaning for you than\nan exquisite fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall of\nDamascus. It is, primarily, a purely decorative thing, a delight to look\nat.\n\nAll archæological pictures that make you say ‘How curious!’ all\nsentimental pictures that make you say, ‘How sad!’ all historical\npictures that make you say ‘How interesting!’ all pictures that do not\nimmediately give you such artistic joy as to make you say ‘How\nbeautiful!’ are bad pictures.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe never know what an artist is going to do. Of course not. The artist\nis not a specialist. All such divisions as animal painters, landscape\npainters, painters of Scotch cattle in an English mist, painters of\nEnglish cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters, bull-terrier\npainters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist he can paint\neverything.\n\nThe object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the chords\nwhich make music in our soul; and colour is indeed, of itself a mystical\npresence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel.\n\nAm I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As long as there are any\nsigns of technique at all, the picture is unfinished. What is finish? A\npicture is finished when all traces of work, and of the means employed to\nbring about the result, have disappeared.\n\nIn the case of handicraftsmen—the weaver, the potter, the smith—on their\nwork are the traces of their hand. But it is not so with the painter; it\nis not so with the artist.\n\nArt should have no sentiment about it but its beauty, no technique except\nwhat you cannot observe. One should be able to say of a picture not that\nit is ‘well painted,’ but that it is ‘not painted.’\n\nWhat is the difference between absolutely decorative art and a painting?\nDecorative art emphasises its material: imaginative art annihilates it.\nTapestry shows its threads as part of its beauty: a picture annihilates\nits canvas: it shows nothing of it. Porcelain emphasises its glaze:\nwater-colours reject the paper.\n\nA picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message but its joy. That is\nthe first truth about art that you must never lose sight of. A picture\nis a purely decorative thing.\n\n\n\n\nLONDON MODELS\n\n\n_English Illustrated Magazine_, January 1889.\n\nPROFESSIONAL models are a purely modern invention. To the Greeks, for\ninstance, they were quite unknown. Mr. Mahaffy, it is true, tells us\nthat Pericles used to present peacocks to the great ladies of Athenian\nsociety in order to induce them to sit to his friend Phidias, and we know\nthat Polygnotus introduced into his picture of the Trojan women the face\nof Elpinice, the celebrated sister of the great Conservative leader of\nthe day, but these _grandes dames_ clearly do not come under our\ncategory. As for the old masters, they undoubtedly made constant studies\nfrom their pupils and apprentices, and even their religious pictures are\nfull of the portraits of their friends and relations, but they do not\nseem to have had the inestimable advantage of the existence of a class of\npeople whose sole profession is to pose. In fact the model, in our sense\nof the word, is the direct creation of Academic Schools.\n\nEvery country now has its own models, except America. In New York, and\neven in Boston, a good model is so great a rarity that most of the\nartists are reduced to painting Niagara and millionaires. In Europe,\nhowever, it is different. Here we have plenty of models, and of every\nnationality. The Italian models are the best. The natural grace of\ntheir attitudes, as well as the wonderful picturesqueness of their\ncolouring, makes them facile—often too facile—subjects for the painter’s\nbrush. The French models, though not so beautiful as the Italian,\npossess a quickness of intellectual sympathy, a capacity, in fact, of\nunderstanding the artist, which is quite remarkable. They have also a\ngreat command over the varieties of facial expression, are peculiarly\ndramatic, and can chatter the _argot_ of the _atelier_ as cleverly as the\ncritic of the _Gil Blas_. The English models form a class entirely by\nthemselves. They are not so picturesque as the Italian, nor so clever as\nthe French, and they have absolutely no tradition, so to speak, of their\norder. Now and then some old veteran knocks at the studio door, and\nproposes to sit as Ajax defying the lightning, or as King Lear upon the\nblasted heath. One of them some time ago called on a popular painter\nwho, happening at the moment to require his services, engaged him, and\ntold him to begin by kneeling down in the attitude of prayer. ‘Shall I\nbe Biblical or Shakespearean, sir?’ asked the veteran.\n‘Well—Shakespearean,’ answered the artist, wondering by what subtle\n_nuance_ of expression the model would convey the difference. ‘All\nright, sir,’ said the professor of posing, and he solemnly knelt down and\nbegan to wink with his left eye! This class, however, is dying out. As\na rule the model, nowadays, is a pretty girl, from about twelve to\ntwenty-five years of age, who knows nothing about art, cares less, and is\nmerely anxious to earn seven or eight shillings a day without much\ntrouble. English models rarely look at a picture, and never venture on\nany æsthetic theories. In fact, they realise very completely Mr.\nWhistler’s idea of the function of an art critic, for they pass no\ncriticisms at all. They accept all schools of art with the grand\ncatholicity of the auctioneer, and sit to a fantastic young impressionist\nas readily as to a learned and laborious academician. They are neither\nfor the Whistlerites nor against them; the quarrel between the school of\nfacts and the school of effects touches them not; idealistic and\nnaturalistic are words that convey no meaning to their ears; they merely\ndesire that the studio shall be warm, and the lunch hot, for all charming\nartists give their models lunch.\n\nAs to what they are asked to do they are equally indifferent. On Monday\nthey will don the rags of a beggar-girl for Mr. Pumper, whose pathetic\npictures of modern life draw such tears from the public, and on Tuesday\nthey will pose in a peplum for Mr. Phoebus, who thinks that all really\nartistic subjects are necessarily B.C. They career gaily through all\ncenturies and through all costumes, and, like actors, are interesting\nonly when they are not themselves. They are extremely good-natured, and\nvery accommodating. ‘What do you sit for?’ said a young artist to a\nmodel who had sent him in her card (all models, by the way, have cards\nand a small black bag). ‘Oh, for anything you like, sir,’ said the girl,\n‘landscape if necessary!’\n\nIntellectually, it must be acknowledged, they are Philistines, but\nphysically they are perfect—at least some are. Though none of them can\ntalk Greek, many can look Greek, which to a nineteenth-century painter is\nnaturally of great importance. If they are allowed, they chatter a great\ndeal, but they never say anything. Their observations are the only\n_banalités_ heard in Bohemia. However, though they cannot appreciate the\nartist as artist, they are quite ready to appreciate the artist as a man.\nThey are very sensitive to kindness, respect and generosity. A beautiful\nmodel who had sat for two years to one of our most distinguished English\npainters, got engaged to a street vendor of penny ices.\n\nOn her marriage the painter sent her a pretty wedding present, and\nreceived in return a nice letter of thanks with the following remarkable\npostscript: ‘Never eat the green ices!’\n\nWhen they are tired a wise artist gives them a rest. Then they sit in a\nchair and read penny dreadfuls, till they are roused from the tragedy of\nliterature to take their place again in the tragedy of art. A few of\nthem smoke cigarettes. This, however, is regarded by the other models as\nshowing a want of seriousness, and is not generally approved of. They\nare engaged by the day and by the half-day. The tariff is a shilling an\nhour, to which great artists usually add an omnibus fare. The two best\nthings about them are their extraordinary prettiness, and their extreme\nrespectability. As a class they are very well behaved, particularly\nthose who sit for the figure, a fact which is curious or natural\naccording to the view one takes of human nature. They usually marry\nwell, and sometimes they marry the artist. For an artist to marry his\nmodel is as fatal as for a _gourmet_ to marry his cook: the one gets no\nsittings, and the other gets no dinners.\n\nOn the whole the English female models are very naïve, very natural, and\nvery good-humoured. The virtues which the artist values most in them are\nprettiness and punctuality. Every sensible model consequently keeps a\ndiary of her engagements, and dresses neatly. The bad season is, of\ncourse, the summer, when the artists are out of town. However, of late\nyears some artists have engaged their models to follow them, and the wife\nof one of our most charming painters has often had three or four models\nunder her charge in the country, so that the work of her husband and his\nfriends should not be interrupted. In France the models migrate _en\nmasse_ to the little seaport villages or forest hamlets where the\npainters congregate. The English models, however, wait patiently in\nLondon, as a rule, till the artists come back. Nearly all of them live\nwith their parents, and help to support the house. They have every\nqualification for being immortalised in art except that of beautiful\nhands. The hands of the English model are nearly always coarse and red.\n\nAs for the male models, there is the veteran whom we have mentioned\nabove. He has all the traditions of the grand style, and is rapidly\ndisappearing with the school he represents. An old man who talks about\nFuseli is, of course, unendurable, and, besides, patriarchs have ceased\nto be fashionable subjects. Then there is the true Academy model. He is\nusually a man of thirty, rarely good-looking, but a perfect miracle of\nmuscles. In fact he is the apotheosis of anatomy, and is so conscious of\nhis own splendour that he tells you of his tibia and his thorax, as if no\none else had anything of the kind. Then come the Oriental models. The\nsupply of these is limited, but there are always about a dozen in London.\nThey are very much sought after as they can remain immobile for hours,\nand generally possess lovely costumes. However, they have a very poor\nopinion of English art, which they regard as something between a vulgar\npersonality and a commonplace photograph. Next we have the Italian youth\nwho has come over specially to be a model, or takes to it when his organ\nis out of repair. He is often quite charming with his large melancholy\neyes, his crisp hair, and his slim brown figure. It is true he eats\ngarlic, but then he can stand like a faun and couch like a leopard, so he\nis forgiven. He is always full of pretty compliments, and has been known\nto have kind words of encouragement for even our greatest artists. As\nfor the English lad of the same age, he never sits at all. Apparently he\ndoes not regard the career of a model as a serious profession. In any\ncase he is rarely, if ever, to be got hold of. English boys, too, are\ndifficult to find. Sometimes an ex-model who has a son will curl his\nhair, and wash his face, and bring him the round of the studios, all soap\nand shininess. The young school don’t like him, but the older school do,\nand when he appears on the walls of the Royal Academy he is called _The\nInfant Samuel_. Occasionally also an artist catches a couple of _gamins_\nin the gutter and asks them to come to his studio. The first time they\nalways appear, but after that they don’t keep their appointments. They\ndislike sitting still, and have a strong and perhaps natural objection to\nlooking pathetic. Besides, they are always under the impression that the\nartist is laughing at them. It is a sad fact, but there is no doubt that\nthe poor are completely unconscious of their own picturesqueness. Those\nof them who can be induced to sit do so with the idea that the artist is\nmerely a benevolent philanthropist who has chosen an eccentric method of\ndistributing alms to the undeserving. Perhaps the School Board will\nteach the London _gamin_ his own artistic value, and then they will be\nbetter models than they are now. One remarkable privilege belongs to the\nAcademy model, that of extorting a sovereign from any newly elected\nAssociate or R.A. They wait at Burlington House till the announcement is\nmade, and then race to the hapless artist’s house. The one who arrives\nfirst receives the money. They have of late been much troubled at the\nlong distances they have had to run, and they look with disfavour on the\nelection of artists who live at Hampstead or at Bedford Park, for it is\nconsidered a point of honour not to employ the underground railway,\nomnibuses, or any artificial means of locomotion. The race is to the\nswift.\n\nBesides the professional posers of the studio there are posers of the\nRow, the posers at afternoon teas, the posers in politics and the circus\nposers. All four classes are delightful, but only the last class is ever\nreally decorative. Acrobats and gymnasts can give the young painter\ninfinite suggestions, for they bring into their art an element of\nswiftness of motion and of constant change that the studio model\nnecessarily lacks. What is interesting in these ‘slaves of the ring’ is\nthat with them Beauty is an unconscious result not a conscious aim, the\nresult in fact of the mathematical calculation of curves and distances,\nof absolute precision of eye, of the scientific knowledge of the\nequilibrium of forces, and of perfect physical training. A good acrobat\nis always graceful, though grace is never his object; he is graceful\nbecause he does what he has to do in the best way in which it can be\ndone—graceful because he is natural. If an ancient Greek were to come to\nlife now, which considering the probable severity of his criticisms would\nbe rather trying to our conceit, he would be found far oftener at the\ncircus than at the theatre. A good circus is an oasis of Hellenism in a\nworld that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be\nbeautiful. If it were not for the running-ground at Eton, the\ntowing-path at Oxford, the Thames swimming-baths, and the yearly\ncircuses, humanity would forget the plastic perfection of its own form,\nand degenerate into a race of short-sighted professors and spectacled\n_précieuses_. Not that the circus proprietors are, as a rule, conscious\nof their high mission. Do they not bore us with the _haute école_, and\nweary us with Shakespearean clowns? Still, at least, they give us\nacrobats, and the acrobat is an artist. The mere fact that he never\nspeaks to the audience shows how well he appreciates the great truth that\nthe aim of art is not to reveal personality but to please. The clown may\nbe blatant, but the acrobat is always beautiful. He is an interesting\ncombination of the spirit of Greek sculpture with the spangles of the\nmodern costumier. He has even had his niche in the novels of our age,\nand if _Manette Salomon_ be the unmasking of the model, _Les Frères\nZemganno_ is the apotheosis of the acrobat.\n\nAs regards the influence of the ordinary model on our English school of\npainting, it cannot be said that it is altogether good. It is, of\ncourse, an advantage for the young artist sitting in his studio to be\nable to isolate ‘a little corner of life,’ as the French say, from\ndisturbing surroundings, and to study it under certain effects of light\nand shade. But this very isolation leads often to mere mannerism in the\npainter, and robs him of that broad acceptance of the general facts of\nlife which is the very essence of art. Model-painting, in a word, while\nit may be the condition of art, is not by any means its aim.\n\nIt is simply practice, not perfection. Its use trains the eye and the\nhand of the painter, its abuse produces in his work an effect of mere\nposing and prettiness. It is the secret of much of the artificiality of\nmodern art, this constant posing of pretty people, and when art becomes\nartificial it becomes monotonous. Outside the little world of the\nstudio, with its draperies and its _bric-à-brac_, lies the world of life\nwith its infinite, its Shakespearean variety. We must, however,\ndistinguish between the two kinds of models, those who sit for the figure\nand those who sit for the costume. The study of the first is always\nexcellent, but the costume-model is becoming rather wearisome in modern\npictures. It is really of very little use to dress up a London girl in\nGreek draperies and to paint her as a goddess. The robe may be the robe\nof Athens, but the face is usually the face of Brompton. Now and then,\nit is true, one comes across a model whose face is an exquisite\nanachronism, and who looks lovely and natural in the dress of any century\nbut her own. This, however, is rather rare. As a rule models are\nabsolutely _de notre siècle_, and should be painted as such.\nUnfortunately they are not, and, as a consequence, we are shown every\nyear a series of scenes from fancy dress balls which are called\nhistorical pictures, but are little more than mediocre representations of\nmodern people masquerading. In France they are wiser. The French\npainter uses the model simply for study; for the finished picture he goes\ndirect to life.\n\nHowever, we must not blame the sitters for the shortcomings of the\nartists. The English models are a well-behaved and hard-working class,\nand if they are more interested in artists than in art, a large section\nof the public is in the same condition, and most of our modern\nexhibitions seem to justify its choice.\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS IN PROSE\n\n\n_Fortnight Review_, July 1894.\n\n\n\nTHE ARTIST\n\n\nONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of\n_The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_. And he went forth into the\nworld to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.\n\nBut all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in\nthe whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of\nthe image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_.\n\nNow this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had\nset it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of\nthe dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own\nfashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth\nnot, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in\nthe whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.\n\nAnd he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace,\nand gave it to the fire.\n\nAnd out of the bronze of the image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_\nhe fashioned an image of _The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_.\n\n\n\nTHE DOER OF GOOD\n\n\nIt was night-time and He was alone.\n\nAnd He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.\n\nAnd when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of\njoy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many\nlutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened\nto Him.\n\nAnd He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble\nbefore it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without\nthere were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.\n\nAnd when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of\njasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of\nsea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were\nred with wine.\n\nAnd He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him,\n‘Why do you live like this?’\n\nAnd the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and\nsaid, ‘But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I\nlive?’\n\nAnd He passed out of the house and went again into the street.\n\nAnd after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted\nand whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a\nhunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the\nwoman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were\nbright with lust.\n\nAnd He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to\nhim, ‘Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?’\n\nAnd the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, ‘But I was\nblind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?’\n\nAnd He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said\nto her, ‘Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?’\n\nAnd the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, ‘But\nyou forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.’\n\nAnd He passed out of the city.\n\nAnd when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a\nyoung man who was weeping.\n\nAnd He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said\nto him, ‘Why are you weeping?’\n\nAnd the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, ‘But I\nwas dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do\nbut weep?’\n\n\n\nTHE DISCIPLE\n\n\nWhen Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet\nwaters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the\nwoodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.\n\nAnd when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters\ninto a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair\nand cried to the pool and said, ‘We do not wonder that you should mourn\nin this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.’\n\n‘But was Narcissus beautiful?’ said the pool.\n\n‘Who should know that better than you?’ answered the Oreads. ‘Us did he\never pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look\ndown at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own\nbeauty.’\n\nAnd the pool answered, ‘But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my\nbanks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own\nbeauty mirrored.’\n\n\n\nTHE MASTER\n\n\nNow when the darkness came over the earth Joseph of Arimathea, having\nlighted a torch of pinewood, passed down from the hill into the valley.\nFor he had business in his own home.\n\nAnd kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley of Desolation he saw a\nyoung man who was naked and weeping. His hair was the colour of honey,\nand his body was as a white flower, but he had wounded his body with\nthorns and on his hair had he set ashes as a crown.\n\nAnd he who had great possessions said to the young man who was naked and\nweeping, ‘I do not wonder that your sorrow is so great, for surely He was\na just man.’\n\nAnd the young man answered, ‘It is not for Him that I am weeping, but for\nmyself. I too have changed water into wine, and I have healed the leper\nand given sight to the blind. I have walked upon the waters, and from\nthe dwellers in the tombs I have cast out devils. I have fed the hungry\nin the desert where there was no food, and I have raised the dead from\ntheir narrow houses, and at my bidding, and before a great multitude, of\npeople, a barren fig-tree withered away. All things that this man has\ndone I have done also. And yet they have not crucified me.’\n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF JUDGMENT\n\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked\nbefore God.\n\nAnd God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, ‘Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown\ncruelty to those who were in need of succour, and to those who lacked\nhelp thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee\nand thou didst not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of My\nafflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou didst take unto\nthyself, and thou didst send the foxes into the vineyard of thy\nneighbour’s field. Thou didst take the bread of the children and give it\nto the dogs to eat, and My lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at\npeace and praised Me, thou didst drive forth on to the highways, and on\nMine earth out of which I made thee thou didst spill innocent blood.’\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’\n\nAnd again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, ‘Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have\nshown thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden thou didst pass\nby. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed\nof thine abominations thou didst rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou\ndidst build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and didst eat of\nthe thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was\nbroidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of\ngold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou didst\nstain their hair with perfumes and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou\ndidst stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With\nantimony thou didst stain their eyelids and their bodies thou didst smear\nwith myrrh. Thou didst bow thyself to the ground before them, and the\nthrones of thine idols were set in the sun. Thou didst show to the sun\nthy shame and to the moon thy madness.’\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’\n\nAnd a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, ‘Evil hath been thy life, and with evil didst\nthou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee\nthou didst wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou didst despise.\nHe who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men\nwho hid thee in their tents at night thou didst betray before dawn.\nThine enemy who spared thee thou didst snare in an ambush, and the friend\nwho walked with thee thou didst sell for a price, and to those who\nbrought thee Love thou didst ever give Lust in thy turn.’\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’\n\nAnd God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, ‘Surely I will\nsend thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee.’\n\nAnd the Man cried out, ‘Thou canst not.’\n\nAnd God said to the Man, ‘Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for\nwhat reason?’\n\n‘Because in Hell have I always lived,’ answered the Man.\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment.\n\nAnd after a space God spake, and said to the Man, ‘Seeing that I may not\nsend thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto\nHeaven will I send thee.’\n\nAnd the Man cried out, ‘Thou canst not.’\n\nAnd God said to the Man, ‘Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and\nfor what reason?’\n\n‘Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,’\nanswered the Man.\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment.\n\n\n\nTHE TEACHER OF WISDOM\n\n\nFrom his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge\nof God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well\nas certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been\nstirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.\n\nAnd when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he\nkissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might\nspeak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the\nworld who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge\nof Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care\nof their worshippers.\n\nAnd he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as\nhe had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet\nand a little water-bottle of burnt clay.\n\nAnd as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from\nthe perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without\nceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were\nmany cities.\n\nAnd he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in\nvalleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were\nset on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and\nfollowed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each\ncity, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the\nrulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were\nidols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon\ntheir drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with\nofferings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.\n\nYet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his\ndisciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow\nwas so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of the fulness of\nthat perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.\n\nAnd one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of\nArmenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after\nhim; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on\nthe mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt\nin the valley.\n\nAnd he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, ‘Why\nis it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is\nan enemy that walks in the noonday?’ And his Soul answered him and said,\n‘God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast\ngiven this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast\ndivided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who\ngiveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure\nto a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away\nthe secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made\nme poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me.’\n\nAnd he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that\nhe had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as\none clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by\nreason of the number of those who believed in him.\n\nAnd he said to himself, ‘I will talk no more about God. He who giveth\naway wisdom robbeth himself.’\n\nAnd after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed\nthemselves to the ground and said, ‘Master, talk to us about God, for\nthou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this\nknowledge.’\n\nAnd he answered them and said, ‘I will talk to you about all other things\nthat are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you.\nNeither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God.’\n\nAnd they were wroth with him and said to him, ‘Thou hast led us into the\ndesert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and\nthe great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee?’\n\nAnd he answered them and said, ‘I will not talk to you about God.’\n\nAnd the multitude murmured against him and said to him, ‘Thou hast led us\ninto the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God\nand it will suffice us.’\n\nBut he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them\nabout God he would give away his treasure.\n\nAnd his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned\nto their own homes. And many died on the way.\n\nAnd when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and\njourneyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And\nwhen the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the\ndesert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur\nhad once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a\nmat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the\nHermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him\nand of His wonderful greatness.\n\nNow, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he\nhad made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and\nbeautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every\nevening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he\nreturned with his hands full of purple and pearls. For he was a Robber\nand robbed the caravans of the merchants.\n\nAnd the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spake not a word.\nFor he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.\n\nAnd one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple\nand pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand,\nand said to the Hermit: ‘Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I\npass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at\nme before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me.’\n\nAnd the Hermit answered him and said, ‘What you see in my eyes is pity.\nPity is what looks out at you from my eyes.’\n\nAnd the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter\nvoice, and said to him, ‘I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you\nhave but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for\nme? And for what reason have you this pity?’\n\n‘I have pity for you,’ said the Hermit, ‘because you have no knowledge of\nGod.’\n\n‘Is this knowledge of God a precious thing?’ asked the young man, and he\ncame close to the mouth of the cavern.\n\n‘It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,’\nanswered the Hermit.\n\n‘And have you got it?’ said the young Robber, and he came closer still.\n\n‘Once, indeed,’ answered the Hermit, ‘I possessed the perfect knowledge\nof God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst\nothers. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious\nthan purple or pearls.’\n\nAnd when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the\npearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of\ncurved steel he said to the Hermit, ‘Give me, forthwith this knowledge of\nGod that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not\nslay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure?’\n\nAnd the Hermit spread out his arms and said, ‘Were it not better for me\nto go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in\nthe world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire.\nBut I will not give away my knowledge of God.’\n\nAnd the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would\nnot talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young\nRobber rose up and said to the Hermit, ‘Be it as you will. As for\nmyself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days’\njourney from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure,\nand for my pearls they will sell me joy.’ And he took up the purple and\nthe pearls and went swiftly away.\n\nAnd the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the\nspace of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and\nentreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.\n\nAnd ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called\nto him, and said, ‘Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more\nprecious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not\nenter the city.’\n\nAnd ever did the Hermit answer, ‘All things that I have I will give thee,\nsave that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give\naway.’\n\nAnd in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet\ngates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the\nsound of much laughter.\n\nAnd the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate.\nAnd as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of\nhis raiment, and said to him: ‘Stretch forth your hands, and set your\narms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give\nyou what remains to me of the knowledge of God.’ And the young Robber\nstopped.\n\nAnd when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the\nground and wept, and a great darkness hid from him the city and the young\nRobber, so that he saw them no more.\n\nAnd as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside\nhim; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like\nfine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: ‘Before this\ntime thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the\nperfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping?’ And he kissed him.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n{29} Plato’s _Laws_; Æschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_.\n\n{31} Somewhat in the same spirit Plato, in his _Laws_, appeals to the\nlocal position of Ilion among the rivers of the plain, as a proof that it\nwas not built till long after the Deluge.\n\n{32} Plutarch remarks that the _only_ evidence Greece possesses of the\ntruth that the legendary power of Athens is no ‘romance or idle story,’\nis the public and sacred buildings. This is an instance of the\nexaggerated importance given to ruins against which Thucydides is warning\nus.\n\n{37} The fictitious sale in the Roman marriage _per coemptionem_ was\noriginally, of course, a real sale.\n\n{43} Notably, of course, in the case of heat and its laws.\n\n{57} Cousin errs a good deal in this respect. To say, as he did, ‘Give\nme the latitude and the longitude of a country, its rivers and its\nmountains, and I will deduce the race,’ is surely a glaring exaggeration.\n\n{59} The monarchical, aristocratical, and democratic elements of the\nRoman constitution are referred to.\n\n{63a} Polybius, vi. 9. _αὔτη πολιτειῶν ἀνακύκλωσις_, _αὔτς φύσεως\nοἰκονομία_.\n\n{63b} _χωρὶς ὀργῆς ἢ φθόνου ποιούμεηος τὴν ἀπόφασιν_.\n\n{63c} The various stages are _σύστασις_, _αὔξησις_, _ἀκμή_, _μεταβολὴ\nἐις τοὔμπαλιν_.\n\n{68} Polybius, xii. 24.\n\n{69a} Polybius, i. 4, viii. 4, specially; and really _passim_.\n\n{69b} He makes one exception.\n\n{69c} Polybius, viii. 4.\n\n{71} Polybius, xvi. 12.\n\n{72a} Polybius, viii. 4: _τὸ παραδοξάτον καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἔργον ἡ τύχη\nσυνετέλεσε_; _τοῦτο δ’ ἔστι τὸ πάντα τὰ γνωριζόμενα μέρη τῆς οἰκουμένης\nὑπὸ μίαν ἀρχὴν καὶ δυναστείαν ἀγαγεῖν_, _ὂ πρότερον οὐχ εὑρίσκεται\nγεγονός_.\n\n{72b} Polybius resembled Gibbon in many respects. Like him he held that\nall religions were to the philosopher equally false, to the vulgar\nequally true, to the statesman equally useful.\n\n{76} Cf. Polybius, xii. 25, _ἐπεὶ ψιλῶς λεγόμενον αὐτὄ γεγονὸς ψυχαγωγεῖ\nμέν_, _ὠφελεῖ δ’ οὐδέν_· _προστεθείσης δὲ τῆς αἰτίας ἔγκαρπος ἡ τῆς\nἱστορίας γίγνεται χρῆσις_.\n\n{78} Polybius, xxii. 8.\n\n{81} I mean particularly as regards his sweeping denunciation of the\ncomplete moral decadence of Greek society during the Peloponnesain War,\nwhich, from what remains to us of Athenian literature, we know must have\nbeen completely exaggerated. Or, rather, he is looking at men merely in\ntheir political dealings: and in politics the man who is personally\nhonourable and refined will not scruple to do anything for his party.\n\n{86} Polybius, xii. 25.\n\n{124} As an instance of the inaccuracy of published reports of this\nlecture, it may be mentioned that all unauthorised versions give this\npassage as _The artist may trace the depressed revolution of Bunthorne\nsimply to the lack of technical means_!\n\n{206} _The Two Paths_, Lect. iii. p. 123 (1859 ed.).\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND LECTURES***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 774-0.txt or 774-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/7/774\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, The Happy Prince, by Oscar Wilde, Illustrated\nby Walter Crane\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: The Happy Prince\n and Other Tales\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: March 29, 2015 [eBook #902]\n[This file was first posted on May 6, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAPPY PRINCE***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1910 David Nutt edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org. Second proof by Paul Redmond.\n\n [Picture: Book cover]\n\n [Picture: The Happy Prince]\n\n\n\n\n\n The Happy Prince\n And Other Tales\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n ILLUSTRATED BY\n WALTER CRANE AND JACOMB HOOD\n\n * * * * *\n\n SEVENTH IMPRESSION\n\n * * * * *\n\n LONDON\n DAVID NUTT, 57–59 LONG ACRE\n 1910\n\n * * * * *\n\n_First Edition_ _May_ 1888\n_Second Impression_ _January_ 1889\n_Third Impression_ _February_ 1902\n_Fourth Impression_ _September_ 1905\n_Fifth Impression_ _February_ 1907\n_Sixth Impression_ _March_ 1908\n_Seventh Impression_ _March_ 1910\n\n * * * * *\n\n _TO_\n _CARLOS BLACKER_\n\n * * * * *\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of children]\n\n\n\n\nContents.\n\n Page\nThe Happy Prince 1\nThe Nightingale and the Rose 25\nThe Selfish Giant 43\nThe Devoted Friend 57\nThe Remarkable Rocket 87\n\n\n\n\nThe Happy Prince.\n\n\n [Picture: Woman opening window and seeing bird]\n\nHIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy\nPrince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes\nhe had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his\nsword-hilt.\n\nHe was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,”\nremarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for\nhaving artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing\nlest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.\n\n“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her\nlittle boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams\nof crying for anything.”\n\n“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a\ndisappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.\n\n“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out\nof the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white\npinafores.\n\n“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen\none.”\n\n“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the\nMathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not\napprove of children dreaming.\n\nOne night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had\ngone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was\nin love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring\nas he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so\nattracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.\n\n“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at\nonce, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,\ntouching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was\nhis courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.\n\n“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she has\nno money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite\nfull of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.\n\nAfter they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.\n“She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a\ncoquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly,\nwhenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. “I\nadmit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my\nwife, consequently, should love travelling also.”\n\n“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed shook\nher head, she was so attached to her home.\n\n“You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “I am off to the Pyramids.\nGood-bye!” and he flew away.\n\nAll day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where\nshall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”\n\nThen he saw the statue on the tall column.\n\n“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position, with plenty of\nfresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.\n\n“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round,\nand he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under\nhis wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he\ncried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear\nand bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is\nreally dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her\nselfishness.”\n\nThen another drop fell.\n\n“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I\nmust look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.\n\nBut before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,\nand saw—Ah! what did he see?\n\nThe eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were\nrunning down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the\nmoonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.\n\n“Who are you?” he said.\n\n“I am the Happy Prince.”\n\n“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite drenched\nme.”\n\n“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not\nknow what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where\nsorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my\ncompanions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great\nHall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask\nwhat lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers\ncalled me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be\nhappiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have\nset me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery\nof my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but\nweep.”\n\n“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too\npolite to make any personal remarks out loud.\n\n“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a\nlittle street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and\nthrough it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and\nworn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she\nis a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for\nthe loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next\nCourt-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying\nill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing\nto give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little\nSwallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet\nare fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”\n\n“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying up\nand down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they\nwill go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there\nhimself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and\nembalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and\nhis hands are like withered leaves.”\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay\nwith me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and\nthe mother so sad.”\n\n“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when I\nwas staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons,\nwho were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we\nswallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family\nfamous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”\n\nBut the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.\n“It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one night,\nand be your messenger.”\n\n“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince.\n\nSo the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and\nflew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.\n\nHe passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were\nsculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A\nbeautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful\nthe stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!”\n\n“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered;\n“I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the\nseamstresses are so lazy.”\n\nHe passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of\nthe ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining\nwith each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he\ncame to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on\nhis bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he\nhopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble.\nThen he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his\nwings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”; and\nhe sank into a delicious slumber.\n\nThen the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had\ndone. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although\nit is so cold.”\n\n“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the\nlittle Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always\nmade him sleepy.\n\nWhen day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a\nremarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was\npassing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long\nletter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full\nof so many words that they could not understand.\n\n“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at\nthe prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time\non top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped,\nand said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed\nhimself very much.\n\nWhen the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have you any\ncommissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay\nwith me one night longer?”\n\n“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my friends\nwill fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among\nthe bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All\nnight long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he\nutters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions\ncome down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green\nberyls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across the\ncity I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered\nwith papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered\nviolets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a\npomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a\nplay for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any\nmore. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.”\n\n“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really had\na good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”\n\n“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I\nhave left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of\nIndia a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him.\nHe will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish\nhis play.”\n\n“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to\nweep.\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command\nyou.”\n\nSo the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the\nstudent’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in\nthe roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man\nhad his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the\nbird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying\non the withered violets.\n\n“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great\nadmirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.\n\nThe next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of\na large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold\nwith ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came up. “I am\ngoing to Egypt”! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon\nrose he flew back to the Happy Prince.\n\n“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay\nwith me one night longer?”\n\n“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be\nhere. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the\ncrocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are\nbuilding a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves\nare watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave\nyou, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back\ntwo beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby\nshall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the\ngreat sea.”\n\n“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little\nmatch-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all\nspoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money,\nand she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is\nbare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will\nnot beat her.”\n\n“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I cannot\npluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.”\n\n“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command\nyou.”\n\nSo he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He\nswooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her\nhand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran\nhome, laughing.\n\nThen the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said,\n“so I will stay with you always.”\n\n“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.”\n\n“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the\nPrince’s feet.\n\nAll the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of\nwhat he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who\nstand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their\nbeaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the\ndesert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the\nside of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King\nof the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a\nlarge crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and\nhas twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who\nsail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the\nbutterflies.\n\n“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous\nthings, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of\nwomen. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little\nSwallow, and tell me what you see there.”\n\nSo the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in\ntheir beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He\nflew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children\nlooking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a\nbridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep\nthemselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie\nhere,” shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.\n\nThen he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.\n\n“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off,\nleaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold\ncan make them happy.”\n\nLeaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy\nPrince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he\nbrought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they\nlaughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!” they cried.\n\nThen the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets\nlooked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and\nglistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of\nthe houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore\nscarlet caps and skated on the ice.\n\nThe poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave\nthe Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the\nbaker’s door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself\nwarm by flapping his wings.\n\nBut at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to\nfly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” he\nmurmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”\n\n“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the\nPrince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips,\nfor I love you.”\n\n“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to\nthe House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”\n\nAnd he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his\nfeet.\n\nAt that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something\nhad broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two.\nIt certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.\n\nEarly the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in\ncompany with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked\nup at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.\n\n“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with\nthe Mayor; and they went up to look at it.\n\n“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is\ngolden no longer,” said the Mayor in fact, “he is litttle better than a\nbeggar!”\n\n“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.\n\n“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We\nmust really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die\nhere.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.\n\nSo they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer\nbeautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the\nUniversity.\n\nThen they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of\nthe Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must\nhave another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of\nmyself.”\n\n“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.\nWhen I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.\n\n“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.\n“This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it\naway.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also\nlying.\n\n“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one of\nHis Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.\n\n“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise this\nlittle bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy\nPrince shall praise me.”\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of two birds]\n\n\n\n\nThe Nightingale and the Rose.\n\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of young man lying on grass]\n\n“SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried\nthe young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”\n\nFrom her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she\nlooked out through the leaves, and wondered.\n\n“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled\nwith tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have\nread all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of\nphilosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made\nwretched.”\n\n“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night\nhave I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told\nhis story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the\nhyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but\npassion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal\nupon his brow.”\n\n“The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young Student,\n“and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will\ndance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in\nmy arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will\nbe clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall\nsit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my\nheart will break.”\n\n“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of,\nhe suffers—what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful\nthing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals.\nPearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the\nmarketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be\nweighed out in the balance for gold.”\n\n“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and\nplay upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound\nof the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will\nnot touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng\nround her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to\ngive her”; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in\nhis hands, and wept.\n\n“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with\nhis tail in the air.\n\n“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a\nsunbeam.\n\n“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.\n\n“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.\n\n“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little\nLizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.\n\nBut the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and\nshe sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.\n\nSuddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.\nShe passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed\nacross the garden.\n\nIn the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and\nwhen she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.\n\n“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea, and\nwhiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows\nround the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”\n\nSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the\nold sun-dial.\n\n“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the\nmermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil\nthat blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go\nto my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he will\ngive you what you want.”\n\nSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath\nthe Student’s window.\n\n“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, and\nredder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the\nocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has\nnipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no\nroses at all this year.”\n\n“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose!\nIs there no way by which I can get it?”\n\n“There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I dare\nnot tell it to you.”\n\n“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”\n\n“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of music\nby moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to\nme with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me,\nand the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into\nmy veins, and become mine.”\n\n“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale,\n“and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood,\nand to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot\nof pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the\nbluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the\nhill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird\ncompared to the heart of a man?”\n\nSo she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She\nswept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through\nthe grove.\n\nThe young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him,\nand the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.\n\n“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red\nrose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my\nown heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a\ntrue lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and\nmightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,\nand coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and\nhis breath is like frankincense.”\n\nThe Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not\nunderstand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the\nthings that are written down in books.\n\nBut the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the\nlittle Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.\n\n“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely when you\nare gone.”\n\nSo the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water\nbubbling from a silver jar.\n\nWhen she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book\nand a lead-pencil out of his pocket.\n\n“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the\ngrove—“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am\nafraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without\nany sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks\nmerely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still,\nit must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What\na pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.”\nAnd he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and\nbegan to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.\n\nAnd when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the\nRose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang\nwith her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down\nand listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and\ndeeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.\n\nShe sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.\nAnd on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous\nrose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at\nfirst, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the\nmorning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in\na mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the\nrose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.\n\nBut the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.\n“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come\nbefore the rose is finished.”\n\nSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and\nlouder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of\na man and a maid.\n\nAnd a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the\nflush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride.\nBut the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained\nwhite, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a\nrose.\n\nAnd the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.\n“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come\nbefore the rose is finished.”\n\nSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn\ntouched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter,\nbitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of\nthe Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the\ntomb.\n\nAnd the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky.\nCrimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.\n\nBut the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to\nbeat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song,\nand she felt something choking her in her throat.\n\nThen she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she\nforgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and\nit trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold\nmorning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke\nthe sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds\nof the river, and they carried its message to the sea.\n\n“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the\nNightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass,\nwith the thorn in her heart.\n\nAnd at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.\n\n“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red rose! I\nhave never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that\nI am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned down and plucked it.\n\nThen he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose\nin his hand.\n\nThe daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue\nsilk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.\n\n“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,”\ncried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will\nwear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell\nyou how I love you.”\n\nBut the girl frowned.\n\n“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides,\nthe Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody\nknows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”\n\n“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily;\nand he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and\na cart-wheel went over it.\n\n“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude; and,\nafter all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have\neven got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has”;\nand she got up from her chair and went into the house.\n\n“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away. “It\nis not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is\nalways telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one\nbelieve things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and,\nas in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to\nPhilosophy and study Metaphysics.”\n\nSo he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began\nto read.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of nightingale and rose]\n\n\n\n\nThe Selfish Giant.\n\n\n [Picture: The Selfish Giant]\n\nEVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go\nand play in the Giant’s garden.\n\nIt was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over\nthe grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve\npeach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of\npink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the\ntrees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in\norder to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each\nother.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of children in garden]\n\nOne day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish\nogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years\nwere over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was\nlimited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived\nhe saw the children playing in the garden.\n\n“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the\nchildren ran away.\n\n“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand\nthat, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a\nhigh wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.\n\n TRESPASSERS\n\n WILL BE\n\n PROSECUTED\n\nHe was a very selfish Giant.\n\nThe poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the\nroad, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did\nnot like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons\nwere over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we\nwere there,” they said to each other.\n\nThen the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms\nand little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still\nwinter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children,\nand the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head\nout from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for\nthe children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to\nsleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost.\n“Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all\nthe year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white\ncloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the\nNorth Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and\nhe roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down.\n“This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.”\nSo the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of\nthe castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and\nround the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his\nbreath was like ice.\n\n“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the\nSelfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white\ngarden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”\n\nBut the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit\nto every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too\nselfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind,\nand the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.\n\nOne morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely\nmusic. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the\nKing’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing\noutside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in\nhis garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the\nworld. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind\nceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open\ncasement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and\nhe jumped out of bed and looked out.\n\nWhat did he see?\n\nHe saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the\nchildren had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the\ntrees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And\nthe trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had\ncovered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above\nthe children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with\ndelight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and\nlaughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter.\nIt was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little\nboy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the\ntree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree\nwas still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was\nblowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! little boy,” said the Tree, and\nit bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.\n\nAnd the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have\nbeen!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will\nput that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock\ndown the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever\nand ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.\n\nSo he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went\nout into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so\nfrightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.\nOnly the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that\nhe did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and\ntook him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree\nbroke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the\nlittle boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s\nneck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the\nGiant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came\nthe Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant,\nand he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people\nwere going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with\nthe children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.\n\nAll day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to\nbid him good-bye.\n\n“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the\ntree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.\n\n“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”\n\n“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant.\nBut the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had\nnever seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.\n\nEvery afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with\nthe Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again.\nThe Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first\nlittle friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he\nused to say.\n\nYears went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not\nplay about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the\nchildren at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful\nflowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of\nall.”\n\nOne winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He\ndid not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring\nasleep, and that the flowers were resting.\n\nSuddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It\ncertainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden\nwas a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were\nall golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood\nthe little boy he had loved.\n\nDownstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He\nhastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came\nquite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to\nwound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of\ntwo nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.\n\n“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may\ntake my big sword and slay him.”\n\n“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”\n\n“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he\nknelt before the little child.\n\nAnd the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once\nin your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is\nParadise.”\n\nAnd when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying\ndead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of wreath]\n\n\n\n\nThe Devoted Friend.\n\n\n [Picture: Hans and the Miller]\n\nONE morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had\nbright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long\nbit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the\npond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who\nwas pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand\non their heads in the water.\n\n“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your\nheads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them\nhow it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They\nwere so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in\nsociety at all.\n\n“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat; “they really\ndeserve to be drowned.”\n\n“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every one must make a\nbeginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”\n\n“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat;\n“I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never\nintend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much\nhigher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or\nrarer than a devoted friendship.”\n\n“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a\nGreen Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard\nthe conversation.\n\n“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck; and she swam away\nto the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her\nchildren a good example.\n\n“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I should expect my\ndevoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”\n\n“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a\nsilver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.\n\n“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.\n\n“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.\n\n“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to\nit, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”\n\n“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and\nalighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.\n\n“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow\nnamed Hans.”\n\n“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.\n\n“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think he was distinguished at all,\nexcept for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He\nlived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his\ngarden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his.\nSweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and\nFair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac\nCrocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock,\nMarjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil\nand the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the\nmonths went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there\nwere always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.\n\n“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all\nwas big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to\nlittle Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over\nthe wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or\nfilling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.\n\n“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to say,\nand little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend\nwith such noble ideas.\n\n“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich\nMiller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred\nsacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large\nflock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these\nthings, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the\nwonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true\nfriendship.\n\n“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the\nsummer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and\nhe had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good\ndeal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper\nbut a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was\nextremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.\n\n“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow\nlasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in\ntrouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That\nat least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I\nshall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and\nhe will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make\nhim so happy.’\n\n“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as\nshe sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very\nthoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about\nfriendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful\nthings as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear\na gold ring on his little finger.’\n\n“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest\nson. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and\nshow him my white rabbits.’\n\n“‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the Miller; ‘I really don’t know what\nis the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything.\nWhy, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good\nsupper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is\na most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly\nwill not allow Hans’ nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I\nwill always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any\ntemptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have\nsome flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and\nfriendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words\nare spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can\nsee that.’\n\n“‘How well you talk!’ said the Miller’s Wife, pouring herself out a large\nglass of warm ale; ‘really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in\nchurch.’\n\n“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the Miller; ‘but very few people\ntalk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of\nthe two, and much the finer thing also’; and he looked sternly across the\ntable at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his\nhead down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea.\nHowever, he was so young that you must excuse him.”\n\n“Is that the end of the story?” asked the Water-rat.\n\n“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet, “that is the beginning.”\n\n“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the Water-rat. “Every good\nstory-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the\nbeginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I\nheard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the\npond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am\nsure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head,\nand whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered ‘Pooh!’\nBut pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all\nkinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy\nbetween us.”\n\n“Well,” said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, “as\nsoon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale\nyellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see\nlittle Hans.\n\n“‘Why, what a good heart you have!’ cried his Wife; ‘you are always\nthinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the\nflowers.’\n\n“So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron\nchain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.\n\n“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the Miller.\n\n“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to\near.\n\n“‘And how have you been all the winter?’ said the Miller.\n\n“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it is very good of you to ask, very good\nindeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring\nhas come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’\n\n“‘We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and\nwondered how you were getting on.’\n\n“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans; ‘I was half afraid you had forgotten\nme.’\n\n“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the Miller; ‘friendship never\nforgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don’t\nunderstand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking,\nby-the-bye!”\n\n“‘They are certainly very lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and it is a most lucky\nthing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the\nmarket and sell them to the Burgomaster’s daughter, and buy back my\nwheelbarrow with the money.’\n\n“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t mean to say you have sold it?\nWhat a very stupid thing to do!’\n\n“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘that I was obliged to. You see the\nwinter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to\nbuy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat,\nand then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last\nI sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.’\n\n“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in\nvery good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong\nwith the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I\nknow it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me\nextremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the\nworld. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and,\nbesides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your\nmind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.’\n\n“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny\nround face glowed all over with pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in\nrepair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.’\n\n“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller; ‘why, that is just what I want for\nthe roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will\nall get damp if I don’t stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is\nquite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given\nyou my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of\ncourse, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true,\nfriendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I\nwill set to work at my barn this very day.’\n\n“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the\nplank out.\n\n“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am\nafraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for\nyou to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault.\nAnd now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to\ngive me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it\nquite full.’\n\n“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a\nvery big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no\nflowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver\nbuttons back.\n\n“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘as I have given you my\nwheelbarrow, I don’t think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers.\nI may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true\nfriendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’\n\n“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to\nall the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion\nthan my silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty\nprimroses, and filled the Miller’s basket.\n\n“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he went up the hill with\nthe plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.\n\n“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he\nwas so pleased about the wheelbarrow.\n\n“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when\nhe heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped\noff the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.\n\n“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.\n\n“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack\nof flour for me to market?’\n\n“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I am really very busy to-day. I\nhave got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all\nmy grass to roll.’\n\n“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think that, considering that I am\ngoing to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to\nrefuse.’\n\n“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans, ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for\nthe whole world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big\nsack on his shoulders.\n\n“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans\nhad reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down\nand rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the\nmarket. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour\nfor a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was\nafraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.\n\n“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said little Hans to himself as he\nwas going to bed, ‘but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is\nmy best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’\n\n“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his\nsack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.\n\n“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are very lazy. Really,\nconsidering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might\nwork harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of\nmy friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite\nplainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not\nyour friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say\nexactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to\nplease and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things,\nand does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he\nprefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’\n\n“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off\nhis night-cap, ‘but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for\na little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I\nalways work better after hearing the birds sing?’\n\n“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the\nback, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed,\nand mend my barn-roof for me.’\n\n“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his\nflowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse\nthe Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.\n\n“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?’ he\ninquired in a shy and timid voice.\n\n“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I do not think it is much to ask\nof you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of\ncourse if you refuse I will go and do it myself.’\n\n“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and\ndressed himself, and went up to the barn.\n\n“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came\nto see how he was getting on.\n\n“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’ cried the\nMiller in a cheery voice.\n\n“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.\n\n“‘Ah!’ said the Miller, ‘there is no work so delightful as the work one\ndoes for others.’\n\n“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little\nHans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege.\nBut I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’\n\n“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the Miller, ‘but you must take more\npains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you\nwill have the theory also.’\n\n“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little Hans.\n\n“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller, ‘but now that you have\nmended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive\nmy sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’\n\n“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next\nmorning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans\nstarted off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get\nthere and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to\nsleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.\n\n“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,’ he said, and he went\nto work at once.\n\n“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his\nfriend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long\nerrands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much\ndistressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had\nforgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller\nwas his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me\nhis wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’\n\n“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds\nof beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a\nnote-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good\nscholar.\n\n“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside\nwhen a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind\nwas blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he\nthought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a\nthird, louder than any of the others.\n\n“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little Hans to himself, and he ran to\nthe door.\n\n“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the\nother.\n\n“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little\nboy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the\nDoctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it\nhas just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead\nof me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is\nonly fair that you should do something for me in return.’\n\n“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I take it quite as a compliment your\ncoming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your\nlantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the\nditch.’\n\n“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and\nit would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’\n\n“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took\ndown his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler\nround his throat, and started off.\n\n“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans\ncould hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely\nstand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking\nabout three hours, he arrived at the Doctor’s house, and knocked at the\ndoor.\n\n“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom\nwindow.\n\n“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’\n\n“’What do you want, little Hans?’\n\n“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and\nthe Miller wants you to come at once.’\n\n“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big\nboots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the\ndirection of the Miller’s house, little Hans trudging behind him.\n\n“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and\nlittle Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse.\nAt last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very\ndangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans\nwas drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating\nin a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.\n\n“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was so popular, and the\nMiller was the chief mourner.\n\n“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I\nshould have the best place’; so he walked at the head of the procession\nin a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a\nbig pocket-handkerchief.\n\n“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the\nBlacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated\ncomfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.\n\n“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the Miller; ‘why, I had as\ngood as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to do\nwith it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair\nthat I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take\ncare not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being\ngenerous.’”\n\n“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.\n\n“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.\n\n“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.\n\n“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet; “and I am sure that I\ndon’t care.”\n\n“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said\nthe Water-rat.\n\n“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” remarked the\nLinnet.\n\n“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.\n\n“The moral.”\n\n“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”\n\n“Certainly,” said the Linnet.\n\n“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, “I think you\nshould have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I\ncertainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said\n‘Pooh,’ like the critic. However, I can say it now”; so he shouted out\n“Pooh” at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back\ninto his hole.\n\n“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck, who came paddling up\nsome minutes afterwards. “He has a great many good points, but for my\nown part I have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed\nbachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.”\n\n“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The\nfact is, that I told him a story with a moral.”\n\n“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.\n\nAnd I quite agree with her.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of windmill and overturned barrow]\n\n\n\n\nThe Remarkable Rocket.\n\n\n [Picture: The Remarkable Rocket]\n\nTHE King’s son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings.\nHe had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived.\nShe was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a\nsledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden\nswan, and between the swan’s wings lay the little Princess herself. Her\nlong ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny\ncap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she\nhad always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets\nall the people wondered. “She is like a white rose!” they cried, and\nthey threw down flowers on her from the balconies.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic of young man kissing the princess’ hand]\n\nAt the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had\ndreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he\nsank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.\n\n“Your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but you are more beautiful\nthan your picture”; and the little Princess blushed.\n\n“She was like a white rose before,” said a young Page to his neighbour,\n“but she is like a red rose now”; and the whole Court was delighted.\n\nFor the next three days everybody went about saying, “White rose, Red\nrose, Red rose, White rose”; and the King gave orders that the Page’s\nsalary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not\nof much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly\npublished in the Court Gazette.\n\nWhen the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a\nmagnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand\nunder a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then\nthere was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and\nPrincess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear\ncrystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips\ntouched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.\n\n“It’s quite clear that they love each other,” said the little Page, “as\nclear as crystal!” and the King doubled his salary a second time. “What\nan honour!” cried all the courtiers.\n\nAfter the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were\nto dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the\nflute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so,\nbecause he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never\nquite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for,\nwhatever he did, everybody cried out, “Charming! charming!”\n\nThe last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be\nlet off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a\nfirework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal\nPyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.\n\n“What are fireworks like?” she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she\nwas walking on the terrace.\n\n“They are like the Aurora Borealis,” said the King, who always answered\nquestions that were addressed to other people, “only much more natural.\nI prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to\nappear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must\ncertainly see them.”\n\nSo at the end of the King’s garden a great stand had been set up, and as\nsoon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place,\nthe fireworks began to talk to each other.\n\n“The world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little Squib. “Just\nlook at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could\nnot be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the\nmind wonderfully, and does away with all one’s prejudices.”\n\n“The King’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,” said a big Roman\nCandle; “the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days\nto see it thoroughly.”\n\n“Any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a pensive Catherine\nWheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided\nherself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the\npoets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed\nthem, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I\nremember myself once—But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the\npast.”\n\n“Nonsense!” said the Roman Candle, “Romance never dies. It is like the\nmoon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love\neach other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a\nbrown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as\nmyself, and knew the latest Court news.”\n\nBut the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead, Romance is\ndead, Romance is dead,” she murmured. She was one of those people who\nthink that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times,\nit becomes true in the end.\n\nSuddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.\n\nIt came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end\nof a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as\nto attract attention.\n\n“Ahem! ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine\nWheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, “Romance is dead.”\n\n“Order! order!” cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician,\nand had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew\nthe proper Parliamentary expressions to use.\n\n“Quite dead,” whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.\n\nAs soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and\nbegan. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating\nhis memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he\nwas talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.\n\n“How fortunate it is for the King’s son,” he remarked, “that he is to be\nmarried on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had\nbeen arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him;\nbut, Princes are always lucky.”\n\n“Dear me!” said the little Squib, “I thought it was quite the other way,\nand that we were to be let off in the Prince’s honour.”\n\n“It may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed, I have no doubt that it\nis, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come\nof remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel\nof her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her\ngreat public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went\nout, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink\nstars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very\nbest gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French\nextraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would\nnever come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly\ndisposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden\nrain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering\nterms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic\nart.”\n\n“Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a Bengal Light; “I know it is\nPyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.”\n\n“Well, I said Pylotechnic,” answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of\nvoice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to\nbully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of\nsome importance.\n\n“I was saying,” continued the Rocket, “I was saying—What was I saying?”\n\n“You were talking about yourself,” replied the Roman Candle.\n\n“Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was\nso rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind,\nfor I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive\nas I am, I am quite sure of that.”\n\n“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.\n\n“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other\npeople’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the\nCracker nearly exploded with laughter.\n\n“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket; “I am not\nlaughing.”\n\n“I am laughing because I am happy,” replied the Cracker.\n\n“That is a very selfish reason,” said the Rocket angrily. “What right\nhave you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you\nshould be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I\nexpect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy.\nIt is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose,\nfor instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that\nwould be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy\nagain, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I\nknow he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the\nimportance of my position, I am almost moved to tears.”\n\n“If you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the Roman Candle, “you\nhad better keep yourself dry.”\n\n“Certainly,” exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits;\n“that is only common sense.”\n\n“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly; “you forget that I\nam very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common\nsense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination,\nfor I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as\nbeing quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no\none here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for\nmyself, I don’t care. The only thing that sustains one through life is\nthe consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this\nis a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any\nhearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and\nPrincess had not just been married.”\n\n“Well, really,” exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, “why not? It is a most\njoyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the\nstars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about\nthe pretty bride.”\n\n“Ah! what a trivial view of life!” said the Rocket; “but it is only what\nI expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why,\nperhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there\nis a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little\nfair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps\nsome day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may\ngo to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall\ninto the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor\npeople, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall\nnever get over it.”\n\n“But they have not lost their only son,” said the Roman Candle; “no\nmisfortune has happened to them at all.”\n\n“I never said that they had,” replied the Rocket; “I said that they\nmight. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying\nanything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk.\nBut when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very\nmuch affected.”\n\n“You certainly are!” cried the Bengal Light. “In fact, you are the most\naffected person I ever met.”\n\n“You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket, “and you cannot\nunderstand my friendship for the Prince.”\n\n“Why, you don’t even know him,” growled the Roman Candle.\n\n“I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket. “I dare say that if I\nknew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing\nto know one’s friends.”\n\n“You had really better keep yourself dry,” said the Fire-balloon. “That\nis the important thing.”\n\n“Very important for you, I have no doubt,” answered the Rocket, “but I\nshall weep if I choose”; and he actually burst into real tears, which\nflowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little\nbeetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were\nlooking for a nice dry spot to live in.\n\n“He must have a truly romantic nature,” said the Catherine Wheel, “for he\nweeps when there is nothing at all to weep about”; and she heaved a deep\nsigh, and thought about the deal box.\n\nBut the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept\nsaying, “Humbug! humbug!” at the top of their voices. They were\nextremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called\nit humbug.\n\nThen the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to\nshine, and a sound of music came from the palace.\n\nThe Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so\nbeautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and\nwatched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.\n\nThen ten o’clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the\nlast stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King\nsent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.\n\n“Let the fireworks begin,” said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made\na low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six\nattendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a\nlong pole.\n\nIt was certainly a magnificent display.\n\nWhizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round.\nBoom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the\nplace, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. “Good-bye,”\ncried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks.\nBang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves\nimmensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket.\nHe was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best\nthing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it\nwas of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak,\nexcept with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers\nwith blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little\nPrincess laughed with pleasure.\n\n“I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,” said the\nRocket; “no doubt that is what it means,” and he looked more supercilious\nthan ever.\n\nThe next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. “This is evidently\na deputation,” said the Rocket; “I will receive them with becoming\ndignity” so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if\nhe were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no\nnotice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them\ncaught sight of him. “Hallo!” he cried, “what a bad rocket!” and he\nthrew him over the wall into the ditch.\n\n“BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?” he said, as he whirled through the air;\n“impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND\nsound very much the same, indeed they often are the same”; and he fell\ninto the mud.\n\n“It is not comfortable here,” he remarked, “but no doubt it is some\nfashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my\nhealth. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require\nrest.”\n\nThen a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat,\nswam up to him.\n\n“A new arrival, I see!” said the Frog. “Well, after all there is nothing\nlike mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do\nyou think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky\nis quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!”\n\n“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket, and he began to cough.\n\n“What a delightful voice you have!” cried the Frog. “Really it is quite\nlike a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the\nworld. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck\npond close by the farmer’s house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin.\nIt is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact,\nit was only yesterday that I heard the farmer’s wife say to her mother\nthat she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is\nmost gratifying to find oneself so popular.”\n\n“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he\ncould not get a word in.\n\n“A delightful voice, certainly,” continued the Frog; “I hope you will\ncome over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have\nsix beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He\nis a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off\nthem. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I\nassure you.”\n\n“Conversation, indeed!” said the Rocket. “You have talked the whole time\nyourself. That is not conversation.”\n\n“Somebody must listen,” answered the Frog, “and I like to do all the\ntalking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments.”\n\n“But I like arguments,” said the Rocket.\n\n“I hope not,” said the Frog complacently. “Arguments are extremely\nvulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions.\nGood-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance and the little\nFrog swam away.\n\n“You are a very irritating person,” said the Rocket, “and very ill-bred.\nI hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to\ntalk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and\nselfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my\ntemperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you\nshould take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model.\nNow that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I\nam going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at\nCourt; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my\nhonour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a\nprovincial.”\n\n“There is no good talking to him,” said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on\nthe top of a large brown bulrush; “no good at all, for he has gone away.”\n\n“Well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the Rocket. “I am not going\nto stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like\nhearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have\nlong conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I\ndon’t understand a single word of what I am saying.”\n\n“Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy,” said the Dragon-fly;\nand he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.\n\n“How very silly of him not to stay here!” said the Rocket. “I am sure\nthat he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However,\nI don’t care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some\nday”; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.\n\nAfter some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs,\nand webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her\nwaddle.\n\n“Quack, quack, quack,” she said. “What a curious shape you are! May I\nask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?”\n\n“It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,” answered\nthe Rocket, “otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your\nignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable\nas oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up\ninto the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain.”\n\n“I don’t think much of that,” said the Duck, “as I cannot see what use it\nis to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw\na cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that\nwould be something.”\n\n“My good creature,” cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, “I\nsee that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is\nnever useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than\nsufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least\nof all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have\nalways been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who\nhave nothing whatever to do.”\n\n“Well, well,” said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and\nnever quarrelled with any one, “everybody has different tastes. I hope,\nat any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here.”\n\n“Oh! dear no,” cried the Rocket. “I am merely a visitor, a distinguished\nvisitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is\nneither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban.\nI shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make\na sensation in the world.”\n\n“I had thoughts of entering public life once myself,” remarked the Duck;\n“there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair\nat a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning\neverything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much\neffect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family.”\n\n“I am made for public life,” said the Rocket, “and so are all my\nrelations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great\nattention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will\nbe a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and\ndistracts one’s mind from higher things.”\n\n“Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!” said the Duck; “and\nthat reminds me how hungry I feel”: and she swam away down the stream,\nsaying, “Quack, quack, quack.”\n\n“Come back! come back!” screamed the Rocket, “I have a great deal to say\nto you”; but the Duck paid no attention to him. “I am glad that she has\ngone,” he said to himself, “she has a decidedly middle-class mind”; and\nhe sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the\nloneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came\nrunning down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.\n\n“This must be the deputation,” said the Rocket, and he tried to look very\ndignified.\n\n“Hallo!” cried one of the boys, “look at this old stick! I wonder how it\ncame here”; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.\n\n“OLD Stick!” said the Rocket, “impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he\nsaid. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one\nof the Court dignitaries!”\n\n“Let us put it into the fire!” said the other boy, “it will help to boil\nthe kettle.”\n\nSo they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit\nthe fire.\n\n“This is magnificent,” cried the Rocket, “they are going to let me off in\nbroad day-light, so that every one can see me.”\n\n“We will go to sleep now,” they said, “and when we wake up the kettle\nwill be boiled”; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.\n\nThe Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last,\nhowever, the fire caught him.\n\n“Now I am going off!” he cried, and he made himself very stiff and\nstraight. “I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher\nthan the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high\nthat—”\n\nFizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.\n\n“Delightful!” he cried, “I shall go on like this for ever. What a\nsuccess I am!”\n\nBut nobody saw him.\n\nThen he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.\n\n“Now I am going to explode,” he cried. “I shall set the whole world on\nfire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for\na whole year.” And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the\ngunpowder. There was no doubt about it.\n\nBut nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound\nasleep.\n\nThen all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the\nback of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.\n\n“Good heavens!” cried the Goose. “It is going to rain sticks”; and she\nrushed into the water.\n\n“I knew I should create a great sensation,” gasped the Rocket, and he\nwent out.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf\n\nAuthor: Rennell Rodd\n\nRelease Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #35903]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Andrea Ball & Marc D\'Hooghe at\nhttp://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made\navailable by the Internet Archive.)\n\n\n\n\n\nROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF\n\nBy Rennell Rodd with an\nIntroduction by Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nPRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER\nAND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT\nXLV EXCHANGE STREET\nPORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nL\'ENVOI\n BY OSCAR WILDE\n\nROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF\n FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS\n IN THE COLISEUM\n THE SEA-KING\'S GRAVE\n A ROMAN MIRROR\n BY THE SOUTH SEA\n IN A CHURCH\n AT LANUVIUM\n "IF ANY ONE RETURN"\n\n SONNETS:\n\n "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"\n ACTEA\n IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS\n "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"\n ON THE BORDER HILLS\n\n SONGS:\n\n LONG AFTER\n "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"\n A SONG OF AUTUMN\n "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ\n\n ATALANTA\n THE DAISY\n "WHEN I AM DEAD"\n AFTER HEINE\n "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"\n A STAR-DREAM\n AFTER HEINE\n AFTER HEINE\n ENDYMION\n DISILLUSION\n REQUIESCAT\n IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL\n HIC JACET\n AT TIBER MOUTH\n\n BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n\n\n\nL\'ENVOI\n\n\nMongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to\ncontinue and to perfect the English Renaissance--_jeunes guerriers du\ndrapeau romantique_, as Gautier would have called us--there is none\nwhose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of\nbeauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to\nmyself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to\nAmerica; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most\njoyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with\nthe barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,\nthis indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element\nof artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what\nKeats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the\nsinging, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often\nhas its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought\nfor, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the\nscheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:\nso that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has\nbeen, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their\nmarvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the\nwork of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design\nand colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of\ntheir exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative\nhandling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful\nworkmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all\nmetaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the æsthetic\nsense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of\ntheir work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the\nart in which form and matter are always one--the art whose subject\ncannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which\nmost completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition\nto which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.\n\nNow, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of\nbeautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the\nsensuous element in art, this love of art for art\'s sake, is the point\nin which we of the younger school have made a departure from the\nteaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and\ndecisive.\n\nMaster indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of\nall spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by\nthe magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford\nthat enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that\ndesire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,\nat least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far\nand fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for\nthe world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous\nelement of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer\nwith him; for the keystone to his æsthetic system is ethical always. He\nwould judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it\nexpresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting\ncan touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or\nmetaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the\nsymbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of\nan imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its\ncomplete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.\nBut to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical\nsystem, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to\nfancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene\nHouse of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever\nmeant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of\nno value to us, but their realised creations only. _Pour moi je préfère\nles poètes qui font des vers, les médecins qui sachent guérir, les\npeintres qui sachent peindre._\n\nNor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it\nsymbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the\ntranscendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical\nmind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,\nbut to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual\nlife which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life\nalso. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more\nspiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of\nDamascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,\nnothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no\npathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by\nits own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth\nwhich we call style, and that relation of values which is the\ndraughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,\nthe arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these\nthings are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which\nmake music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical\npresence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.\n\nThis, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief\ncharacteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd\'s poetry; for, while there is much in\nhis work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the\nemotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to\nthose who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet the\neffect which they preëminently seek to produce is purely an artistic\none. Such a poem as "The Sea-King\'s Grave," with all its majesty of\nmelody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed\nshores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little\npoem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an\nartistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the\nmirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those\nexquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so\ncuriously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched\nand made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn\nsuddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or\nthe scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and\narch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the\nyoung priest lifts Lord Christ\'s body in a crystal star, and then the\nsudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and\nsmite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music\nrolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and\nover all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a\nthing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one\'s\nemotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems\nto hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their\nown green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the\nsea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"\nwhich gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a\nhandicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into\nthose thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing\nit out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and\nprecious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that\nbreak in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift\nand as sure as the beating of a bird\'s wing, as light and bright as the\napple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a\nspring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain\'s tears lying on\ntheir dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd\nis one of those _qui sonnent le sonnet_, as the Ronsardists used to\nsay--that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of\nimagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which\ntells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,--well,\nall these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,\nand have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that\nkind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our æsthetic movement\nof all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing\npoetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.\n\nBut it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic\ndemands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us\nany permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever\nwork we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of\npersonality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating\nthe earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and\nstronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic\nvision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and\nscattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first\na boy\'s mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field\nand flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden\nsorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful\nfriendships of one\'s youth, with all those unanswered longings and\nquestionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face\nof death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness\nof the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it\nforming the chief element of the æsthetic charm of these particular\npoems;--and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and\nthe perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of\nlove have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and\ndelicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance\nand freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across\nmoving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and\nodorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of\nthe mere pity of it.\n\nOne might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper\nchords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;\nand the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time\nwhen these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form\nwhich seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most\nremote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,\nand lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music\nand colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one\nmight say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the\nfeeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love\nin the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,\nand in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the\nhurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art\nwhich one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded\none, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one\'s youth, just as\noften, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that\ncurious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering\nsadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one\'s\nmemory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to\nforget--an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making\none think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of\nblue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl\'s grave at\nRome, a marble image of a boy habited like Erôs, and with the pathetic\ntradition of a great king\'s sorrow lingering about it like a purple\nshadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and\ncertain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages\nnever dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of\nGreek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one\'s\ndesire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is\nso modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted\ntorch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things\na little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the\npine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous\nyouth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom\nof wave and wind waking into fire life\'s burnt-out ashes and into song\nthe silent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long\ncolonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a\nflitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood\nwith the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the\nflowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the\nwhite narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,\nbright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily\nin the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the\nbranches like thin tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect\nfor its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life\nmight be revealed to one\'s youth--the gladness that comes, not from the\nrejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that\nserene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which\ndespair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.\n\nIn some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered\npetals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so\ndoing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one\'s real\nlife is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,\nlike threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to\nsuit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,\ntoo, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest\nschool of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its\nchoice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the\nexceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;\nin what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed\nthe momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which\npoetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy\nwill the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely\nthat plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,\nhowever noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and\nunreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite\nrule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through\nwhich the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting\nmoment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in\nintellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day\nwhich is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will\nhe desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it\nintensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm\nof his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the\nsadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant\narmies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods\nhave assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit\nair,--rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,\ntinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some\nbeautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the\nfruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without\nregret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"\nsays Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "_Les\némotions_," wrote Théophile Gautier once in a review of Arsène\nHoussaye, "_Les émotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais être ému--voilà\nl\'important_".\n\nNow, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and\ngives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality\nof all work which, like Mr. Rodd\'s, aims, as I said, at a purely\nartistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;\nit is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms\nof the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these\npoems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of\nVenetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple\nin natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those\nbeautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra\nmen can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not\nyet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one\nof Corot\'s twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible\ncolour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there\nbe a kind of tone.\n\nBut I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet\'s\nwork I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,\nhe and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and\nsteep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle\nlike white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,\nand the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate\nnow, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the\ndelicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their\ngrotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all\nreminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had\nmade it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the\nriver, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big\nbarges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the\nsea, or lie in the long grass and make plans _pour la gloire, et pour\nennuyer les philistins_, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching\nour reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian\ndays; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one\nthought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by\nGenoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley\nfrom Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in\nit, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;\nbut now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend\nto the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were\nhardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the\npeasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on\nthe hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into\ngold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the\nmaterial, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these\nthe verses of my friend.\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF\n\n\n\n\n FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS\n\n\n The outline of a shadowy city spread\n Between the garden and the distant hill--\n And o\'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,\n Set like the glory on an angel\'s head:\n The light fades quivering into evening blue\n Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;\n The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"\n And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.\n\n One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending\n A ruby path between the earth and sky;\n Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending\n From where the sorrows of our singers lie;\n They have not found those wandering spirits yet,\n But seek for ever in the red sunset.\n\n Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,\n They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;\n Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,\n And sing in all the singing of the seas;\n And by green places in the spring-tide showers,\n And in the re-awakening of flowers.\n\n Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam\n Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;\n They are the earth\'s for evermore; fly home!\n And lay a daisy at the feet of God.\n\n\n\n IN THE COLISEUM\n\n\n Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;\n Beneath, the shadow of arches falls\n From the dim outline of the broken walls;\n And the half-light steals o\'er the age-worn stone\n From a midway arch where the moon looks through,\n A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.\n\n This is the hour of ghosts that rise;\n --Line on line of the noiseless dead--\n The clouds above are their awning spread;\n Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,\n You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,\n And the whole red tragedy over again.\n\n The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,\n The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,\n His fingers toy with his women\'s hair,\n The water is blood-red under his feet,--\n Till the owl\'s long cry dies down with the night,\n And one star waits for the dawning light.\n\n ROME, 1881.\n\n\n\n THE SEA-KING\'S GRAVE\n\n\n High over the wild sea-border, on the\n furthest downs to the west,\n Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,\n with the yew-tree grove on its crest.\n And I heard in the winds his story, as they\n leapt up salt from the wave,\n And tore at the creaking branches that grow\n from the sea-king\'s grave.\n Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild\n sea-wandering lords,\n Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a\n terror of twenty swords.\n From the fiords of the sunless winter, they\n came on an icy blast,\n Till over the whole world\'s sea-board the\n shadow of Odin passed,\n Till they sped to the inland waters and under\n the South-land skies,\n And stared on the puny princes, with their\n blue victorious eyes.\n And they said he was old and royal, and a\n warrior all his days,\n But the king who had slain his brother lived\n yet in the island ways.\n And he came from a hundred battles, and\n died in his last wild quest,\n For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and\n then I will take my rest."\n He had passed on his homeward journey, and\n the king of the isles was dead;\n He had drunken the draught of triumph, and\n his cup was the isle-king\'s head;\n And he spoke of the song and feasting, and\n the gladness of things to be,\n And three days over the waters they rowed on\n a waveless sea.\n Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and\n a gust broke out of the cloud,\n And the spray beat over the rowers, and the\n murmur of winds was loud,\n With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the\n shuddering air grew warm,\n And the day was as dark as at even, and the\n wild god rode on the storm.\n But the old man laughed in the thunder as he\n set his casque on his brow,\n And he waved his sword in the lightnings and\n clung to the painted prow.\n And the shaft of the storm-god\'s quiver,\n flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,\n Rang down on his war-worn harness, and\n gleamed in his fiery eyes.\n And his mail and his crested helmet, and his\n hair, and his beard burned red;\n And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he\n fell, and they found him dead.\n So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid\n him down to his rest,\n In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and\n the long grey beard on his breast:\n His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a\n sail for a shroud beneath,\n And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his\n battle brand in the sheath;\n And they buried his bow beside him, and\n planted the grove of yew,\n For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for\n each of his crew;\n Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where\n the sea-birds circle and swarm,\n And the rocks are at war with the waters,\n with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;\n And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and\n the mists enclose\n The hill with the grass-grown mound where\n the Norseman\'s yew-tree grows.\n\n\n\n A ROMAN MIRROR\n\n\n They found it in her hollow marble bed,\n There where the numberless dead cities sleep,\n They found it lying where the spade struck deep,\n A broken mirror by a maiden dead.\n\n These things--the beads she wore about her throat\n Alternate blue and amber all untied,\n A lamp to light her way, and on one side\n The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.\n\n No trace to-day of what in her was fair!\n Only the record of long years grown green\n Upon the mirror\'s lustreless dead sheen,\n Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.\n\n Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me\n One picture of that immemorial land,\n For oft as I have held thee in my hand\n The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see\n\n A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,\n And o\'er one marble shoulder all the while\n Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,\n And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.\n\n It was well thought to set thee there, so she\n Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair\n And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere\n She stood before the queen Persephone.\n\n And still it may be where the dead folk rest\n She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,\n And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs\n And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.\n\n 1879.\n\n\n\n BY THE SOUTH SEA\n\n\n So here we have sat by the sea so late,\n And you with your dreaming eyes\n Have argued well what I know you hate,\n Till even my own dream dies.\n\n Yet why will you smile at my old white years\n When love was a gift divine,\n When songs were laughter and hope and tears,\n And art was a people\'s shrine?\n\n Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,\n The words of my worn-out song?\n The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,\n My faiths have been dead so long.\n\n And yet,--to have known that one did not know!\n To have dreamed with the poet priest!\n To have hope to feel that it might be so!\n And theirs was a faith at least.\n\n When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain\n Of marvellous things to dream,\n To see God\'s tears in a cloud of rain,\n And his hair on a gold sunbeam;\n\n To know that the sons of the old Sea King\n Roamed under their waves at will,\n To have heard a song that the wood gods sing\n On the other side of the hill!\n\n And so I had held it,--for all things blend\n In the world\'s great harmony,--\n That they served an end to an after-end,\n And were of the things that be.\n\n But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed\n With his lore upon dusty shelves;\n So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need\n For any god but yourselves.\n\n Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,\n Of leaves in the spring uncurled;\n There is no room left for my wonderland\n In the whole of the great wide world.\n\n And what have ye left for a song to say?\n What now is a singer\'s fame?\n He may startle the ear with a word one day,\n And die,--and live in a name.\n\n But the world has heed unto no fair thing,\n Men pass on their soulless ways,\n They give no faith unto those who sing,\n --Give hardly a heartless praise.\n\n But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,\n Let us speak to the people\'s heart!\n Let us make good use of our lips and hands,\n There is hope for the world in art!\n\n Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?\n Will they know what we hardly know?\n The chords of the wonderful harmony\n Of the earth and the skies?--if so--\n\n We have talked too long till it all seems vain,\n The desire and the hopes that fired,\n The triumphs won and the needless pain,\n And the heart that has hoped is tired.\n\n Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,\n And the ripples break on the bay,\n Our old sea boat at the white foam brink\n With the sail slackened down half-way?\n\n Shall we get hence? O fair heart\'s brother!\n You are weary at heart with me,\n We two alone in the world, no other:\n Shall we go to our wide kind sea?\n\n Shall we glide away in this white moon\'s track?\n Does it not seem fair in your eyes!\n --To drift and drift with our white sail black\n In the dreamful light of the skies,\n\n Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore\n Comes up through the morning haze,\n And wandering hearts shall not wander more\n Far off from the mad world\'s ways.\n\n Or still more fair--when the dim scared night\n Grows pale from the east to the west--\n If the waters gather us home, and the light\n Break through on the waves\' unrest,\n\n And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,\n Which the smile of the morning brings,\n Our souls shall fathom the mystery,\n And the riddle of all these things.\n\n 1879.\n\n\n\n IN A CHURCH\n\n This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;\n And I will sit a little at her feet,\n For winds without howl down the narrow street\n And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.\n\n Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,\n While through the crimson-shrouded window falls\n Low light of even, and the golden walls\n Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,\n\n Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,\n And lines grow soft and mystical,--these wraiths\n That watch the service of the changing faiths,\n To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.\n\n But aye for me this old-word colonnade\n Seems open to blue summer skies once more,\n These altars pass, and on the polished floor\n I see the lines of chequered light and shade;\n\n I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean\n To cool the tortured burning of the lash,\n I see the fountains as they leap and flash,\n The rustling sway of cypress set between.\n\n And now yon friar with the bare feet there,\n Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;\n Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,\n The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.\n\n From matins\' bell to the slow day\'s decline\n He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,\n Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds\n And nods assent to each familiar line.\n\n But she the goddess whose white star is set,\n Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,\n Could she look down upon those lips of thine,\n And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?\n\n There came a sound of singing on my ear,\n And slowly glided through the far-off door\n A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore\n A dead man lying on his purple bier.\n\n Some poor man\'s soul, so little candle smoke\n Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,\n And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,\n And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.\n\n So all the shuffling feet passed out again\n To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,\n And while I lingered in the gate behind\n The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.\n\n ROME, 1881.\n\n\n\n AT LANUVIUM\n\n\n "_Festo quid potius die\n Neptuni faciam._"\n\n HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.\n\n\n\n Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,\n And we lay there among the vines, to gaze\n Where Circe\'s isle floats purple, far away\n Above the golden haze:\n\n And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall\n The burden of an old world song we knew,\n That sang, "To-day is Neptune\'s festival,\n And we, what shall we do?"\n\n Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,\n And bring again the earthen jar that lies\n With three years\' dust above the mellow wine;\n And while the swift day dies,\n\n You first shall sing a song of waters blue,\n Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,\n And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through\n The white-shored Cyclades;\n\n And I will take the second turn of song,\n Of floating tresses in the foam and surge\n Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;\n And night shall have her dirge.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n "IF ANY ONE RETURN"\n\n\n I would we had carried him far away\n To the light of this south sun land.\n Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay\n And the sea\'s blue breaks into snow-white spray\n As the wave dies out on the sand.\n\n Not there, not there, where the winds deface!\n Where the storm and the cloud race by!\n But far away in this flowerful place\n Where endless summers retouch, retrace,\n What flowers find heart to die.\n\n And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,\n Come back to the souls that stay,\n I could dream he would sit for a while with me\n Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea\n And look to the red-rocked bay,\n\n By the high cliff\'s edge where the wild weeds twine,\n And he would not speak or move,\n But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,\n My eyes that would answer without one sign,\n And that were enough for love.\n\n And I think I should feel as the sun went round\n That he was not there any more,\n But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound\n On the bed of my love lying underground,\n And evening pale on the shore.\n\n 1879.\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n SONNETS\n\n\n\n "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"\n\n\n It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,\n A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown\n Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone\n Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;\n\n No name was chiselled at his side to say\n What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,\n Only the armour with green moss o\'ergrown,\n And those grim words no years had worn away.\n\n It may be haply in the songs of old\n His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,\n His name the thunder of a battle call,\n Among the things forgotten and untold;\n His only record is the dead man\'s threat,--\n "An hour will come that shall atone for all!"\n\n 1879.\n\n\n\n\n ACTEA\n\n\n When the last bitterness was past, she bore\n Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,\n Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.\n She lifted up the beggar\'s cloak he wore\n --The one thing living he would not kill--\n And on those lips of his that sang no more,\n That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,\n Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.\n\n Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free\n To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!\n Because one living thing, albeit a slave,\n Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,\n Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,\n Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS\n\n\n Is this the man by whose decree abide\n The lives of countless nations, with the trace\n Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?\n --He wept, because a little child had died.\n\n They set a marble image by his side,\n A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;\n It wore the dead boy\'s features, and the grace\n Of pretty ways that were the old man\'s pride.\n\n And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired\n Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy\n Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,\n The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,\n To kiss the white lips of his marble boy\n And call by name his little heart\'s-desired.\n\n 1879.\n\n\n\n "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"\n\n\n This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath,\n The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;\n And then for us, the great unanswered fear,\n Will love live on,--the other side of death?\n\n Only a year, and I had hoped to spend\n A life of pleasant communing, to be\n A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,\n We never thought that love had such an end.\n\n This was the end love made, for our delight,\n For one sweet year he cannot take away;--\n Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,\n Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,\n And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,\n Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.\n\n 1879.\n\n\n\n ON THE BORDER HILLS\n\n\n So the dark shadows deepen in the trees\n That crown the border mountains, all the air\n Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,\n Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.\n What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?\n What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?\n What lances flashing, what far trumpet\'s blare\n That dies along the desultory breeze?\n\n Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings\n Up to the hill\'s crest, where the yew trees grow;\n About their shadow-haunted circle clings\n The rumour of an unrecorded woe,\n Old as the battle of those border kings\n Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n SONGS\n\n\n\n LONG AFTER\n\n\n I see your white arras gliding,\n In music o\'er the keys,\n Long drooping lashes hiding\n A blue like summer seas:\n The sweet lips wide asunder,\n That tremble as you sing,\n I could not choose but wonder,\n You seemed so fair a thing.\n\n For all these long years after\n The dream has never died,\n I still can hear your laughter,\n Still see you at my side;\n One lily hiding under\n The waves of golden hair;\n I could not choose but wonder,\n You were so strangely fair.\n\n I keep the flower you braided\n Among those waves of gold,\n The leaves are sere and faded,\n And like our love grown old.\n Our lives have lain asunder,\n The years are long, and yet,\n I could not choose but wonder.\n I cannot quite forget.\n\n 1880.\n\n\n\n "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"\n\n\n A sweet still night of the vintage time,\n Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;\n The distant sound of a midnight chime\n Comes over the wave to me.\n Only the hills and the stars o\'erhead\n Bring back dreams of the days long dead,\n While the Rhone goes down to the sea.\n\n The years are long, and the world is wide,\n And we all went down to the sea;\n The ripples splash as we onward glide,\n And I dream they are here with me--\n All lost friends whom we all loved so,\n In the old mad life of long ago,\n Who all went down to the sea.\n\n So we passed in the golden days\n With the summer down to the sea.\n They wander still over weary ways,\n And come not again to me.\n I am here alone with the night wind\'s sigh,\n The fading stars, and a dream gone by,\n And the Rhone going down to the sea.\n\n 1880.\n\n\n\n A SONG OF AUTUMN\n\n\n All through the golden weather\n Until the autumn fell,\n Our lives went by together\n So wildly and so well.--\n\n But autumn\'s wind uncloses\n The heart of all your flowers,\n I think as with the roses,\n So hath it been with ours.\n\n Like some divided river\n Your ways and mine will be,\n --To drift apart for ever,\n For ever till the sea.\n\n And yet for one word spoken,\n One whisper of regret,\n The dream had not been broken\n And love were with us yet.\n\n 1880.\n\n\n\n "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ\n\n\n The autumn wind goes sighing\n Through the quivering aspen tree,\n The swallows will be flying\n Toward their summer sea;\n The grapes begin to sweeten\n On the trellised vine above,\n And on my brows have beaten\n The little wings of love.\n Oh wind if you should meet her\n You will whisper all I sing!\n Oh swallow fly to greet her,\n And bring me word in spring!\n\n 1881.\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n ATALANTA\n\n\n Wait not along the shore, they will not come;\n The suns go down beyond the windy seas,\n Those weary sails shall never wing them home\n O\'er this white foam;\n No voice from these\n On any landward wind that dies among the trees.\n\n Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,\n Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,\n Out of all tracks along the sea\'s highway\n This many a day,\n To some far shore\n Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.\n\n For there are lands ye never recked of yet\n Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,\n Beyond where any suns of yours have set,\n Or these waves fret;\n And loud winds die\n In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.\n\n They will not come! for on the coral shore\n The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,\n All stormy ways and wanderings are o\'er,\n No more, no more!\n But long sweet rest,\n In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.\n\n Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves\n She lies heeled over by the slow tide\'s sweep,\n Deep down where never any swift sea raves,\n Through ocean caves,\n A dreaming deep\n Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.\n\n Then have they passed beyond the outer gate\n Through death to knowledge of all things, and so\n From out the silence of their unknown fate\n They bid us wait,\n Who only know\n That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.\n\n\n\n THE DAISY\n\n\n With little white leaves in the grasses,\n Spread wide for the smile of the sun,\n It waits till the daylight passes,\n And closes them one by one.\n\n I have asked why it closed at even,\n And I know what it wished to say:\n There are stars all night in the heaven,\n And I am the star of day.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n "WHEN I AM DEAD"\n\n\n When I am dead, my spirit\n Shall wander far and free,\n Through realms the dead inherit\n Of earth and sky and sea;\n Through morning dawn and gloaming,\n By midnight moons at will,\n By shores where the waves are foaming,\n By seas where the waves are still.\n I, following late behind you,\n In wingless sleepless flight,\n Will wander till I find you,\n In sunshine or twilight;\n With silent kiss for greeting\n On lips and eyes and head,\n In that strange after-meeting\n Shall love be perfected.\n We shall lie in summer breezes\n And pass where whirlwinds go,\n And the Northern blast that freezes\n Shall bear us with the snow.\n We shall stand above the thunder,\n And watch the lightnings hurled\n At the misty mountains under,\n Of the dim forsaken world.\n We shall find our footsteps\' traces,\n And passing hand in hand\n By old familiar places,\n We shall laugh, and understand.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n AFTER HEINE\n\n\n The leaves are falling, falling,\n The yellow treetops wave,\n Ah, all delight and beauty\n Is drawing to the grave.\n\n About the wood\'s crest flicker\n The wan sun\'s laggard rays,\n They are the parting kisses\n Of fleeting summer days.\n\n Meseems I should be shedding\n The heart\'s-tears from my eyes,\n The day will keep recalling\n The time of our good-byes:\n\n I knew that you were dying\n And I must pass away,\n Oh I was the waning summer,\n And you were the wood\'s decay.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"\n\n\n Those days are long departed,\n Gone where the dead dreams are,\n Since we two children started\n To look for the morning star.\n\n We asked our way of the swallow\n In his language that we knew,\n We were sad we could not follow\n So swift the blue bird flew.\n\n We set our wherry drifting\n Between the poplar trees,\n And the banks of meadows shifting\n Were the shores of unknown seas.\n\n We talked of the white snow prairies\n That lie by the Northern lights,\n And of woodlands where the fairies\n Are seen in the moonlit nights.\n\n Till one long day was over\n And we grew too tired to roam,\n And through the corn and clover\n We slowly wandered home.\n\n Ah child! with love and laughter\n We had journeyed out so far;\n We who went in the big years after\n To look for another star;\n\n But I go unbefriended\n Through wind and rain and foam,--\n One day was hardly ended\n When the angel took you home.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n A STAR-DREAM\n\n\n There was a night when you and I\n Looked up from where we lay,\n When we were children, and the sky\n Was not so far away.\n\n We looked toward the deep dark blue\n Beyond our window bars,\n And into all our dreaming drew\n The spirit of the stars.\n\n We did not see the world asleep--\n We were already there!\n We did not find the way so steep\n To climb that starry stair.\n\n And faint at first and fitfully,\n Then sweet and shrill and near,\n We heard the eternal harmony\n That only angels hear;\n\n And many a hue of many a gem\n We found for you to wear,\n And many a shining diadem\n To bind about your hair;\n\n We saw beneath us faint and far\n The little cloudlets strewn,\n And I became a wandering star,\n And you became my moon.\n\n Ah! have you found our starry skies?\n Where are you all the years?\n Oh, moon of many memories!\n Oh, star of many tears!\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n AFTER HEINE\n\n\n Beautiful fisherman\'s daughter,\n Steer in your bark to the land!\n Come down to me over the water\n And talk to me hand in hand!\n Lay here on my heart those tresses,\n For look, what have you to fear\n Who are bold with the sea\'s caresses\n Every day in the year?\n My heart is at one with the deep\n In its storm, in its ebb and flow,\n And ah! There are pearls asleep\n In cavernous depths below.\n\n 1880.\n\n\n\n AFTER HEINE\n\n\n How the mirrored moonbeams quiver\n On the waters\' fall and rise,\n Yet the moon serene as ever\n Wanders through the quiet skies.\n\n Like the mirrored moonlight\'s fretting\n Are the dreams I have of you,\n For my heart will beat, forgetting\n You are ever calm and true.\n\n\n\n ENDYMION\n\n\n She came upon me in the middle day,\n Bowed o\'er the waters of a mountain mere;\n Where dimly mirrored in the ripple\'s play\n I saw some fair thing near.\n\n I saw the waters lapping round her feet,\n The widening rings spread, follow out and die,\n I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,\n And heard a voice hard by.\n\n So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,\n Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,\n Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,\n And knew a goddess spake;\n\n A form white limbed and peerless, far above\n The very fairest of imagined things,\n The perfect vision of a dream of love\n Stepped through the water-rings;\n\n That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,\n White arms and clinging in a long caress,\n And won me willing, by the magic charms\n Of perfect loveliness:\n\n Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;\n The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,\n For all the longing of two glorious eyes\n Takes hold upon my soul.\n\n Then only when the sudden darkness fell\n Upon the silver of the mountain mere,\n And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,\n The moon rose cold and clear,\n\n I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,--\n For she had left me as she came unwarned;--\n And fell from sighing into sleep, before\n The summer morning dawned.\n\n What wonder now I find no maiden fair\n Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?\n And go unloving and unloved, or ere\n I turn to such as these.\n\n What wonder if the light of those wide eyes\n Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter\n Lost love has nothing left but sighs\n For all the time hereafter.\n\n Yet better so, far better, no regret\n Can touch my heart for that sweet memory\'s sake,\n But only sighing for the sun that set\n Behind the summer lake.\n\n * * * * *\n\n But yestermorn it was, the second night\n Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;\n The world grows silent in the fading light,\n There is no joy but sleep.\n\n --I cannot bear her fair face in the skies\n Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,--\n A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,\n A restful summer breeze.\n\n What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?\n --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,\n Until my closing eyes forget to weep--\n Oh, let me wake no more!\n\n\n\n DISILLUSION\n\n\n Ah! what would youth be doing\n To hoist his crimson sails,\n To leave the wood-doves cooing,\n The song of nightingales;\n To leave this woodland quiet\n For murmuring winds at strife,\n For waves that foam and riot\n About the seas of life?\n\n From still bays silver sanded\n Wild currents hasten down,\n To rocks where ships are stranded\n And eddies where men drown.\n Far out, by hills surrounded,\n Is the golden haven gate,\n And all beyond unbounded\n Are shoreless seas of fate.\n\n They steer for those far highlands\n Across the summer tide,\n And dream of fairy islands\n Upon the further side.\n They only see the sunlight,\n The flashing of gold bars,\n But the other side is moonlight\n And glimmer of pale stars.\n\n They will not heed the warning\n Blown back on every wind,\n For hope is born with morning,\n The secret is behind.\n Whirled through in wild confusion\n They pass the narrow strait,\n To the sea of disillusion\n That lies beyond the gate.\n\n\n\n REQUIESCAT\n\n\n He had the poet\'s eyes,\n --Sing to him sleeping,--\n Sweet grace of low replies,\n --Why are we weeping?\n\n He had the gentle ways,\n --Fair dreams befall him!--\n Beauty through all his days,\n --Then why recall him?--\n\n That which in him was fair\n Still shall be ours:\n Yet, yet my heart lies there\n Under the flowers.\n\n 1881.\n\n\n\n IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL\n\n\n Through yonder windows stained and old\n Four level rays of red and gold\n Strike down the twilight dim,\n Four lifted heads are aureoled\n Of the sculptured cherubim,\n And soft like sounds on faint winds blown\n Of voices dying far away,\n The organ\'s dreamy undertone,\n The murmur while they pray;\n And I sit here alone alone\n And have no word to say;\n Cling closer shadows, darker yet,\n And heart be happy to forget.\n\n And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel\n A young priest lifts a star of gold,--\n And then the sudden organ peal!\n Ave and Ave! and the music rolled\n Along the carven wonder of the choir\n Thrilled canopy and spire,\n Up till the echoes mingled with the song;\n And now a boy\'s flute note that rings\n Shrill sweet and long,\n Ave and Ave, louder and more loud\n Rises the strain he sings,\n Upon the angel\'s wings!\n Right up to God!\n\n And you that sit there in the lowliest place,\n With lips that hardly dare to move,\n You with the old sad furrowed face\n Dream on your dream of love!\n For you, glide down the music\'s swell\n The folding arms of peace,\n For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell\n Desires that never cease.\n For you the calm, the angel\'s breast\n Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;\n For me the beat of broken wings\n The old unanswered questionings.\n\n\n\n HIC JACET\n\n\n Did you play here child\n The whole spring through\n And smiled and smiled\n And never knew?--\n Where the shade is cool\n And the grass grows deep,\n One that was beautiful\n Lies in his sleep.\n\n Ah no child, never\n Will he arise,\n The sleep was for ever\n That closed his eyes.\n And his bed is strewn\n Deep underground,\n He was tired so soon,\n And now sleeps sound.\n\n When the first birds sing\n We can hear them, dear,\n And in early spring\n There are snowdrops here.\n For the flowers love him\n That lies below,\n And ever above him\n The daisies grow.\n\n "Shall we look down deep\n Where he hides away?\n Shall we find him asleep?"\n Yes child, some day.\n But his palace gate\n Is so hard to see,\n We two must wait\n For the angel\'s key.\n\n\n\n AT TIBER MOUTH\n\n\n The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,\n Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;\n And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,\n As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.\n We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,\n When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;\n No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,\n But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.\n There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that\n sleep,\n Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;\n And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,\n By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.\n Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,\n Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,\n For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,\n And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.\n But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,\n So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;\n And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,\n They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.\n But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,\n And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.\n How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength\n and far\n From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,\n They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free\n Look over our life\'s horizon as the sun looks over the sea,\n But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,\n And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o\'er us dies;\n We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save\n Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;\n And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,\n Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?\n They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name\n that thrills,\n And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.\n So a shadow fell o\'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,\n For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.\n\n And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,\n Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.\n And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood\n Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;\n From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run\n By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in\n the sun.\n And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,\n And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;\n Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,\n The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.\n And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,\n While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;\n From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue\n Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.\n And the joy of the woods came o\'er us, and we felt that our world was\n young\n With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.\n So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,\n Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;\n For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god\'s shrine,\n And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.\n But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,\n And shone on our boat\'s red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,\n And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a\n twilight sea,\n From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.\n\n ROME, 1881.\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n\n"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde\'s] own ground, in his\npreface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one\ndoubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints\nbrodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The\napostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a \'passionate ambition\nto go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations\nand some mission for the world.\' But not until many centuries had passed\nwere their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his\nprinter, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue,\nvellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in\naromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so\neffeminate as one would suppose."\n\nE.C. STEDMAN\n\n_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.\n\n\n\nI\n\n1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION\nBY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &\nCO. / 1882.\n\n12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and\nprinted in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the\nleaf.\n\n2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN\nINTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &\nCO./ 1882.\n\n12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,\nwithout interleaving of tissue.\n\nThis edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both\nsides of the leaf.\n\n3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L\'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /\nPRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.\n\n12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered\ncopies issued.\n\n4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L\'ENVOI BY WILDE.\n\nSq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.\n\n5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L\'ENVOI\nBY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.\n\nSmall quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with\nportrait of Wilde as frontispiece.\n\n\nII\n\nIn taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the\nfirm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain\nhow _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar\n_format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest\nspecimens of applied æsthetics in book-making that America has to offer\nthe collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as\nfollows:\n\n"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my\nmemory of a quarter of a century permits.\n\nThe paper used in the _édition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found\nin the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if\nI remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on\nthe Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill\nin America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time\nof the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a\nhistorical interest as well as a unique character.\n\nI think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but\nBrentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured\nWilde\'s autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of\nprint and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard\nof copies changing hands at $5.00.\n\nThe cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I\nwas interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.\nLippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.\n\nI think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of\nthe make-up of the book belongs to our office altho\' Wilde may have been\nconsulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."\n\nAll the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and\nApple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly\ntrue, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.\nRennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here\nin apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar\nWilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with\nthe æsthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with\nthe amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a\nnew volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two\nweeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We\nunderstand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the\npress. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "Æsthetic"\nschool, with which he has been identified."\n\nIt may here be said that Mr. Rodd\'s first impressions were somewhat\ndifferent from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,\n1882, he wrote the American publisher:\n\n"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I\nhave seen no _édition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have\nto thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book\nhas been published."\n\nWhat undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_,\n"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the\n_Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English\nedition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the\npoems had already been published in London, and as he held the\ncopyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.\nFurthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased\nat the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no\nsympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing\nin it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should\nnot have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have\nwritten to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I\nmust ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it\nremoved from all copies that go out for the future."\n\nUnfortunately Mr. Rodd\'s request could not well be complied with: the\nbook had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever\ncalled for by a more or less undiscerning public.\n\nA few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as\npublished by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the\nSouth_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that\nthe dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied\nfrom an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over\nwith him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/\nThese few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too\neffusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and\nthe loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_\nwritten by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of\nyears one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly\noffices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is\nquite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde\nmay have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after\nan acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.\nTwo poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his\ncritical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from\nmanuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.\n\nThe introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest\nregret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me\nexcessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly\nmeant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with\nno introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to\ntake its place.\n\nAdmitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his\nfriend\'s intent, it is a relief to find Rodd\'s admission that "where a\nthing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see\nhow foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any\nkind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But\nstill harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde\'s _L\'Envoi_: "It\ndid not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely\nidentified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy\nwhatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters\ncome to an end.\n\nWell, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most\nis just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main\nwell and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will\nsurvive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for\nthe exquisite little _causerie_ it remains to us safe and secure,\nveritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the\nlocust hath eaten.\n\nT.B.M.\n\n\nHERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN\nINTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY\nHIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD\nMDCCCCVI\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg\'s Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***\n\n***** This file should be named 35903-0.txt or 35903-0.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/0/35903/\n\nProduced by Andrea Ball & Marc D\'Hooghe at\nhttp://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made\navailable by the Internet Archive.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: Vera\n or, The Nihilists\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: August 30, 2008 [EBook #26494]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Meredith Bach, Stephen Blundell and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nVERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS.\n\n\n\n\n _Of this work, 200 copies only have been printed, for\n private circulation. This is No...._\n\n\n\n\n VERA;\n OR, THE NIHILISTS.\n\n A DRAMA\n IN A PROLOGUE, AND FOUR ACTS.\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE.\n\n NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.\n\n\n [Device]\n\n\n _PRIVATELY PRINTED_,\n 1902.\n\n\n\n\nThis Play was written in 1881, and is now published from the author\'s\nown copy, showing his corrections of and additions to the original\ntext.\n\n\n\n\nPERSONS IN THE PROLOGUE.\n\n\n PETER SABOUROFF (an Innkeeper).\n VERA SABOUROFF (his Daughter).\n MICHAEL (a Peasant).\n COLONEL KOTEMKIN.\n\n\n Scene, Russia. Time, 1795.\n\n\n\n\nPERSONS IN THE PLAY.\n\n\n IVAN THE CZAR.\n PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI (Prime Minister of Russia).\n PRINCE PETROVITCH.\n COUNT ROUVALOFF.\n MARQUIS DE POIVRARD.\n BARON RAFF.\n GENERAL KOTEMKIN.\n A PAGE.\n\n\n _Nihilists._\n\n PETER TCHERNAVITCH, President of the Nihilists.\n MICHAEL.\n ALEXIS IVANACIEVITCH, known as a Student of Medicine.\n PROFESSOR MARFA.\n VERA SABOUROFF.\n\n\n _Soldiers, Conspirators, &c._\n\n\n Scene, Moscow. Time, 1800.\n\n\n\n\nPROLOGUE.\n\nSCENE.--_A Russian Inn._\n\n_Large door opening on snowy landscape at back of stage._\n\n_PETER SABOUROFF and MICHAEL._\n\n\nPETER (_warming his hands at a stove_). Has Vera not come back yet,\nMichael?\n\nMICH. No, Father Peter, not yet; \'tis a good three miles to the post\noffice, and she has to milk the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare\nplaguey creature for a wench to handle.\n\nPETER. Why didn\'t you go with her, you young fool? she\'ll never love you\nunless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered.\n\nMICH. She says I bother her too much already, Father Peter, and I fear\nshe\'ll never love me after all.\n\nPETER. Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn\'t she? you\'re young and wouldn\'t be\nill-favoured either, had God or thy mother given thee another face.\nAren\'t you one of Prince Maraloffski\'s gamekeepers; and haven\'t you got\na good grass farm, and the best cow in the village? What more does a\ngirl want?\n\nMICH. But Vera, Father Peter--\n\nPETER. Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas; I don\'t think much of ideas\nmyself; I\'ve got on well enough in life without \'em; why shouldn\'t my\nchildren? There\'s Dmitri! could have stayed here and kept the inn; many\na young lad would have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but he,\nscatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must needs go off to Moscow to\nstudy the law! What does he want knowing about the law! let a man do his\nduty, say I, and no one will trouble him.\n\nMICH. Ay! but Father Peter, they say a good lawyer can break the law as\noften as he likes, and no one can say him nay.\n\nPETER. That is about all they are good for; and there he stays, and has\nnot written a line to us for four months now--a good son that, eh?\n\nMICH. Come, come, Father Peter, Dmitri\'s letters must have gone\nastray--perhaps the new postman can\'t read; he looks stupid enough, and\nDmitri, why, he was the best fellow in the village. Do you remember how\nhe shot the bear at the barn in the great winter?\n\nPETER. Ay, it was a good shot; I never did a better myself.\n\nMICH. And as for dancing, he tired out three fiddlers Christmas come two\nyears.\n\nPETER. Ay, ay, he was a merry lad. It is the girl that has the\nseriousness--she goes about as solemn as a priest for days at a time.\n\nMICH. Vera is always thinking of others.\n\nPETER. There is her mistake, boy. Let God and our Little Father look to\nthe world. It is none of my work to mend my neighbour\'s thatch. Why,\nlast winter old Michael was frozen to death in his sleigh in the\nsnowstorm, and his wife and children starved afterwards when the hard\ntimes came; but what business was it of mine? I didn\'t make the world.\nLet God and the Czar look to it. And then the blight came, and the black\nplague with it, and the priests couldn\'t bury the people fast enough,\nand they lay dead on the roads--men and women both. But what business\nwas it of mine? I didn\'t make the world. Let God and the Czar look to\nit. Or two autumns ago, when the river overflowed on a sudden, and the\nchildren\'s school was carried away and drowned every girl and boy in it.\nI didn\'t make the world--let God and the Czar look to it.\n\nMICH. But, Father Peter--\n\nPETER. No, no, boy; no man could live if he took his neighbour\'s pack\non his shoulders. (_Enter VERA in peasant\'s dress._) Well, my girl,\nyou\'ve been long enough away--where is the letter?\n\nVERA. There is none to-day, Father.\n\nPETER. I knew it.\n\nVERA. But there will be one to-morrow, Father.\n\nPETER. Curse him, for an ungrateful son.\n\nVERA. Oh, Father, don\'t say that; he must be sick.\n\nPETER. Ay! sick of profligacy, perhaps.\n\nVERA. How dare you say that of him, Father? You know that is not true.\n\nPETER. Where does the money go, then? Michael, listen. I gave Dmitri\nhalf his mother\'s fortune to bring with him to pay the lawyer folk of\nMoscow. He has only written three times, and every time for more money.\nHe got it, not at my wish, but at hers (_pointing to VERA_), and now for\nfive months, close on six almost, we have heard nothing from him.\n\nVERA. Father, he will come back.\n\nPETER. Ay! the prodigals always return; but let him never darken my\ndoors again.\n\nVERA (_sitting down pensive_). Some evil has come on him; he must be\ndead! Oh! Michael, I am so wretched about Dmitri.\n\nMICH. Will you never love any one but him, Vera?\n\nVERA (_smiling_). I don\'t know; there is so much else to do in the world\nbut love.\n\nMICH. Nothing else worth doing, Vera.\n\nPETER. What noise is that, Vera? (_A metallic clink is heard._)\n\nVERA (_rising and going to the door_). I don\'t know, Father; it is not\nlike the cattle bells, or I would think Nicholas had come from the fair.\nOh! Father! it is soldiers!--coming down the hill--there is one of them\non horseback. How pretty they look! But there are some men with them\nwith chains on! They must be robbers. Oh! don\'t let them in, Father; I\ncouldn\'t look at them.\n\nPETER. Men in chains! Why, we are in luck, my child! I heard this was to\nbe the new road to Siberia, to bring the prisoners to the mines; but I\ndidn\'t believe it. My fortune is made! Bustle, Vera, bustle! I\'ll die a\nrich man after all. There will be no lack of good customers now. An\nhonest man should have the chance of making his living out of rascals\nnow and then.\n\nVERA. Are these men rascals, Father? What have they done?\n\nPETER. I reckon they\'re some of those Nihilists the priest warns us\nagainst. Don\'t stand there idle, my girl.\n\nVERA. I suppose, then, they are all wicked men.\n\n(_Sound of soldiers outside; cry of "Halt!" enter Russian officer with a\nbody of soldiers and eight men in chains, raggedly dressed; one of them\non entering hurriedly puts his coat above his ears and hides his face;\nsome soldiers guard the door, others sit down; the prisoners stand._)\n\nCOLONEL. Innkeeper!\n\nPETER. Yes, Colonel.\n\nCOLONEL (_pointing to Nihilists_). Give these men some bread and water.\n\nPETER (_to himself_). I shan\'t make much out of that order.\n\nCOLONEL. As for myself, what have you got fit to eat?\n\nPETER. Some good dried venison, your Excellency--and some rye whisky.\n\nCOLONEL. Nothing else?\n\nPETER. Why, more whisky, your Excellency.\n\nCOLONEL. What clods these peasants are! You have a better room than\nthis?\n\nPETER. Yes, sir.\n\nCOLONEL. Bring me there. Sergeant, post your picket outside, and see\nthat these scoundrels do not communicate with any one. No letter\nwriting, you dogs, or you\'ll be flogged for it. Now for the venison.\n(_To PETER bowing before him._) Get out of the way, you fool! Who is\nthat girl? (_sees VERA_).\n\nPETER. My daughter, your Highness.\n\nCOLONEL. Can she read and write?\n\nPETER. Ay, that she can, sir.\n\nCOLONEL. Then she is a dangerous woman. No peasant should be allowed to\ndo anything of the kind. Till your fields, store your harvests, pay your\ntaxes, and obey your masters--that is your duty.\n\nVERA. Who are our masters?\n\nCOLONEL. Young woman, these men are going to the mines for life for\nasking the same foolish question.\n\nVERA. Then they have been unjustly condemned.\n\nPETER. Vera, keep your tongue quiet. She is a foolish girl, sir, who\ntalks too much.\n\nCOLONEL. Every woman does talk too much. Come, where is this venison?\nCount, I am waiting for you. How can you see anything in a girl with\ncoarse hands? (_He passes with PETER and his aide-de-camp into an inner\nroom._)\n\nVERA (_to one of the Nihilists_). Won\'t you sit down? you must be tired.\n\nSERGEANT. Come now, young woman, no talking to my prisoners.\n\nVERA. I shall speak to them. How much do you want?\n\nSERGEANT. How much have you?\n\nVERA. Will you let these men sit down if I give you this? (_Takes off\nher peasant\'s necklace._) It is all I have; it was my mother\'s.\n\nSERGEANT. Well, it looks pretty enough, and is heavy too. What do you\nwant with these men?\n\nVERA. They are hungry and tired. Let me go to them?\n\nONE OF THE SOLDIERS. Let the wench be, if she pays us.\n\nSERGEANT. Well, have your way. If the Colonel sees you, you may have to\ncome with us, my pretty one.\n\nVERA (_advances to the Nihilists_). Sit down; you must be tired.\n(_Serves them food._) What are you?\n\nA PRISONER. Nihilists.\n\nVERA. Who put you in chains?\n\nPRISONER. Our Father the Czar.\n\nVERA. Why?\n\nPRISONER. For loving liberty too well.\n\nVERA (_to prisoner who hides his face_). What did you want to do?\n\nDMITRI. To give liberty to thirty millions of people enslaved to one\nman.\n\nVERA (_startled at the voice_). What is your name?\n\nDMITRI. I have no name.\n\nVERA. Where are your friends?\n\nDMITRI. I have no friends.\n\nVERA. Let me see your face!\n\nDMITRI. You will see nothing but suffering in it. They have tortured me.\n\nVERA (_tears the cloak from his face_). Oh, God! Dmitri! my brother!\n\nDMITRI. Hush! Vera; be calm. You must not let my father know; it would\nkill him. I thought I could free Russia. I heard men talk of Liberty one\nnight in a café. I had never heard the word before. It seemed to be a\nnew god they spoke of. I joined them. It was there all the money went.\nFive months ago they seized us. They found me printing the paper. I am\ngoing to the mines for life. I could not write. I thought it would be\nbetter to let you think I was dead; for they are bringing me to a living\ntomb.\n\nVERA (_looking round_). You must escape, Dmitri. I will take your place.\n\nDMITRI. Impossible! You can only revenge us.\n\nVERA. I shall revenge you.\n\nDMITRI. Listen! there is a house in Moscow--\n\nSERGEANT. Prisoners, attention!--the Colonel is coming--young woman,\nyour time is up.\n\n(_Enter COLONEL, AIDE-DE-CAMP and PETER._)\n\nPETER. I hope your Highness is pleased with the venison. I shot it\nmyself.\n\nCOLONEL. It had been better had you talked less about it. Sergeant, get\nready. (_Gives purse to PETER._) Here, you cheating rascal!\n\nPETER. My fortune is made! long live your Highness. I hope your Highness\nwill come often this way.\n\nCOLONEL. By Saint Nicholas, I hope not. It is too cold here for me. (_To\nVERA._) Young girl, don\'t ask questions again about what does not\nconcern you. I will not forget your face.\n\nVERA. Nor I yours, or what you are doing.\n\nCOLONEL. You peasants are getting too saucy since you ceased to be\nserfs, and the knout is the best school for you to learn politics in.\nSergeant, proceed.\n\n(_The COLONEL turns and goes to top of stage. The prisoners pass out\ndouble file; as DMITRI passes VERA he lets a piece of paper fall on the\nground; she puts her foot on it and remains immobile._)\n\nPETER (_who has been counting the money the COLONEL gave him_). Long\nlife to your Highness. I will hope to see another batch soon. (_Suddenly\ncatches sight of DMITRI as he is going out of the door, and screams and\nrushes up._) Dmitri! Dmitri! my God! what brings you here? he is\ninnocent, I tell you. I\'ll pay for him. Take your money (_flings money\non the ground_), take all I have, give me my son. Villains! Villains!\nwhere are you bringing him?\n\nCOLONEL. To Siberia, old man.\n\nPETER. No, no; take me instead.\n\nCOLONEL. He is a Nihilist.\n\nPETER. You lie! you lie! He is innocent. (_The soldiers force him back\nwith their guns and shut the door against him. He beats with his fists\nagainst it._) Dmitri! Dmitri! a Nihilist! (_Falls down on floor._)\n\nVERA (_who has remained motionless, picks up paper now from under her\nfeet and reads_). "99 Rue Tchernavaya, Moscow. To strangle whatever\nnature is in me; neither to love nor to be loved; neither to pity nor to\nbe pitied; neither to marry nor to be given in marriage, till the end is\ncome." My brother, I shall keep the oath. (_Kisses the paper._) You\nshall be revenged!\n\n(_VERA stands immobile, holding paper in her lifted hand. PETER is lying\non the floor. MICHAEL, who has just come in, is bending over him._)\n\n\nEND OF PROLOGUE.\n\n\n\n\nACT I.[1]\n\nSCENE.--_99 Rue Tchernavaya, Moscow. A large garret lit by oil lamps\nhung from ceiling. Some masked men standing silent and apart from one\nanother. A man in a scarlet mask is writing at a table. Door at back.\nMan in yellow with drawn sword at it. Knocks heard. Figures in cloaks\nand masks enter._\n\n\n_Password._ Per crucem ad lucem.\n\n_Answer._ Per sanguinem ad libertatem.\n\n(_Clock strikes. CONSPIRATORS form a semicircle in the middle of the\nstage._)\n\n[2]PRESIDENT. What is the word?\n\nFIRST CONSP. Nabat.\n\nPRES. The answer?\n\nSECOND CONSP. Kalit.\n\nPRES. What hour is it?\n\nTHIRD CONSP. The hour to suffer.\n\nPRES. What day?\n\nFOURTH CONSP. The day of oppression.\n\nPRES. What year?\n\nFIFTH CONSP. Since the Revolution of France, the ninth year.[2]\n\nPRES. How many are we in number?\n\nSIXTH CONSP. Ten, nine, and three.\n\nPRES. The Galilæan had less to conquer the world; but what is our\nmission?\n\nSEVENTH CONSP. To give freedom.\n\nPRES. Our creed?\n\nEIGHTH CONSP. To annihilate.\n\nPRES. Our duty?\n\nNINTH CONSP. To obey.\n\nPRES. Brothers, the questions have been answered well. There are none\nbut Nihilists present. Let us see each other\'s faces. (_The CONSPIRATORS\nunmask._) Michael, recite the oath.\n\nMICHAEL. To strangle whatever nature is in us; neither to love nor to be\nloved, neither to pity nor to be pitied, neither to marry nor to be\ngiven in marriage, till the end is come; to stab secretly by night; to\ndrop poison in the glass; to set father against son, and husband against\nwife; without fear, without hope, without future, to suffer, to\nannihilate, to revenge.\n\nPRES. Are we all agreed?\n\nCONSPIRATORS. We are all agreed. (_They disperse in various directions\nabout the stage._)\n\nPRES. \'Tis after the hour, Michael, and she is not yet here.\n\nMICH. Would that she were! We can do little without her.\n\nALEXIS. She cannot have been seized, President? but the police are on\nher track, I know.\n\nMICH. You always seem to know a good deal about the movements of the\npolice in Moscow--too much for an honest conspirator.\n\nPRES. If those dogs have caught her, [3]the red flag of the people will\nfloat on a barricade in[3] every street till we find her! It was foolish\nof her to go to the Grand Duke\'s ball. I told her so, but she said she\nwanted to see the Czar and all his cursed brood face to face once.\n\nALEXIS. Gone to the State ball?\n\nMICH. I have no fear. She is as hard to capture as a she-wolf is, and\ntwice as dangerous; besides, she is well disguised. But is there any\nnews from the Palace to-night, President? What is that bloody[4] despot\ndoing now besides torturing his only son? Have any of you seen him? One\nhears strange stories about him. They say he loves the people; but a\nking\'s son never does that. You cannot breed them like that.\n\nPRES. Since he came back from abroad a year ago his father has kept him\nin close prison in his palace.\n\nMICH. An excellent training to make him a tyrant in his turn; but is\nthere any news, I say?\n\nPRES. A council is to be held to-morrow, at four o\'clock, on some secret\nbusiness the spies cannot find out.\n\nMICH. A council in a king\'s palace is sure to be about some bloody work\nor other. But in what room is this council to be held?\n\nPRES. (_reading from letter_). In the yellow tapestry room called after\nthe Empress Catherine.\n\nMICH. I care not for such long-sounding names. I would know where it is.\n\nPRES. I cannot tell, Michael. I know more about the insides of prisons\nthan of palaces.\n\nMICH. (_speaking suddenly to ALEXIS_). Where is this room, Alexis?\n\nALEXIS. It is on the first floor, looking out on to the inner courtyard.\nBut why do you ask, Michael?\n\nMICH. Nothing, nothing, boy! I merely take a great interest in the\nCzar\'s life and movements, and I knew you could tell me all about the\npalace. Every poor student of medicine in Moscow knows all about king\'s\nhouses. It is their duty, is it not?\n\nALEXIS (_aside_). Can Michael suspect me? There is something strange in\nhis manner to-night. Why doesn\'t she come? The whole fire of revolution\nseems fallen into dull ashes when she is not here.\n\n[5]MICH. Have you cured many patients lately, at your hospital, boy?\n\nALEX. There is one who lies sick to death I would fain cure, but cannot.\n\nMICH. Ay, and who is that?\n\nALEX. Russia, our mother.\n\nMICH. The curing of Russia is surgeon\'s business, and must be done by\nthe knife. I like not your method of medicine.[5]\n\nPRES. Professor, we have read the proofs of your last article; it is\nvery good indeed.\n\nMICH. What is it about, Professor?\n\nPROFESSOR. The subject, my good brother, is assassination considered as\na method of political reform.\n\nMICH. I think little of pen and ink in revolutions. One dagger will do\nmore than a hundred epigrams. Still, let us read this scholar\'s last\nproduction. Give it to me. I will read it myself.\n\nPROF. Brother, you never mind your stops; let Alexis read it.\n\nMICH. Ay! he is as tripping of speech as if he were some young\naristocrat; but for my own part I care not for the stops so that the\nsense be plain.\n\nALEX. (_reading_). "The past has belonged to the tyrant, and he has\ndefiled it; ours is the future, and we shall make it holy." Ay! let us\nmake the future holy; let there be one revolution at least which is not\nbred in crime, nurtured in murder!\n\nMICH. They have spoken to us by the sword, and by the sword we shall\nanswer! You are too delicate for us, Alexis. There should be none here\nbut men whose hands are rough with labour or red with blood.\n\nPRES. Peace, Michael, peace! He is the bravest heart among us.\n\nMICH. (_aside_). He will need to be brave to-night.\n\n(_The sound of sleigh bells is heard outside._)\n\nVOICE (_outside_). Per crucem ad lucem.\n\n_Answer of man on guard._ Per sanguinem ad libertatem.\n\nMICH. Who is that?\n\nVERA. God save the people!\n\nPRES. Welcome, Vera, welcome! [6]We have been sick at heart till we saw\nyou; but now methinks the star of freedom has come to wake us from the\nnight.[6]\n\nVERA. [7]It is night, indeed, brother! Night without moon or star![7]\nRussia is smitten to the heart! The man Ivan whom men call the Czar\nstrikes now at our mother with a dagger deadlier than ever forged by\ntyranny against a people\'s life!\n\nMICH. What has the tyrant[8] done now?\n\nVERA. To-morrow martial law is to be proclaimed in Russia.\n\nOMNES. Martial law! We are lost! We are lost!\n\nALEX. Martial law! Impossible!\n\nMICH. Fool, nothing is impossible in Russia but reform.\n\nVERA. Ay, martial law. The last right to which the people clung has been\ntaken from them. Without trial, without appeal, without accuser even,\nour brothers will be taken from their houses, shot in the streets like\ndogs, sent away to die in the snow, to starve in the dungeon, to rot in\nthe mine. Do you know what martial law means? It means the strangling of\na whole nation. [9]The streets will be filled with soldiers night and\nday; there will be sentinels at every door.[9] No man dare walk abroad\nnow but the spy or the traitor. Cooped up in the dens we hide in,\nmeeting by stealth, speaking with bated breath; what good can we do now\nfor Russia?\n\nPRES. We can suffer at least.\n\nVERA. We have done that too much already. The hour is now come to\nannihilate and to revenge.\n\nPRES. Up to this the people have borne everything.\n\nVERA. Because they have understood nothing. But now we, the Nihilists,\nhave given them the tree of knowledge to eat of and the day of silent\nsuffering is over for Russia.\n\nMICH. Martial law, Vera! This is fearful tidings you bring.\n\nPRES. It is the death warrant of liberty in Russia.\n\nVERA. Or the tocsin of[10] revolution.\n\nMICH. Are you sure it is true?\n\nVERA. Here is the proclamation. I stole it myself at the ball to-night\nfrom a young fool, one of Prince Paul\'s secretaries, who had been given\nit to copy. It was that which made me so late.\n\n(_VERA hands proclamation to MICHAEL, who reads it._)\n\nMICH. "To ensure the public safety--martial law. By order of the Czar,\nfather of his people." The father of his people!\n\nVERA. Ay! a father whose name shall not be hallowed, whose kingdom shall\nchange to a republic, whose trespasses shall not be forgiven him,\nbecause he has robbed us of our daily bread; with whom is neither might,\nnor right, nor glory, now or for ever.\n\nPRES. It must be about this that the council meet to-morrow. It has not\nyet been signed.\n\nALEX. It shall not be while I have a tongue to plead with.\n\nMICH. Or while I have hands to smite with.\n\nVERA. Martial law! O God, how easy it is for a king to kill his people\nby thousands, but we cannot rid ourselves of one crowned man in Europe!\nWhat is there of awful majesty in these men which makes the hand\nunsteady, the dagger treacherous, the pistol-shot harmless? Are they not\nmen of like passions with ourselves, vulnerable to the same diseases, of\nflesh and blood not different from our own? What made Olgiati tremble at\nthe supreme crisis of that Roman life, [11]and Guido\'s nerve fail him\nwhen he should have been of iron and of steel? A plague, I say, on these\nfools of Naples, Berlin, and Spain![11] Methinks that if I stood face to\nface with one of the crowned men my eye would see more clearly, my aim\nbe more sure, my whole body gain a strength and power that was not my\nown! Oh, to think what stands between us and freedom in Europe! a few\nold men, wrinkled, feeble, tottering dotards whom a boy could strangle\nfor a ducat, or a woman stab in a night-time. And these are the things\nthat keep us from democracy, that keep us from liberty. But now\nmethinks the brood of men is dead and the dull earth grown sick of\nchild-bearing, else would no crowned dog pollute God\'s air by living.\n\nOMNES. Try us! Try us! Try us!\n\nMICH. We shall try thee, too, some day, Vera.\n\nVERA. I pray God thou mayest! Have I not strangled whatever nature is in\nme, and shall I not keep my oath?\n\nMICH. (_to PRESIDENT_). Martial law, President! Come, there is no time\nto be lost. We have twelve hours yet before us till the council meet.\n[12]Twelve hours! One can overthrow a dynasty in less time than\nthat.[12]\n\nPRES. [13]Ay! or lose one\'s own head.[13]\n\n(_MICHAEL and the PRESIDENT retire to one corner of the stage and sit\nwhispering. VERA takes up the proclamation, and reads it to herself;\nALEXIS watches and suddenly rushes up to her._)\n\nALEX. Vera!\n\nVERA. Alexis, you here! Foolish boy, have I not prayed you to stay away?\nAll of us here are doomed to die before our time, fated to expiate by\nsuffering whatever good we do; but you, with your [14]bright boyish\nface,[14] you are too young to die yet.\n\nALEX. One is never too young to die for one\'s country!\n\nVERA. Why do you come here night after night?\n\nALEX. Because I love the people.\n\nVERA. But your fellow-students must miss you. Are there no traitors\namong them? You know what spies there are in the University here. O\nAlexis, you must go! You see how desperate suffering has made us. There\nis no room here for a nature like yours. You must not come again.\n\nALEX. Why do you think so poorly of me? Why should I live while my\nbrothers suffer?\n\nVERA. You spake to me of your mother once. You said you loved her. Oh,\nthink of her!\n\nALEX. I have no mother now but Russia, my life is hers to take or give\naway; but to-night I am here to see you. They tell me you are leaving\nfor Novgorod to-morrow.\n\nVERA. I must. They are getting faint-hearted there, and I would fan the\nflame of this revolution into such a blaze that the eyes of all kings in\nEurope shall be blinded. If martial law is passed they will need me all\nthe more there. There is no limit, it seems, to the tyranny of one man;\nbut there shall be a limit to the suffering of a whole people.\n\nALEX. God knows it, I am with you. But you must not go. [15]The police\nare watching every train for you.[15] When you are seized they have\norders to place you without trial in the lowest dungeon of the\npalace.[16] I know it--no matter how. [17]Oh, think how without you the\nsun goes from our life, how the people will lose their leader and\nliberty her priestess.[17] Vera, you must not go!\n\nVERA. If you wish it, I will stay. I would live a little longer for\nfreedom, a little longer for Russia.\n\nALEX. When you die then Russia is smitten indeed; when you die then I\nshall lose all hope--all.... Vera, this is fearful news you\nbring--martial law--it is too terrible. I knew it not, by my soul, I\nknew it not!\n\nVERA. How could you have known it? It is too well laid a plot for that.\nThis great White Czar, whose hands are red with the blood of the people\nhe has murdered, whose soul is black with his iniquity, is the cleverest\nconspirator of us all. Oh, how could Russia bear two hearts like yours\nand his!\n\nALEX. Vera, the Emperor was not always like this. There was a time when\nhe loved the people. It is that devil, whom God curse, Prince Paul\nMaraloffski who has brought him to this. To-morrow, I swear it, I shall\nplead for the people to the Emperor.\n\nVERA. Plead to the Czar! Foolish boy, it is only those who are\nsentenced to death that ever see our Czar. Besides, what should he care\nfor a voice that pleads for mercy? The cry of a strong nation in its\nagony has not moved that heart of stone.\n\nALEX. (_aside_). Yet shall I plead to him. They can but kill me.\n\nPROF. Here are the proclamations, Vera. Do you think they will do?\n\nVERA. I shall read them. [18]How fair he looks?[18] Methinks he never\nseemed so noble as to-night. Liberty is blessed in having such a lover.\n\nALEX. Well, President, what are you deep in?\n\nMICH. We are thinking of the best way of killing bears. (_Whispers to\nPRESIDENT and leads him aside._)\n\nPROF. (_to VERA_). And the letters [19]from our brothers at Paris and\nBerlin. What answer shall we send to them?[19]\n\nVERA (_takes them mechanically_). Had I not strangled nature, sworn\nneither to love nor be loved, methinks[20] I might have loved him. Oh, I\nam a fool, a traitor myself, a traitor myself! But why did he come\namongst us with his bright[21] young face, his heart aflame for liberty,\nhis pure white soul? Why does he make me feel at times as if I would\nhave him as my king, Republican though I be? Oh, fool, fool, fool! False\nto your oath! weak as water! Have done! Remember what you are--a\nNihilist, a Nihilist!\n\nPRES. (_to MICHAEL_). But you will be seized, Michael.\n\nMICH. I think not. I will wear the uniform of the Imperial Guard, and\nthe Colonel on duty is one of us. It is on the first floor, you\nremember; so I can take a long shot.\n\nPRES. Shall I tell the brethren?\n\n[22]MICH. Not a word, not a word! There is a traitor amongst us.\n\nVERA. Come, are these the proclamations? Yes, they will do; yes, they\nwill do. Send five hundred to Kiev and Odessa and Novgorod, five\nhundred to Warsaw, and have twice the number distributed among the\nSouthern Provinces, though these dull Russian peasants care little for\nour proclamations, and less for our martyrdoms. When the blow is struck,\nit must be from the town, not from the country.\n\nMICH. Ay, and by the sword not by the goose-quill.\n\nVERA. Where are the letters from Poland?\n\nPROF. Here.\n\nVERA. Unhappy Poland! The eagles of Russia have fed on her heart. We\nmust not forget our brothers there.[22]\n\nPRES. Is this true, Michael?\n\nMICH. Ay, I stake my life on it.\n\nPRES. [23]Let the doors be locked, then.[23] Alexis Ivanacievitch\nentered on our roll of the brothers as a Student of the School of\nMedicine at Moscow. Why did you not tell us of this bloody scheme[24] of\nmartial law?\n\nALEX. I, President?\n\nMICH. Ay, you! You knew it, none better. Such weapons as these are not\nforged in a day. Why did you not tell us of it? A week ago there had\nbeen time [25]to lay the mine, to raise the barricade, to strike one\nblow at least for liberty.[25] But now the hour is past. It is too late,\n[26]it is too late![26] Why did you keep it a secret from us, I say?\n\nALEX. Now by the hand of freedom, Michael, my brother, you wrong me. I\nknew nothing of this hideous law. By my soul, my brothers, I knew not of\nit! How should I know?\n\nMICH. Because you are a traitor! Where did you go when you left us the\nnight of our last meeting here?\n\n[27]ALEX. To mine own house, Michael.[27]\n\nMICH. Liar! I was on your track. You left here an hour after midnight.\nWrapped in a large cloak, you crossed the river in a boat a mile below\nthe second bridge, and gave the ferryman a gold piece, you, the poor\nstudent of medicine! You doubled back twice, and hid in an archway so\nlong that I had almost made up my mind to stab you at once, only that I\nam fond of hunting. So! you thought that you had baffled all pursuit,\ndid you? Fool! I am a bloodhound that never loses the scent. I followed\nyou from street to street. At last I saw you pass swiftly across the\nPlace St. Isaac, whisper to the guards the secret password, enter the\npalace by a private door with your own key.\n\nCONSPIRATORS. The palace!\n\nVERA. Alexis!\n\nMICH. I waited. All through the dreary watches of our long Russian night\nI waited, that I might kill you with your Judas hire still hot in your\nhand. But you never came out; you never left that palace at all. I saw\nthe blood-red sun rise through the yellow fog over the murky town; I saw\na new day of oppression dawn on Russia; but you never came out. So you\npass nights in the palace, do you? You know the password for the guards!\nyou have a key to a secret door. Oh, you are a spy--you are a spy! I\nnever trusted you, [28]with your soft white hands, your curled hair,\nyour pretty graces.[28] You have no mark of suffering about you; you\ncannot be of the people. You are a spy--[29]a spy--traitor.[29]\n\nOMNES. Kill him! Kill him! (_draw their knives_.)\n\nVERA (_rushing in front of ALEXIS_). Stand back, I say, Michael! Stand\nback all! [30]Do not dare[30] lay a hand upon him! He is the noblest\nheart amongst us.\n\nOMNES. Kill him! Kill him! He is a spy!\n\nVERA. Dare to lay a finger on him, and I leave you all to yourselves.\n\nPRES. Vera, did you not hear what Michael said of him? He stayed all\nnight in the Czar\'s palace. He has a password and a private key. What\nelse should he be but a spy?\n\nVERA. Bah! I do not believe Michael. It is a lie! It is[31] a lie!\nAlexis, say it is a lie!\n\nALEX. It is true. Michael has told what he saw. I did pass that night in\nthe Czar\'s palace. Michael has spoken the truth.\n\nVERA. Stand back, I say; stand back! Alexis, I do not care. I trust you;\nyou would not betray us; you would not sell the people for money. You\nare honest, true! Oh, say you are no spy!\n\nALEX. Spy? You know I am not. I am with you, my brothers, to the death.\n\nMICH. Ay, to your own death.\n\nALEX. Vera, you[32] know I am true.\n\nVERA. I know it well.\n\nPRES. Why are you here, traitor?\n\nALEX. Because I love the people.\n\nMICH. Then you can be a martyr for them?\n\nVERA. You must kill me first, Michael, before you lay a finger on him.\n\nPRES. Michael, we dare not lose Vera. It is her whim to let this boy\nlive. We can keep him here to-night. Up to this he has not betrayed us.\n\n(_Tramp of soldiers outside, knocking at door._)[33]\n\nVOICE. Open in the name of the Emperor!\n\nMICH. He _has_ betrayed us. This is your doing, spy!\n\nPRES. Come, Michael, come. We have no time to cut one another\'s throats\nwhile we have our own heads to save.\n\nVOICE. Open in the name of the Emperor!\n\nPRES. Brothers, be masked all of you. [34]Michael, open the door. It is\nour only chance.[34]\n\n(_Enter GENERAL KOTEMKIN and soldiers._)\n\nGEN. All honest citizens should be in their own houses at an hour before\nmidnight, and not more than five people have a right to meet privately.\nHave you not noticed the proclamation, fellows?\n\nMICH. Ay, you have spoiled every honest[35] wall in Moscow with it.\n\nVERA. Peace, Michael, peace. Nay, Sir, we knew it not. We are a company\nof strolling players travelling from Samara to Moscow to amuse His\nImperial Majesty the Czar.\n\nGEN. But I heard loud voices before I entered. What was that?\n\nVERA. We were rehearsing a new tragedy.\n\nGEN. Your answers are too _honest_ to be true. Come, let me see who you\nare. Take off those players\' masks. By St. Nicholas, my beauty, if your\nface matches your figure, you must be a choice morsel! Come, I say,\npretty one; I would sooner see your face than those of all the others.\n\nPRES. O God! if he sees it is Vera, we are all lost!\n\nGEN. No coquetting, my girl. Come, unmask, I say, or I shall tell my\nguards to do it for you.\n\nALEX. Stand back, I say, General Kotemkin!\n\nGEN. Who are you, fellow, that talk with such a tripping tongue to your\nbetters? (_ALEXIS takes his mask off_.) His Imperial Highness the\nCzarevitch!\n\nOMNES. The Czarevitch! [36]It is all over![36]\n\n[37]PRES. He will give us up to the soldiers.[37]\n\nMICH. (_to VERA_). Why did you not let me kill him? Come, we must fight\nto the death for it.\n\nVERA. Peace! he will not betray us.\n\nALEX. A whim of mine, General! You know how my father keeps me from the\nworld and imprisons me in the palace. I should really be bored to death\nif I could not get out at night in disguise sometimes, and have some\nromantic adventure in town. I fell in with these honest folks a few\nhours ago.\n\nGEN. But, your Highness--\n\nALEX. Oh, they are excellent actors, I assure you. If you had come in\nten minutes ago, you would have witnessed a most interesting scene.\n\nGEN. Actors, are they, Prince?\n\nALEX. Ay, and very ambitious actors, too. They only care to play before\nkings.\n\nGEN. I\' faith, your Highness, I was in hopes I had made a good haul of\nNihilists.[38]\n\nALEX. Nihilists in Moscow, General! with you as head of the police?\nImpossible!\n\nGEN. So I always tell your Imperial father. But I heard at the council\nto-day that that woman Vera Sabouroff, the head of them, had been seen\nin this very city. The Emperor\'s face turned as white as the snow\noutside. I think I never saw such terror in any man before.\n\nALEX. She is a dangerous woman, then, this Vera Sabouroff?\n\nGEN. The most dangerous in all Europe.\n\nALEX. Did you ever see her, General?\n\nGEN. Why, five years ago, when I was a plain Colonel, I remember her,\nyour Highness, a common waiting girl in an inn. If I had known then what\nshe was going to turn out, I would have flogged her to death on the\nroadside. She is not a woman at all; she is a sort of devil! For the\nlast eighteen months I have been hunting her, and caught sight of her\nonce last September outside Odessa.\n\nALEX. How did you let her go, General?\n\nGEN. I was by myself, and she shot one of my horses just as I was\ngaining on her. If I see her again I shan\'t miss my chance. The Emperor\nhas put twenty thousand roubles on her head.\n\nALEX. I hope you will get it, General; but meanwhile you are frightening\nthese honest people out of their wits, and disturbing the tragedy. Good\nnight, General.\n\nGEN. Yes; but I should like to see their faces, your Highness.\n\nALEX. No, General; you must not ask that; you know how these gipsies\nhate to be stared at.\n\nGEN. Yes. But, your Highness--\n\nALEX. (_haughtily_). General, they are my friends, that is enough. And,\nGeneral, not a word of this little adventure here, you understand. I\nshall rely on you.\n\nGEN. I shall not forget, Prince. But shall we not see you back to the\npalace? The State ball is almost over and you are expected.\n\nALEX. I shall be there; but I shall return alone. Remember, not a word\nabout my strolling players.\n\nGEN. Or your pretty gipsy, eh, Prince? your pretty gipsy! I\' faith, I\nshould like to see her before I go; she has such fine eyes through her\nmask. Well, good night, your Highness; good night.\n\nALEX. Good night, General.\n\n(_Exit GENERAL and the soldiers._)\n\nVERA (_throwing off her mask_). Saved! and by you!\n\nALEX. (_clasping her hand_). Brothers, you trust me now?\n\n\nTABLEAU.\n\n\nEND OF ACT I.\n\n\n\n\nACT II.\n\nSCENE.--_Council Chamber in the Emperor\'s Palace, hung with yellow\ntapestry. Table, with chair of State, set for the Czar; window behind,\nopening on to a balcony. As the scene progresses the light outside gets\ndarker._\n\n_Present._--PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI, PRINCE PETROVITCH, COUNT ROUVALOFF,\nBARON RAFF, COUNT PETOUCHOF.\n\n\nPRINCE PETRO. So our young scatter-brained Czarevitch has been forgiven\nat last, and is to take his seat here again.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Yes; if that is not meant as an extra punishment. For my\nown part, at least, I find these Cabinet Councils extremely exhausting.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Naturally; you are always speaking.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. No; I think it must be that I have to listen sometimes.\n\nCOUNT R. Still, anything is better than being kept in a sort of prison,\nlike he was--never allowed to go out into the world.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. My dear Count, for romantic young people like he is, the\nworld always looks best at a distance; and a prison where one\'s allowed\nto order one\'s own dinner is not at all a bad place. (_Enter the\nCZAREVITCH. The courtiers rise._) Ah! good afternoon, Prince. Your\nHighness is looking a little pale to-day.\n\nCZARE. (_slowly, after a pause_). I want change of air.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_smiling_). A most revolutionary sentiment! Your Imperial\nfather would highly disapprove of any reforms with the thermometer in\nRussia.\n\nCZARE. (_bitterly_). My Imperial father had kept me for six months in\nthis dungeon of a palace. This morning he has me suddenly woke up to see\nsome wretched Nihilists hung; it sickened me, the bloody butchery,\nthough it was a noble thing to see how well these men can die.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. When you are as old as I am, Prince, you will understand\nthat there are few things easier than to live badly and to die well.\n\nCZARE. Easy to die well! A lesson experience cannot have taught you,\nwhatever you may know of a bad life.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_shrugging his shoulders_). Experience, the name men give\nto their mistakes. I never commit any.\n\nCZARE. (_bitterly_). No; crimes are more in your line.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. (_to the CZAREVITCH_). The Emperor was a good deal\nagitated about your late appearance at the ball last night, Prince.\n\n[1]COUNT R. (_laughing_). I believe he thought the Nihilists had broken\ninto the palace and carried you off.\n\nBARON RAFF. If they had you would have missed a charming dance.[1]\n\nPRINCE PAUL. And[2] an excellent supper. Gringoire really excelled\nhimself in his salad. Ah! you may laugh, Baron; but to make a good salad\nis a much more difficult thing than cooking accounts. To make a good\nsalad is to be a brilliant diplomatist--the problem is so entirely the\nsame in both cases. To know exactly how much oil one must put with one\'s\nvinegar.\n\nBARON RAFF. A cook and a diplomatist! an excellent parallel. If I had a\nson who was a fool I\'d make him one or the other.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. I see your father did not hold the same opinion, Baron.\nBut, believe me, you are wrong to run down cookery. For myself, the only\nimmortality I desire is to invent a new sauce. I have never had time\nenough to think seriously about it, but I feel it is in me, I feel it is\nin me.\n\nCZARE. You have certainly missed your _metier_,[3] Prince Paul; the\n_cordon bleu_ would have suited you much better than the Grand Cross of\nHonour. But you know you could never have worn your white apron well;\nyou would have soiled it too soon, your hands are not clean enough.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_bowing_). Que voulez vous? I manage your father\'s\nbusiness.\n\nCZARE. (_bitterly_). You mismanage my father\'s business, you mean! Evil\ngenius of his life that you are! before you came there was some love\nleft in him. It is you who have embittered his nature, poured into his\near the poison of treacherous counsel, made him hated by the whole\npeople, made him what he is--a tyrant!\n\n(_The courtiers look significantly at each other._)\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_calmly_). I see your Highness does want change of air. But\nI have been an eldest son myself. (_Lights a cigarette._) I know what it\nis when a father won\'t die to please one.\n\n(_The CZAREVITCH goes to the top of the stage, and leans against the\nwindow, looking out._)\n\nPRINCE PETRO. (_to BARON RAFF_). Foolish boy! [4]He will be sent into\nexile, or worse, if he is not careful.[4]\n\nBARON RAFF. Yes.[5] What a mistake it is to be sincere!\n\nPRINCE PETRO. The only folly you have never committed, Baron.\n\nBARON RAFF. One has only one head, you know, Prince.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. My dear Baron, your head is the last thing any one would\nwish to take from you. (_Pulls out snuffbox and offers it to PRINCE\nPETROVITCH._)\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Thanks, Prince! Thanks!\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Very delicate, isn\'t it? I get it direct from Paris. But\nunder this vulgar Republic everything has degenerated over there.\n"Cotelettes à l\'impériale" vanished, of course, with the Bourbon, and\nomelettes went out with the Orleanists. La belle France is entirely\nruined, Prince, through bad morals and worse cookery. (_Enter the\nMARQUIS DE POIVRARD._) Ah! Marquis. I trust Madame la Marquise is well.\n\nMARQUIS DE P. You ought to know better than I do, Prince Paul; you see\nmore _of_ her.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_bowing_). Perhaps I see more _in_ her, Marquis. Your wife\nis really a charming woman, so full of _esprit_, and so satirical too;\nshe talks continually of you when we are together.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. (_looking at the clock_). His Majesty is a little late\nto-day, is he not?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. What has happened to you, my dear Petrovitch? you seem\nquite out of sorts. You haven\'t quarrelled with your cook, I hope? What\na tragedy that would be for you; you would lose all your friends.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. I fear I wouldn\'t be so fortunate as that. You forget I\nwould still have my purse.[6] But you are wrong for once; my chef and I\nare on excellent[7] terms.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Then your creditors or Mademoiselle Vera Sabouroff have\nbeen writing to you? I find both of them such excellent correspondents.\nBut really you needn\'t be alarmed. I find the most violent proclamations\nfrom the Executive Committee, as they call it, left all over my house. I\nnever read them; they are so badly spelt as a rule.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Wrong again, Prince; the Nihilists leave me alone for some\nreason or other.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_aside_). Ah! true. I forgot. Indifference is the revenge\nthe world takes on mediocrities.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. I am bored with life,[8] Prince. Since the opera season\nended I have been a perpetual martyr to ennui.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. The maladie du siècle! You want a new excitement, Prince.\nLet me see--you have been married twice already; suppose you\ntry--falling in love, for once.\n\nBARON R. Prince, I have been thinking a good deal lately--\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_interrupting_). You surprise me very much, Baron.\n\nBARON R. I cannot understand your nature.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_smiling_). If my nature had been made to suit your\ncomprehension rather than my own requirements, I am afraid I would have\nmade a very poor figure in the world.\n\nCOUNT R. There seems to be nothing in life about which you would not\njest.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Ah! my dear Count, life is much too important a thing ever\nto talk seriously about it.\n\nCZARE. (_coming back from the window_). I don\'t think Prince Paul\'s\nnature is such a mystery. He would stab his best friend for the sake of\nwriting an epigram on his tombstone, or experiencing a new sensation.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Parbleu! I would sooner lose my best friend than my worst\nenemy. To have friends, you know, one need only be good-natured; but\nwhen a man has no enemy left there must be something mean about him.\n\nCZARE. (_bitterly_). If to have enemies is a measure of greatness, then\nyou must be a Colossus, indeed, Prince.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Yes, I know I\'m the most hated man in Russia, except your\nfather, [9]except your father, of course,[9] Prince. He doesn\'t seem to\nlike it much, by the way, but I do, I assure you. (_Bitterly._) I love\nto drive through the streets and see how the canaille scowl at me from\nevery corner. It makes me feel I am a power in Russia; one man against a\nhundred millions! Besides, I have no ambition to be a popular hero, to\nbe crowned with laurels one year and pelted with stones the next; I\nprefer dying peaceably in my own bed.\n\nCZARE. And after death?\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_shrugging his shoulders_). Heaven is a despotism. I shall\nbe at home there.\n\nCZARE. Do you never think of the people and their rights?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. The people and their rights bore me. I am sick of both. In\nthese modern days to be vulgar, illiterate, common and vicious, seems to\ngive a man a marvellous infinity of rights that his honest fathers never\ndreamed of. Believe me, Prince, in good democracy every man should be an\naristocrat; but these people in Russia who seek to thrust us out are no\nbetter than the animals in one\'s preserves, and made to be shot at, most\nof them.\n\nCZARE. (_excitedly_). If they are[10] common, illiterate, vulgar, no\nbetter than the beasts of the field, who made them so?\n\n(_Enter AIDE-DE-CAMP._)\n\nAIDE-DE-CAMP. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor! (_PRINCE PAUL looks at\nthe CZAREVITCH, and smiles._)\n\n(_Enter the CZAR, surrounded by his guard._)\n\nCZARE. (_rushing forward to meet him_). Sire!\n\nCZAR (_nervous and frightened_). Don\'t come too near me, boy! Don\'t come\ntoo near me, I say! There is always something about an heir to a crown\nunwholesome to his father. Who is that man over there? I don\'t know him.\nWhat is he doing? Is he a conspirator? Have you searched him? Give him\ntill to-morrow to confess, then hang him!--hang him!\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Sire, you are anticipating history. This is Count\nPetouchof, your new ambassador to Berlin. He is come to kiss hands on\nhis appointment.\n\nCZAR. To kiss my hand? There is some plot in it. He wants to poison me.\nThere, kiss my son\'s hand; it will do quite as well.\n\n(_PRINCE PAUL signs to COUNT PETOUCHOF to leave the room. Exit PETOUCHOF\nand the guards. CZAR sinks down into his chair. The courtiers remain\nsilent._)\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_approaching_). Sire! will your Majesty--\n\nCZAR. What do you startle me like that for? No, I won\'t. (_Watches the\ncourtiers nervously._) Why are you clattering your sword, sir? (_To\nCOUNT ROUVALOFF._) Take it off, I shall have no man wear a sword in my\npresence (_looking at CZAREVITCH_), least of all my son. (_To PRINCE\nPAUL._) You are not angry with me, Prince? You won\'t desert me, will\nyou? Say you won\'t desert me. What do you want? You can have\nanything--anything.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_bowing very low_). Sire, \'tis enough for me to have your\nconfidence. (_Aside._) I was afraid he was going to revenge himself and\ngive me another decoration.\n\nCZAR (_returning to his chair_). Well, gentlemen.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. Sire, I have the honour to present to you a loyal address\nfrom your subjects in the Province of Archangel, expressing their horror\nat the last attempt on your Majesty\'s life.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. The last attempt but two, you ought to have said, Marquis.\nDon\'t you see it is dated three weeks back?\n\nCZAR. They are good people in the Province of Archangel--honest, loyal\npeople. They love me very much--simple, loyal people; give them a new\nsaint, it costs nothing. Well, Alexis (_turning to the CZAREVITCH_)--how\nmany traitors were hung this morning?\n\nCZARE. There were three men strangled, Sire.\n\nCZAR. There should have been three[11] thousand. I would to God that\nthis people had but one neck that I might strangle them with one noose!\nDid they tell anything? whom did they implicate? what did they confess?\n\nCZARE. Nothing, Sire.\n\nCZAR. They should have been tortured then; why weren\'t they tortured?\nMust I always be fighting in the dark? Am I never to know from what root\nthese traitors spring?\n\nCZARE. What root should there be of discontent among the people but\ntyranny and injustice amongst their rulers?\n\nCZAR. What did you say, boy? tyranny! tyranny! Am I a tyrant? I\'m not. I\nlove the people. I\'m their father. I\'m called so in every official\nproclamation. Have a care, boy; have a care. You don\'t seem to be cured\nyet of your foolish tongue. (_Goes over to PRINCE PAUL, and puts his\nhand on his shoulder._) Prince Paul, tell me were there many people\nthere this morning to see the Nihilists hung?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Hanging is of course a good deal less of a novelty in\nRussia now, Sire, than it was three or four years ago; and you know how\neasily the people get tired even of their best amusements. But the\nsquare and the tops of the houses were really quite crowded, were they\nnot, Prince? (_To the CZAREVITCH who takes no notice._)\n\nCZAR. That\'s right; all loyal citizens should be there. It shows them\nwhat to look forward to. Did you arrest any one in the crowd?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Yes, Sire, a woman for cursing your name. (_The CZAREVITCH\nstarts anxiously._) She was the mother of the two criminals.\n\nCZAR (_looking at CZAREVITCH_). She should have blessed me for having\nrid her of her children. Send her to prison.\n\nCZARE. The prisons of Russia are too full already, Sire. There is no\nroom in them for any more victims.\n\n[12]CZAR. They don\'t die fast enough, then. You should put more of them\ninto one cell at once. You don\'t keep them long enough in the mines. If\nyou do they\'re sure to die; but you\'re all too merciful. I\'m too\nmerciful myself. Send her to Siberia.[12] She is sure to die on the way.\n(_Enter an AIDE-DE-CAMP._) Who\'s that? Who\'s that?\n\nAIDE-DE-CAMP. A letter for his Imperial Majesty.\n\nCZAR (_to PRINCE PAUL_). I won\'t open it. There may be something in it.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. It would be a very disappointing letter, Sire, if there\nwasn\'t. (_Takes letter himself, and reads it._)\n\nPRINCE PETRO. (_to COUNT ROUVALOFF_). It must be some sad news. I know\nthat smile too well.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. From the Chief of the Police at Archangel, Sire. "The\nGovernor of the province was shot this morning by a woman as he was\nentering the courtyard of his own house. The assassin has been seized."\n\nCZAR. I never trusted the people of Archangel. It\'s a nest of Nihilists\nand conspirators. Take away their saints; they don\'t deserve them.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Your Highness would punish them more severely by giving\nthem an extra one. Three governors shot in two months. (_Smiles to\nhimself._) Sire, permit me to recommend your loyal subject, the Marquis\nde Poivrard, as the new governor of your Province of Archangel.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. (_hurriedly_). Sire, I am unfit for this post.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Marquis, you are too modest. Believe me, there is no man\nin Russia I would sooner see Governor of Archangel than yourself.\n(_Whispers to CZAR._)\n\nCZAR. Quite right, Prince Paul; you are always right. See that the\nMarquis\'s letters are made out at once.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. He can start to-night, Sire. I shall really miss you very\nmuch, Marquis. I always liked your taste in wines and wives extremely.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. (_to the CZAR_). Start to-night, Sire? (_PRINCE PAUL\nwhispers to the CZAR._)\n\nCZAR. Yes, Marquis, to-night; it is better to go at once.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. I shall see that Madame la Marquise is not too lonely while\nyou are away; so you need not be alarmed for her.\n\nCOUNT R. (_to PRINCE PETROVITCH_). I should be more alarmed for myself.\n\nCZAR. The Governor of Archangel shot in his own courtyard by a woman!\nI\'m not safe here. I\'m not safe anywhere, with that she devil of the\nrevolution, Vera Sabouroff, here in Moscow. Prince Paul, is that woman\nstill here?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. They tell me she was at the Grand Duke\'s ball last night. I\ncan hardly believe that; but she certainly had intended to leave for\nNovgorod to-day, Sire. The police were watching every train for her;\nbut, for some reason or other, she did not go. Some traitor must have\nwarned her. But I shall catch her yet. A chase after a beautiful woman\nis always exciting.\n\nCZAR. You must hunt her down with bloodhounds, and when she is taken I\nshall hew her limb from limb. I shall stretch her on the rack till her\npale white body is twisted and curled like paper in the fire.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Oh, we shall have another hunt immediately for her, Sire!\nPrince Alexis will assist us, I am sure.\n\nCZARE. You never require any assistance to ruin a woman, Prince Paul.\n\nCZAR. Vera, the Nihilist, in Moscow! O God,[13] were it not better to\ndie at once the dog\'s death they plot for me than to live as I live now!\nNever to sleep, or, if I do, to dream such horrid dreams that Hell\nitself were peace when matched with them. To trust none but those I have\nbought, to buy none worth trusting! To see a traitor in every smile,\npoison in every dish, a dagger in every hand! To lie awake at night,\nlistening from hour to hour for the stealthy creeping of the murderer,\nfor the laying of the damned mine! You are all spies! you are all spies!\nYou worst of all--you, my own son! Which of you is it who hides these\nbloody proclamations under my own pillow, or at the table where I sit?\nWhich of ye all is the Judas who betrays me? O God! O God! methinks\nthere was a time once, in our war with England, when nothing could make\nme afraid. (_This with more calm and pathos._) I have ridden into the\ncrimson heart of war, and borne back an eagle which those wild islanders\nhad taken from us. Men said I was brave then. My father gave me the Iron\nCross of valour. Oh, could he see me now with this coward\'s livery ever\nin my cheek! (_Sinks into his chair._) I never knew any love when I was\na boy. I was ruled by terror myself, how else should I rule now?\n(_Starts up._) But I will have revenge; I will have revenge. For every\nhour I have lain awake at night, waiting for the noose or the dagger,\nthey shall pass years in Siberia, centuries in the mines! Ay! I shall\nhave revenge.\n\nCZARE. Father! have mercy on the people. Give them what they ask.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. And begin, Sire, with your own head; they have a particular\nliking for that.\n\nCZAR. The people! the people! A tiger which I have let loose upon\nmyself; but I will fight with it to the death. [14]I am done with half\nmeasures.[14] I shall crush these Nihilists at a blow. There shall not\nbe a man of them, ay, or a woman either, left alive in Russia. [15]Am I\nEmperor for[15] nothing, that a woman should hold me at bay? Vera\nSabouroff shall be in my power, I swear it, before a week is ended,\n[16]though I burn my whole city to find her.[16] She shall be flogged by\nthe knout, stifled in the fortress, strangled in the square!\n\nCZARE. O God!\n\nCZAR. For two years her hands have been clutching at my throat; for two\nyears she has made my life a hell; but I shall have revenge. Martial\nlaw, Prince, martial law over the whole Empire; that will give me\nrevenge. A good measure, Prince, eh? a good measure.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. And an economical one too, Sire. It would carry off your\nsurplus population in six months, and save you many expenses in courts\nof justice; they will not be needed now.\n\nCZAR. Quite right. There are too many people in Russia, too much money\nspent on them, too much money in courts of justice. I\'ll shut them up.\n\nCZARE. Sire, reflect before--\n\nCZAR. When can you have the proclamations ready, Prince Paul?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. They have been printed for the last six months, Sire. I\nknew you would need them.\n\nCZAR. That\'s good! That\'s very good! Let us begin at once. Ah, Prince,\nif every king in Europe had a minister like you--\n\nCZARE. There would be less kings in Europe than there are.\n\nCZAR (_in frightened whisper, to PRINCE PAUL_). What does he mean? Do\nyou trust him? His prison hasn\'t cured him yet. Shall I banish him?\nShall I (_whispers_)...? The Emperor Paul did it. The Empress Catherine\nthere[17] (_points to picture on the wall_) did it. Why shouldn\'t I?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Your Majesty, there is no need for alarm. The Prince is a\nvery ingenuous young man. He pretends to be devoted to the people, and\nlives in a palace; preaches socialism, and draws a salary that would\nsupport a province. He\'ll find out one day that the best cure for\nRepublicanism is the Imperial crown, and will cut up the "bonnet rogue"\nof Democracy to make decorations for his Prime Minister.\n\nCZAR. You are right. If he really loved the people, he could not be my\nson.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. If he lived with the people for a fortnight, their bad\ndinners would soon cure him of his democracy. Shall we begin, Sire?\n\nCZAR. At once. Read the proclamation. Gentlemen, be seated. Alexis,\nAlexis, I say, come and hear it! It will be good practice for you; you\nwill be doing it yourself some day.\n\nCZARE. I have heard too much of it already. (_Takes his seat at the\ntable. COUNT ROUVALOFF whispers to him._)\n\nCZAR. What are you whispering about there, Count Rouvaloff?\n\nCOUNT R. I was giving his Royal Highness some good advice, your Majesty.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Count Rouvaloff is the typical spendthrift, Sire; he is\nalways giving away what he needs most. (_Lays papers before the CZAR._)\nI think, Sire, you will approve of this:--"Love of the people," "Father\nof his people," "Martial law," and the usual allusions to Providence in\nthe last line. All it requires now is your Imperial Majesty\'s signature.\n\nCZARE. Sire!\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_hurriedly_). I promise your Majesty to crush every\nNihilist in Russia in six months if you sign this proclamation; every\nNihilist in Russia.\n\nCZAR. Say that again! To crush every Nihilist in Russia; to crush this\nwoman, their leader, who makes war upon me in my own city. Prince Paul\nMaraloffski, I create you Marechale of the whole Russian Empire to help\nyou to carry out martial law.\n\nCZAR. Give me the proclamation. I will sign it at once.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_points on paper_). Here, Sire.\n\nCZARE. (_starts up and puts his hands on the paper_). Stay! I tell you,\nstay! The priests have taken heaven from the people, and you would take\nthe earth away too.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. We have no time, Prince, now. This boy will ruin\neverything. The pen, Sire.\n\nCZARE. What! is it so small a thing to strangle a nation, to murder a\nkingdom, to wreck an empire? Who are we who dare lay this ban of terror\non a people? Have we less vices than they have, that we bring them to\nthe bar of judgment before us?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. What a Communist the Prince is! He would have an equal\ndistribution of sin as well as of property.\n\nCZARE. Warmed by the same sun, nurtured by the same air, fashioned of\nflesh and blood like to our own, wherein are they different to us, save\nthat they starve while we surfeit, that they toil while we idle, that\nthey sicken while we poison, that they die while we strangle?\n\nCZAR. How dare--?\n\nCZARE. I dare all for the people; but you would rob them of common\nrights of common men.\n\nCZAR. The people have no rights.\n\nCZARE. Then they have great wrongs. Father, they have won your battles\nfor you; from the pine forests of the Baltic to the palms of India they\nhave ridden on victory\'s mighty wings in search of your glory! Boy as I\nam in years, I have seen wave after wave of living men sweep up the\nheights of battle to their death; ay, and snatch perilous conquest from\nthe scales of war when the bloody crescent seemed to shake above our\neagles.\n\nCZAR (_somewhat moved_). Those men are dead. What have I to do with\nthem?\n\nCZARE. Nothing! The dead are safe; you[18] cannot harm them now. They\nsleep their last long sleep. Some in Turkish waters, others by the\nwindswept heights of Norway and the Dane! But these, the living, our\nbrothers, what have you done for them? They asked you for bread, you\ngave them a stone. They sought for freedom, you scourged them with\nscorpions. You have sown the seeds of this revolution yourself!--\n\nPRINCE PAUL. And are we not cutting down the harvest?\n\nCZARE. Oh, my brothers! better far that ye had died in the iron hail and\nscreaming shell of battle than to come back to such a doom as[19] this!\nThe beasts of the forests have their lairs, and the wild beasts their\ncaverns, but the people of Russia, conquerors of the world, have not\nwhere to lay their heads.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. They have the headsman\'s block.\n\nCZARE. The headsman\'s block! Ay! you have killed their souls at your\npleasure, you would kill their bodies now.\n\nCZAR. Insolent boy! Have you forgotten who is Emperor of Russia?\n\nCZARE. No! The people reign now, by the grace of God.[20] You should\nhave been their shepherd; you have fled away like the hireling, and let\nthe wolves in upon them.\n\nCZAR. Take him away! Take him away, Prince Paul!\n\nCZARE. God hath given this people tongues to speak with; you would cut\nthem out that they may be dumb in their agony, silent in their torture!\nBut God hath given them hands to smite with, and they shall smite! Ay!\nfrom the sick and labouring womb of this unhappy land some revolution,\nlike a bloody child, shall[21] rise up and slay you.\n\nCZAR (_leaping up_). Devil! Assassin! Why do you beard me thus to my\nface?\n\nCZARE. Because I[22] am a Nihilist! (_The ministers start to their feet;\nthere is dead silence for a few minutes._)\n\nCZAR. A Nihilist! a Nihilist! Scorpion whom I have nurtured, traitor\nwhom I have fondled, is this your bloody secret? Prince Paul\nMaraloffski, Marechale of the Russian Empire, arrest the Czarevitch!\n\nMINISTERS. Arrest the Czarevitch!\n\nCZAR. A Nihilist! If you have sown with them, you shall reap with them!\nIf you have talked with them, you shall rot with them! If you have lived\nwith them, with them you shall die!\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Die!\n\nCZAR. A plague on all sons, I say! There should be no more marriages in\nRussia when one can breed such vipers as you are! Arrest the Czarevitch,\nI say!\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Czarevitch! by order of the Emperor, I demand your sword.\n(_CZAREVITCH gives up sword; PRINCE PAUL places it on the table._)\nFoolish boy! you are not made for a conspirator; you have not learned to\nhold your tongue. Heroics are out of place in a palace.\n\nCZAR (_sinks into his chair with his eyes fixed on the CZAREVITCH_). O\nGod!\n\nCZARE. If I am to die for the people, I am ready; one Nihilist more or\nless in Russia, what does that matter?\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_aside_). A good deal I should say to the one Nihilist.\n\n[23]CZARE. The mighty brotherhood to which I belong has a thousand such\nas I am, ten thousand better still! (_The CZAR starts in his seat._) The\nstar of freedom is risen already, and far off I hear the mighty wave\ndemocracy break on these cursed shores.[23]\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_to PRINCE PETROVITCH_). In that case you and I had better\nlearn how to swim.\n\nCZARE. Father, Emperor, Imperial Master, I plead not for my own life,\nbut for the lives of my brothers, the people.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_bitterly_). Your brothers, the people, Prince, are not\ncontent with their own lives, they always want to take their neighbour\'s\ntoo.\n\nCZAR (_standing up_). I am sick of being afraid. I have done with terror\nnow. From this day I proclaim war against the people--war to their\nannihilation. As they have dealt with me, so shall I deal with them. I\nshall grind them to powder, and strew their dust upon the air. There\nshall be a spy in every man\'s house, a traitor on every hearth, a\nhangman in every village, a gibbet in every square. Plague, leprosy, or\nfever shall be less deadly than my wrath; I will make every frontier a\ngrave-yard, every province a lazar-house, and cure the sick by the\nsword. I shall have peace in Russia, though it be the peace of the dead.\nWho said I was a coward? Who said I was afraid? See, thus shall I crush\nthis people beneath my feet! (_Takes up sword of CZAREVITCH off table\nand tramples on it._)\n\nCZARE. Father, beware, the sword you tread on may turn and wound you.\nThe people suffer long, but vengeance comes at last, vengeance with red\nhands and bloody purpose.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Bah! the people are bad shots; they always miss one.\n\nCZARE. There are times when the people are instruments of God.\n\nCZAR. Ay! and when kings are God\'s scourges for the people. Oh, my own\nson, in my own house! My own flesh and blood against me! Take him away!\nTake him away! Bring in my guards. (_Enter the Imperial Guard. CZAR\npoints to CZAREVITCH, who stands alone at the side of the stage._) To\nthe blackest prison in Moscow! Let me never see his face again.\n(_CZAREVITCH is being led out._) No, no, leave him! I don\'t trust\nguards. They are all Nihilists! They would let him escape and he would\nkill me, kill me! No, I\'ll bring him to prison myself, you and I (_to\nPRINCE PAUL_). I trust you, you have no mercy. I shall have no mercy.\nOh, my own son against me! How hot it is! The air stifles me! I feel as\nif I were going to faint, as if something were at my throat. Open the\nwindows, I say! Out of my sight! Out of my sight! I can\'t bear his eyes.\nWait, wait for me. (_Throws window open and goes out on balcony._)\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_looking at his watch_). The dinner is sure to be spoiled.\nHow annoying politics are and eldest sons!\n\nVOICE (_outside, in the street_). God save the people! (_CZAR is shot,\nand staggers back into the room._)\n\nCZARE. (_breaking from the guards, and rushing over_). Father!\n\nCZAR. Murderer! Murderer! You did it! Murderer! (_Dies._)\n\n\nTABLEAU.\n\n\nEND OF ACT II.\n\n\n\n\nACT III.\n\n_Same scene and business as Act I. Man in yellow dress, with drawn\nsword, at the door._\n\n\n_Password outside._ Væ tyrannis.\n\n_Answer._ Væ victis (_repeated three times_).\n\n(_Enter CONSPIRATORS, who form a semicircle, masked and cloaked._)\n\nPRESIDENT. What hour is it?\n\nFIRST CONSP. The hour to strike.\n\nPRES. What day?\n\nSECOND CONSP. The day of Marat.[1]\n\nPRES. In what month?\n\nSECOND CONSP. The month of liberty.\n\nPRES. What is our duty?\n\nFOURTH CONSP. To obey.\n\nPRES. Our creed?\n\nFIFTH CONSP. Parbleu, Mons. le President, I never knew you had one.\n\nCONSPS. A spy! A spy! Unmask! Unmask! A spy!\n\nPRES. [2]Let the doors be shut. There are others but Nihilists\npresent.[2]\n\nCONSPS. Unmask! Unmask! [3]Kill him! kill him![3] (_Masked CONSPIRATOR\nunmasks._) Prince Paul!\n\nVERA. Devil! Who lured you into the lion\'s den?\n\nCONSPS. Kill him! kill him![4]\n\nPRINCE PAUL. En vérité, Messieurs, you are not over-hospitable in your\nwelcome.\n\nVERA. Welcome! What welcome should we give you but the dagger or the\nnoose?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. I had no idea, really, that the Nihilists were so\nexclusive. Let me assure you that if I had not always had an _entree_\nto the very best society, and the very worst conspiracies, I could never\nhave been Prime Minister in Russia.\n\nVERA. The tiger cannot change its nature, nor the snake lose its venom;\nbut are you turned a lover of the people?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Mon Dieu, non, Mademoiselle! I would much sooner talk\nscandal in a drawing-room than treason in a cellar. Besides, I hate the\ncommon mob, who smell of garlic, smoke bad tobacco, get up early, and\ndine off one dish.\n\nPRES. What have you to gain, then, by a revolution?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Mon ami, I have nothing left to lose. That scatter-brained\nboy, this new Czar, has banished me.\n\nVERA. To Siberia?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. No, to Paris. He has confiscated my estates, robbed me of\nmy office and my cook. I have nothing left but my decorations. I am here\nfor revenge.[5]\n\nPRES. Then you have a right to be one of us. [5]We also meet daily for\nrevenge.[5]\n\nPRINCE PAUL. You want money, of course. No one ever joins a conspiracy\nwho has any. Here. (_Throws money on table._) You have so many spies\nthat I should think you want information. Well, you will find me the\nbest informed man in Russia on the abuses of our Government. I made them\nnearly all myself.\n\nVERA. President, I don\'t trust this man. He has done us too much harm in\nRussia to let him go in safety.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Believe me, Mademoiselle, you are wrong; I will be a most\nvaluable addition to your circle; as for you, gentlemen, if I had not\nthought that you would be useful to me I shouldn\'t have risked my neck\namong you, or dined an hour earlier than usual so as to be in time.\n\nPRES. Ay, if he had wanted to spy on us, Vera, he wouldn\'t have come\nhimself.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_aside_). No; I should have sent my best friend.\n\nPRES. Besides, Vera, he is just the man to give us the information we\nwant about some business we have in hand to-night.\n\nVERA. Be it so if you wish it.\n\nPRES. Brothers, is it your will that Prince Paul Maraloffski be\nadmitted, and take the oath of the Nihilist?\n\nCONSPS. It is! it is!\n\nPRES. (_holding out dagger and a paper_). Prince Paul, the dagger or the\noath?\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_smiles sardonically_). I would sooner annihilate than be\nannihilated. (_Takes paper._)\n\nPRES. Remember: [6]Betray us, and as long as the earth holds poison or\nsteel, as long as men can strike or woman betray, you shall not escape\nvengeance.[6] The Nihilists never forget their friends, or forgive their\nenemies.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Really? I did not think you were so civilized.\n\nVERA (_pacing up and down_). Why is he not here? He will not keep the\ncrown. I know him well.\n\nPRES. Sign. (_PRINCE PAUL signs_.) You said you thought we had no creed.\nYou were wrong. Read it!\n\nVERA. This is a dangerous thing, President. What can we do with this\nman?\n\nPRES. We can use him.\n\nVERA. And afterwards?\n\nPRES. (_shrugging his shoulders_). Strangle him.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_reading_). "The rights of humanity!" In the old times men\ncarried out their rights for themselves as they lived, but nowadays\nevery baby seems born with a social manifesto in its mouth much bigger\nthan itself.[7] "Nature is not a temple, but a workshop: we demand the\nright to labour." Ah, I shall surrender my own rights in that respect.\n\nVERA (_pacing up and down behind_). Oh, will he never come? will he\nnever come?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. "The family as subversive of true socialistic and communal\nunity is to be annihilated." Yes, President, I agree completely with\nArticle 5. A family is a terrible incumbrance, especially when one is\nnot married. (_Three knocks at the door._)\n\nVERA. Alexis at last!\n\n_Password._ Væ tyrannis!\n\n_Answer._ Væ victis!\n\n(_Enter MICHAEL STROGANOFF._)\n\nPRES.[8] Michael, the regicide! Brothers, let us do honour to a man who\nhas killed a king.\n\n[9]VERA (_aside_). Oh, he will come yet.[9]\n\nPRES. Michael, you have saved Russia.\n\nMICH. Ay, Russia was free for a moment [10]when the tyrant fell, but the\nsun of liberty has set again like that false dawn which cheats our eyes\nin autumn.\n\nPRES. The dread night of tyranny is not yet past for Russia.\n\nMICH. (_clutching his knife_).[10] One more blow, and the end is come\nindeed.\n\nVERA (_aside_). One more blow! What does he mean? Oh, impossible! but\nwhy is he not with us? Alexis! Alexis! why are you not here?\n\nPRES. But how did you escape, Michael? They said you had been seized.\n\nMICH. I was dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Guard. The Colonel on\nduty was a brother, and gave me the password. I drove through the troops\nin safety with it, and, thanks to my good horse, reached the walls\nbefore the gates were closed.\n\nPRES. What a chance his coming out on the balcony was!\n\nMICH. A chance? There is no such thing as chance. It was God\'s finger\nled him there.\n\nPRES. And where have you been these three days?\n\nMICH. Hiding in the house of the priest Nicholas at the cross-roads.\n\nPRES. Nicholas is an honest man.\n\nMICH. Ay, honest enough for a priest. I am here now for vengeance on a\ntraitor!\n\nVERA (_aside_). O God, will he never come? Alexis! why are you not here?\nYou cannot have turned traitor!\n\nMICH. (_seeing PRINCE PAUL_). Prince Paul Maraloffski here! By St.\nGeorge, a lucky capture! This must have been Vera\'s doing. She is the\nonly one who could have lured that serpent into the trap.\n\nPRES. Prince Paul has just taken the oath.\n\nVERA. Alexis, the Czar, has banished him from Russia.\n\nMICH. Bah! A blind to cheat us. We will keep Prince Paul here, [11]and\nfind some office for him in our reign of terror.[11] He is well\naccustomed by this time to bloody work.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_approaching MICHAEL_). That was a long shot of yours, mon\ncamarade.\n\nMICH. I have had a good deal of practice shooting, since I have been a\nboy, off your Highness\'s wild boars.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Are my gamekeepers like moles, then, always asleep?\n\nMICH. No, Prince. I am one of them; but, like you, I am fond of robbing\nwhat I am put to watch.\n\nPRES. This must be a new atmosphere for you, Prince Paul. We speak the\ntruth to one another here.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. How misleading you must find it. You have an odd medley\nhere, President--a little rococo, I am afraid.\n\nPRES. You recognise a good many friends, I dare say?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Yes, there is always more brass than brains in an\naristocracy.\n\nPRES. But you are here yourself?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. I? As I cannot be Prime Minister, I must be a Nihilist.\nThere is no alternative.\n\nVERA. O God, will he never come? The hand is on the stroke of the hour.\nWill he never come?\n\nMICH. (_aside_). President, you know what we have to do? \'Tis but a\nsorry hunter who leaves the wolf cub alive to avenge his father. How are\nwe to get at this boy? It must be to-night. To-morrow he will be\nthrowing some sop of reform to the people, and it will be too late for a\nRepublic.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. You are quite right. Good kings are the enemies of\nDemocracy, and when he has begun by banishing me you may be sure he\nintends to be a patriot.\n\nMICH. I am sick of patriot kings; [12]what Russia needs is a\nRepublic.[12]\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Messieurs, I have brought you two documents which I think\nwill interest you--the proclamation this young Czar intends publishing\nto-morrow, and a plan of the Winter Palace, where he sleeps to-night.\n(_Hands paper._)\n\nVERA. [13]I dare not ask them what they are plotting about.[13] Oh, why\nis Alexis not here?\n\nPRES. Prince, this is most valuable information. Michael, you were\nright. If it is not to-night it will be too late. Read that.\n\nMICH. Ah! A loaf of bread flung to a starving nation. [14]A lie to cheat\nthe people.[14] (_Tears it up._) It must be to-night. I do not believe\nin him. Would he have kept his crown had he loved the people? But how\nare we to get at him?\n\nPRINCE PAUL. The key of the private door in the street. (_Hands key._)\n\nPRES. Prince, we are in your debt.\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_smiling_). The normal condition of the Nihilists.\n\nMICH. Ay, but we are paying our debts off with interest now. Two\nEmperors in one week. That will make the balance straight. We would have\nthrown in a Prime Minister if you had not come.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Ah, I am sorry you told me. It robs my visit of all its\npicturesqueness and adventure. I thought I was perilling my head by\ncoming here, and you tell me I have saved it. One is sure to be\ndisappointed if one tries to get romance out of modern life.\n\nMICH. It is not so romantic a thing to lose one\'s head, Prince Paul.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. No, but it must often be very dull to keep it. Don\'t you\nfind that sometimes? (_Clock strikes six._)\n\nVERA (_sinking into a seat_). Oh, it is past the hour! It is past the\nhour!\n\nMICH. (_to PRESIDENT_). Remember to-morrow will be too late.\n\nPRES. Brothers, it is full time. Which of us is absent?\n\nCONSPS. Alexis! Alexis!\n\nPRES. Michael, read Rule 7.\n\nMICH. "When any brother shall have disobeyed a summons to be present,\nthe President shall enquire if there is anything alleged against him."\n\nPRES. Is there anything against our brother Alexis?\n\nCONSPS. He wears a crown! He wears a crown!\n\nPRES. Michael, read Article 7 of the Code of Revolution.\n\nMICH. "Between the Nihilists and all men who wear crowns above their\nfellows, there is war to the death."\n\nPRES. Brothers, what say you? Is Alexis, the Czar, guilty or not?\n\nOMNES. He is guilty!\n\nPRES. What shall the penalty be?\n\nOMNES. Death!\n\nPRES. Let the lots be prepared; it shall be to-night.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. Ah, this is really interesting! I was getting afraid\nconspiracies were as dull as courts are.\n\nPROF. MARFA. My forte is more in writing pamphlets than in taking shots.\nStill a regicide has always a place in history.\n\nMICH. If your pistol is as harmless as your pen, this young tyrant will\nhave a long life.\n\nPRINCE PAUL. You ought to remember, too, Professor, that if you were\nseized, as you probably would be, and hung, as you certainly would be,\nthere would be nobody left to read your own articles.\n\nPRES. Brothers, are you ready?\n\nVERA (_starting up_). Not yet! Not yet! I have a word to say.\n\nMICH. (_aside_). [15]Plague take her! I knew it would come to this.[15]\n\nVERA. This boy has been our brother. Night after night he has perilled\nhis own life to come here. [16]Night after night, when every street was\nfilled with spies, every house with traitors.[16] Delicately nurtured\nlike a king\'s son, he has dwelt among us.\n\nPRES. Ay! under a false name. [17]He lied to us at the beginning. He\nlies to us now at the end.[17]\n\nVERA. I swear he is true. There is not a man here who does not owe him\nhis life a thousand times. When the bloodhounds were on us that night,\nwho saved us [18]from arrest, torture, flogging, death,[18] but he ye\nseek to kill?--\n\nMICH. To kill all tyrants is our mission!\n\nVERA. He is no tyrant. I know him well! He loves the people.\n\nPRES. We know him too; he is a traitor.\n\nVERA. A traitor! Three days ago he could have betrayed every man of you\nhere, [19]and the gibbet would have been your doom.[19] He gave you all\nyour lives once. Give him a little time--a week, a month, a few days;\nbut not now!--O God,[20] not now!\n\nCONSPS. (_brandishing daggers_). To-night! to-night! to-night!\n\nVERA. Peace, you gorged adders; peace!\n\nMICH. What, are we not here to annihilate? shall we not keep our oath?\n\nVERA. Your oath! your oath! [21]Greedy that you are of gain, every man\'s\nhand lusting for his neighbour\'s pelf, every heart set on pillage and\nrapine;[21] who, of ye all, if the crown were set on his head, would\ngive an empire up for the mob to scramble for? The people are not yet\nfit for a Republic in Russia.\n\nPRES. Every nation is fit for a Republic.\n\nMICH. The man is a tyrant.\n\nVERA. A tyrant! Hath he not dismissed his evil counsellors. That\nill-omened raven of his father\'s life hath had his wings clipped and his\nclaws pared, and comes to us croaking for revenge. Oh, have mercy on\nhim![22] Give him a week to live!\n\nPRES. Vera pleading for a king!\n\nVERA (_proudly_). I plead not for a king, but for a brother.\n\nMICH. For a traitor to his oath, for a coward who should have flung the\npurple back to the fools that gave it to him. No, Vera, no. The brood of\nmen is not dead yet, nor the dull earth grown sick of child-bearing. No\ncrowned man in Russia shall pollute God\'s air by living.\n\nPRES. You bade us try you once; we have tried you, and you are found\nwanting.\n\nMICH. Vera, I am not blind; I know your secret. You love this boy, this\nyoung prince with his pretty face, his curled hair, his soft white\nhands. Fool that you are, dupe of a lying tongue, do you know what he\nwould have done to you, this boy you think loved you? He would have made\nyou his mistress, used your body at his pleasure, thrown you away when\nhe was wearied of you; you, the priestess of liberty, the flame of\nRevolution, the torch of democracy.\n\nVERA. What he would have done to me matters little. To the people, at\nleast, he will be true. He loves the people--at least, he loves liberty.\n\nPRES. So he would play the citizen-king, would he, while we starve?\n[23]Would flatter us with sweet speeches, would cheat us with promises\nlike his father, would lie to us as his whole race have lied.[23]\n\nMICH. And you whose very name made every despot tremble for his life,\nyou, Vera Sabouroff, you would betray liberty for a lover and the people\nfor a paramour!\n\nCONSPS. [24]Traitress! Draw the lots; draw the lots![24]\n\nVERA. In thy throat thou liest, Michael! I love him not. He loves me\nnot.\n\nMICH. You love him not? Shall he not die then?\n\nVERA (_with an effort, clenching her hands_). Ay, it is right that he\nshould die. He hath broken his oath. [25]There should be no crowned man\nin Europe. Have I not sworn it? To be strong our new Republic should be\ndrunk with the blood of kings. He hath broken his oath. As the father\ndied so let the son die too.[25] Yet not to-night, not to-night. Russia,\nthat hath borne her centuries of wrong, can wait a week for liberty.\nGive him a week.\n\nPRES. We will have none of you! Begone from us to this boy you love.\n\nMICH. Though I find him in your arms I shall kill him.\n\nCONSPS. To-night! To-night! To-night!\n\nMICH. (_holding up his hand_). A moment! I have something to say.\n(_Approaches VERA; speaks very slowly._) Vera Sabouroff, have you\nforgotten your brother? (_Pauses to see effect; VERA starts._) Have you\nforgotten that young face, pale with famine; those young limbs twisted\nwith torture; the iron chains they made him walk in? What week of\nliberty did they give him? What pity did they show him for a day? (_VERA\nfalls in a chair._) Oh! you could talk glibly enough then of vengeance,\nglibly enough of liberty. When you said you would come to Moscow, your\nold father caught you by the knees and begged you not to leave him\nchildless and alone.[26] I seem to hear his cries still ringing in my\nears, but you were as deaf to him as the rocks on the roadside; as chill\nand cold as the snow on the hill. You left your father that night, and\nthree weeks after he died of a broken heart. You wrote to me to follow\nyou here. I did so; first because I loved you; but you soon cured me of\nthat; whatever gentle feeling, whatever pity, whatever humanity, was in\nmy heart you withered up and destroyed, as the canker worm eats the\ncorn, and the plague kills the child. You bade me cast out love from my\nbreast as a vile thing, you turned my hand to iron, and my heart to\nstone; you told me to live for freedom and for revenge. I have done so;\nbut you, what have you done?\n\nVERA. Let the lots be drawn! (_CONSPIRATORS applaud._)\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_aside_). Ah, the Grand Duke will come to the throne sooner\nthan he expected. He is sure to make a good king under my guidance. He\nis so cruel to animals, and never keeps his word.\n\nMICH. Now you are yourself at last, Vera.\n\nVERA (_standing motionless in the middle_). The lots, I say, the lots!\nI am no woman now. My blood seems turned to gall; my heart is as cold as\nsteel is; my hand shall be more deadly. From the desert and the tomb the\nvoice of my prisoned brother cries aloud, and bids me strike one blow\nfor liberty. The lots, I say, the lots!\n\nPRES. Are you ready. Michael, you have the right to draw first; you are\na Regicide.\n\nVERA. O God, into my hands! Into my hands! (_They draw the lots from a\nbowl surmounted by a skull._)\n\nPRES. Open your lots.\n\nVERA (_opening her lot_). The lot is mine! see the bloody sign upon it!\nDmitri, my brother, you shall have your revenge now.\n\nPRES. Vera Sabouroff, you are chosen to be a regicide. God has been good\nto you. The dagger or the poison? (_Offers her dagger and vial._)\n\nVERA. I can trust my hand better with the dagger; it never fails. (_Take\ndagger._) I shall stab him to the heart, as he has stabbed me. Traitor,\nto leave us for a ribbon, a gaud, a bauble, to lie to me every day he\ncame here, to forget us in an hour. [27]Michael was right, he loved me\nnot, nor the people either.[27] Methinks that if I was a mother and bore\na man-child I would poison my breast to him, lest he might grow to a\ntraitor or to a king. (_PRINCE PAUL whispers to the PRESIDENT._)\n\nPRES. Ay, Prince Paul, that is the best way. Vera, the Czar[28] sleeps\nto-night in his own room in the north wing of the palace. Here is the\nkey of the private door in the street. The passwords of the guards will\nbe given to you. His own servants will be drugged. You will find him\nalone.\n\nVERA. It is well. I shall not fail.\n\nPRES. We will wait outside in the Place St. Isaac, under the window. As\nthe clock strikes twelve from the tower of St. Nicholas you will give us\nthe sign that the dog is dead.\n\nVERA. And what shall the sign be?\n\nPRES. You are to throw us out the bloody dagger.\n\nMICH. Dripping with the traitor\'s life.\n\nPRES. Else we shall know that you have been seized, and we will burst\nour way in, drag you from his guards.\n\nMICH. And kill him in the midst of them.\n\nPRES. Michael, you will head us?\n\nMICH. Ay, I shall head you. See that your hand fails not, Vera\nSabouroff.\n\n[29]VERA. Fool, is it so hard a thing to kill one\'s enemy.[29]\n\nPRINCE PAUL (_aside_). This is the ninth conspiracy I have been in in\nRussia. They always end in a "voyage en Siberie" for my friends and a\nnew decoration for myself.\n\nMICH. It is your last conspiracy, Prince.\n\nPRES. At twelve o\'clock, the bloody dagger.\n\nVERA. Ay, red with the blood of that false heart. I shall not forget it.\n(_Standing in the middle of the stage._) [30]To strangle whatever nature\nis in me, neither to love nor to be loved, neither to pity nor to be\npitied. Ay! it is an oath, an oath. Methinks the spirit of Charlotte\nCorday has entered my soul now. I shall carve my name on the world, and\nbe ranked among the great heroines. Ay! the spirit of Charlotte Corday\nbeats in each petty vein, and nerves my woman\'s hand to strike, as I\nhave nerved my woman\'s heart to hate. Though he laughs in his dreams, I\nshall not falter. Though he sleep peacefully I shall not miss my\nblow.[30] Be glad, my brother, in your stifled cell; be glad and laugh\nto-night. To-night this new-fledged Czar shall post with bloody feet to\nHell, and greet his father there! [31]This Czar! O traitor, liar, false\nto his oath, false to me! To play the patriot amongst us, and now to\nwear a crown; to sell us, like Judas, for thirty silver pieces, to\nbetray us with a kiss![31] (_With more passion._) O Liberty, O mighty\nmother of eternal time, thy robe is purple with the blood of those who\nhave died for thee! Thy throne is the Calvary of the people, thy crown\nthe crown of thorns. O crucified mother, the despot has driven a nail\nthrough thy right hand, and the tyrant through thy left! Thy feet are\npierced with their iron. When thou wert athirst thou calledst on the\npriests for water, and they gave thee bitter drink. They thrust a sword\ninto thy side. They mocked thee in thine agony of age on age. [32]Here,\non thy altar, O Liberty, do I dedicate myself to thy service; do with me\nas thou wilt![32] (_Brandishing dagger._) The end has come now, and by\nthy sacred wounds, O crucified mother, O Liberty, I swear that Russia\nshall be saved!\n\n\nCURTAIN.\n\n\nEND OF ACT III.\n\n\n\n\nACT IV.\n\nSCENE.--_Antechamber of the CZAR\'S private room. Large window at the\nback, with drawn curtains over it._\n\n_Present._--PRINCE PETROVITCH, BARON RAFF, MARQUIS DE POIVRARD, COUNT\nROUVALOFF.\n\n\nPRINCE PETRO. He is beginning well, this young Czar.\n\nBARON RAFF (_shrugs his shoulders_). All young Czars do begin well.\n\nCOUNT R. And end badly.\n\n[1]MARQ. DE POIV. Well, I have no right to complain. He has done me one\ngood service, at any rate.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Cancelled your appointment to Archangel, I suppose?\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. Yes; my head wouldn\'t have been safe there for an\nhour.[1]\n\n(_Enter GENERAL KOTEMKIN._)\n\nBARON RAFF. Ah! General, any more news of our romantic Emperor?\n\nGEN. KOTEMK. You are quite right to call him romantic, Baron; a week ago\nI found him amusing himself in a garret with a company of strolling\nplayers; to-day his whim is all the convicts in Siberia are to be\nrecalled, and political prisoners, as he calls them, amnestied.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Political prisoners! Why, half of them are no better than\ncommon murderers!\n\nCOUNT R. And the other half much worse?\n\nBARON RAFF. Oh, you wrong them, surely, Count. Wholesale trade has\nalways been more respectable than retail.\n\nCOUNT R. But he is really too romantic. He objected yesterday to my\nhaving the monopoly of the salt tax. He said the people had a right to\nhave cheap salt.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. Oh, that\'s nothing; but he actually disapproved of a\nState banquet every night because there is a famine in the Southern\nprovinces. (_The young CZAR enters unobserved, and overhears the rest._)\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Quelle bétise! The more starvation there is among the\npeople, the better. It teaches them self-denial, an excellent virtue,\nBaron, an excellent virtue.\n\nBARON RAFF. I have often heard so; I have often heard so.\n\nGEN. KOTEMK. He talked of a Parliament, too, in Russia, and said the\npeople should have deputies to represent them.\n\nBARON RAFF. As if there was not enough brawling in the streets already,\nbut we must give the people a room to do it in. But, Messieurs, the\nworst is yet to come. He threatens a complete reform in the public\nservice on the ground that the people are too heavily taxed.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. He can\'t be serious there. What is the use of the people\nexcept[2] to get money out of? But talking of taxes, my dear Baron, you\nmust really let me have forty thousand roubles to-morrow? my wife says\nshe must have a new diamond bracelet.\n\nCOUNT R. (_aside to BARON RAFF_). Ah, to match the one Prince Paul gave\nher last week, I suppose.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. I must have sixty thousand roubles at once, Baron. My son\nis overwhelmed with debts of honour which he can\'t pay.\n\nBARON RAFF. What an excellent son to imitate his father so carefully!\n\nGEN. KOTEMK. You are always getting money. I never get a single kopeck I\nhave not got a right to. It\'s unbearable; it\'s ridiculous! My nephew is\ngoing to be married. I must get his dowry for him.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. My dear General, your nephew must be a perfect Turk. He\nseems to get married three times a week regularly.\n\nGEN. KOT. Well, he wants a dowry to console him.\n\nCOUNT R. I am sick of town. I want a house in the country.\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. I am sick of the country. I want a house in town.\n\nBARON RAFF. Mes amis, I am extremely sorry for you. It is out of the\nquestion.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. But my son, Baron?\n\nGEN. KOTEMK. But my nephew?\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. But my house in town?\n\nCOUNT R. But my house in the country?\n\nMARQ. DE POIV. But my wife\'s diamond bracelet?\n\nBARON RAFF. Gentlemen, impossible! The old _regime_ in Russia is dead;\nthe funeral begins to-day.\n\nCOUNT R. Then I shall wait for the resurrection.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Yes, but, _en attendant_, what are we to do?\n\nBARON RAFF. What have we always done in Russia when a Czar suggests\nreforms?--nothing. You forget we are diplomatists. Men of thought should\nhave nothing to do with action. Reforms in Russia are very tragic, but\nthey always end in a farce.\n\nCOUNT R. I wish Prince Paul were here. [3]By the bye, I think this boy\nis rather ungrateful to him. If that clever old Prince had not\nproclaimed him Emperor at once without giving him time to think about\nit, he would have given up his crown, I believe, to the first cobbler he\nmet in the street.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. But do you think, Baron, that Prince Paul is really\ngoing?[3]\n\nBARON RAFF. He is exiled.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Yes; but is he going?\n\nBARON RAFF. I am sure of it; at least he told me he had sent two\ntelegrams already to Paris about his dinner.\n\nCOUNT R. Ah! that settles the matter.\n\nCZAR (_coming forward_). Prince Paul better send a third telegram and\norder (_counting them_) six extra places.\n\nBARON RAFF. The devil!\n\nCZAR. No, Baron, the Czar. Traitors! There would be no bad kings in the\nworld if there were no bad ministers like you. It is men such as you who\nwreck mighty empires on the rock of their own greatness. Our mother,\nRussia, hath no need of such unnatural sons. You can make no atonement\nnow; it is too late for that. The grave cannot give back your dead, nor\nthe gibbet your martyrs, but I shall be more merciful to you. I give you\nyour lives! That is the curse I would lay on you. But if there is a man\nof you found in Moscow by to-morrow night your heads will be off your\nshoulders.\n\nBARON RAFF. You remind us wonderfully, Sire, of your Imperial father.\n\nCZAR. I banish you all from Russia. Your estates are confiscated to the\npeople. You may carry your titles with you. Reforms in Russia, Baron,\nalways end in a farce. You will have a good opportunity, Prince\nPetrovitch, of practising self-denial, that excellent virtue! that\nexcellent virtue! So, Baron, you think a Parliament in Russia would be\nmerely a place for brawling. Well, I will see that the reports of each\nsession are sent to you regularly.\n\nBARON RAFF. Sire, you are adding another horror to exile.\n\nCZAR. But you will have such time for literature now. You forget you are\ndiplomatists. Men of thought should have nothing to do with action.\n\nPRINCE PETRO. Sire, we did but jest.\n\nCZAR. Then I banish you for your bad jokes. Bon voyage, Messieurs.[4] If\nyou value your lives you will catch the first train for Paris. (_Exeunt\nMINISTERS._) Russia is well rid of such men as these. They are the\njackals that follow in the lion\'s track. [5]They have no courage\nthemselves, except to pillage and rob.[5] But for these men and for\nPrince Paul my father would have been a good king, would not have died\nso horribly as he did die. How strange it is, the most real parts of\none\'s life always seem to be a dream! The council, the fearful law which\nwas to kill the people, the arrest, the cry in the courtyard, the\npistol-shot, my father\'s bloody hands, and then the crown! One can live\nfor years sometimes, without living at all, and then all life comes\ncrowding into a single hour. I had no time to think. Before my father\'s\nhideous shriek of death had died in my ears I found this crown on my\nhead, the purple robe around me, and heard myself called a king. I would\nhave given it up all then; it seemed nothing to me then; but now, can I\ngive it up now? Well, Colonel, well? (_Enter COLONEL OF THE GUARD._)\n\nCOLONEL. What password does your Imperial Majesty desire should be given\nto-night?\n\nCZAR. Password?\n\nCOLONEL. [6]For the cordon of[6] guards, Sire, on night duty around the\npalace.\n\nCZAR. You can dismiss them. I have no need of them. (_Exit COLONEL._)\n(_Goes to the crown lying on the table._) What subtle potency lies\nhidden in this gaudy bauble, the crown,[7] that makes one feel like a\ngod when one wears it? To hold in one\'s hand this little fiery coloured\nworld, to reach out one\'s arm to earth\'s uttermost limit, to girdle the\nseas with one\'s hosts; this is to wear a crown! to wear a crown! The\nmeanest serf in Russia who is loved is better crowned than I. How love\noutweighs the balance! How poor appears the widest empire of this\ngolden world when matched with love! Pent up in this palace, with spies\ndogging every step, I have heard nothing of her; I have not seen her\nonce since that fearful hour three days ago, when I found myself\nsuddenly the Czar of this wide waste, Russia. Oh, could I see her for a\nmoment; tell her now the secret of my life I have never dared utter\nbefore; tell her why I wear this crown, when I have sworn eternal war\nagainst all crowned men! There was a meeting to-night. I received my\nsummons by an unknown hand; but how could I go? I who have broken my\noath! who have broken my oath!\n\n(_Enter PAGE._)\n\nPAGE. It is after eleven, Sire. Shall I take the first watch in your\nroom to-night?\n\nCZAR. Why should you watch me, boy? The stars are my best sentinels.\n\nPAGE. It was your Imperial father\'s wish, Sire, never to be left alone\nwhile he slept.\n\nCZAR. My father was troubled with bad dreams. Go, get to your bed, boy;\nit is nigh on midnight, and these late hours will spoil those red\ncheeks. (_PAGE tries to kiss his hand._) Nay, nay; we have played\ntogether too often as children for that. Oh, to breathe the same air as\nher, and not to see her! the light seems to have gone from my life, the\nsun vanished from my day.\n\nPAGE. Sire,--Alexis,--let me stay with[8] you to-night! There is some\ndanger over you; I feel there is.\n\nCZAR. What should I fear? I have banished all my enemies from Russia.\nSet the brazier here, by me; it is very cold, and I would sit by it for\na time. Go, boy, go; I have much to think about to-night. (_Goes to back\nof stage, draws aside curtain. View of Moscow by moonlight._) The snow\nhas fallen heavily since sunset. How white and cold my city looks under\nthis pale moon! And yet, what hot and fiery hearts beat in this icy\nRussia, for all its frost and snow! Oh, to see her for a moment; to tell\nher all; to tell her why I am a king! But she does not doubt me; she\nsaid she would trust in me. Though I have broken my oath, she will have\ntrust. It is very cold. Where is my cloak? I shall sleep for an hour.\nThen I have ordered my sledge, and, though I die for it, I shall see\nVera to-night. Did I not bid thee go, boy? What! must I play the tyrant\nso soon? Go, go! I cannot live without seeing her. My horses will be\nhere in an hour; one hour between me and love! How heavy this charcoal\nfire smells. (_Exit the PAGE. Lies down on a couch beside brazier._)\n\n(_Enter VERA in a black cloak._)\n\nVERA. Asleep! God, thou art good! Who shall deliver him from my hands\nnow? [9]This is he! The democrat who would make himself a king, the\nrepublican who hath worn a crown, the traitor who hath lied to us.\nMichael was right. He loved not the people. He loved me not.[9] (_Bends\nover him._) Oh, why should such deadly poison lie in such sweet lips?\nWas there not gold enough in his hair before, that he should tarnish it\nwith this crown? But my day has come now; the day of the people, of\nliberty, has come! Your day, my brother, has come! Though I have\nstrangled whatever nature is in me, I did not think it had been so easy\nto kill. One blow and it is over, and I can wash my hands in water\nafterwards, I can wash my hands afterwards. Come, I shall save Russia. I\nhave sworn it. (_Raises dagger to strike._)\n\nCZAR (_staring up, seizes her by both hands_). Vera, you here! My dream\nwas no dream at all. Why have you left me three days alone, when I most\nneeded you? O God, you think I am a traitor, a liar, a king? I am, for\nlove of you. Vera, it was for you I broke my oath and wear my father\'s\ncrown. I would lay at your feet this mighty Russia, which you and I\nhave loved so well; would give you this earth as a footstool! set this\ncrown on your head. The people will love us. We will rule them by love,\nas a father rules his children. There shall be liberty in Russia for\nevery man to think as his heart bids him; liberty for men to speak as\nthey think. I have banished the wolves that preyed on us; I have brought\nback your brother from Siberia; I have opened the blackened jaws of the\nmine. The courier is already on his way; within a week Dmitri and all\nthose with him will be back in their own land. The people shall be\nfree--are free now--and you and I, Emperor and Empress of this mighty\nrealm, will walk among them openly, in love. When they gave me this\ncrown first, I would have flung it back to them, had it not been for\nyou, Vera. O God! It is men\'s custom in Russia to bring gifts to those\nthey love. I said, I will bring to the woman I love a people, an empire,\na world! Vera, it is for you, for you alone, I kept this crown; for you\nalone I am a king. Oh, I have loved you better than my oath! Why will\nyou not speak to me? You love me not! You love me not! You have come to\nwarn me of some plot against my life. What is life worth to me without\nyou? (_CONSPIRATORS murmur outside._)\n\nVERA. Oh, lost! lost! lost!\n\nCZAR. Nay, you are safe here. It wants five hours still of dawn.\nTo-morrow, I will lead you forth to the whole people--\n\nVERA. To-morrow--!\n\nCZAR. Will crown you with my own hands as Empress in that great\ncathedral which my fathers built.\n\nVERA (_loosens her hands violently from him, and starts up_). I am a\nNihilist! I cannot wear a crown!\n\nCZAR (_falls at her feet_). I am no king now. I am only a boy who has\nloved you better than his honour, better than his oath. For love of the\npeople I would have been a patriot. For love of you I have been a\ntraitor. Let us go forth together, we will live amongst the common\npeople. I am no king. I will toil for you like the peasant or the serf.\nOh, love me a little too! (_CONSPIRATORS murmur outside._)\n\nVERA (_clutching dagger_). To strangle whatever nature is in me, neither\nto love nor to be loved, neither to pity nor---- Oh, I am a woman! God\nhelp me, I am a woman! O Alexis! I too have broken my oath; I am a\ntraitor. I love. Oh, do not speak, do not speak--(_kisses his\nlips_)--the first, the last time. (_He clasps her in his arms; they sit\non the couch together._)\n\nCZAR. I could die now.\n\nVERA. What does death do in thy lips? Thy life, thy love are enemies of\ndeath. Speak not of death. Not yet, not yet.\n\nCZAR. I know not why death came into my heart. Perchance the cup of life\nis filled too full of pleasure to endure. This is our wedding night.\n\nVERA. Our wedding night!\n\nCZAR. And if death came himself, methinks that I could kiss his pallid\nmouth, and suck sweet poison from it.\n\nVERA. Our wedding night! Nay, nay. Death should not sit at the feast.\nThere is no such thing as death.\n\nCZAR. There shall not be for us. (_CONSPIRATORS murmur outside._)\n\nVERA. What is that? Did you not hear something?\n\nCZAR. Only your voice, that fowler\'s note which lures my heart away like\na poor bird upon the limed twig.\n\nVERA. Methought that some one laughed.\n\nCZAR. It was but the wind and rain; the night is full of storm.\n(_CONSPIRATORS murmur outside._)\n\nVERA. It should be so indeed. Oh, where are your guards? where are your\nguards?\n\nCZAR. Where should they be but at home? I shall not live pent round by\nsword and steel. The love of a people is a king\'s best body-guard.\n\nVERA. The love of a people!\n\nCZAR. Sweet, you are safe here. Nothing can harm you here. O love, I\nknew you trusted me! You said you would have trust.\n\nVERA. I have had trust. O love, the past seems but some dull grey dream\nfrom which our souls have wakened. This is life at last.\n\nCZAR. Ay, life at last.\n\nVERA. Our wedding night! Oh, let me drink my fill of love to-night! Nay,\nsweet, not yet, not yet. How still it is, and yet methinks the air is\nfull of music. It is some nightingale who, wearying of the south, has\ncome to sing in this bleak north to lovers such as we. It is the\nnightingale. Dost thou not hear it?\n\nCZAR. Oh, sweet, mine ears are clogged to all sweet sounds save thine\nown voice, and mine eyes blinded to all sights but thee, else had I\nheard that nightingale, and seen the golden-vestured morning sun itself\nsteal from its sombre east before its time for jealousy that thou art\ntwice as fair.\n\nVERA. Yet would that thou hadst heard the nightingale. Methinks that\nbird will never sing again.\n\nCZAR. It is no nightingale. \'Tis love himself singing for very ecstasy\nof joy that thou art changed into his votaress. (_Clock begins striking\ntwelve._) Oh, listen, sweet, it is the lover\'s hour. Come, let us stand\nwithout, and hear the midnight answered from tower to tower over the\nwide white town. Our wedding night! What is that? What is that?\n\n(_Loud murmurs of CONSPIRATORS in the street._)\n\nVERA (_breaks from him and rushes across the stage_). The wedding guests\nare here already! Ay, you shall have your sign! (_Stabs herself._) You\nshall have your sign! (_Rushes to the window._)\n\nCZAR (_intercepts her by rushing between her and window, and snatches\ndagger out of her hand_). Vera!\n\nVERA (_clinging to him_). Give me back the dagger! Give me back the\ndagger! There are men in the street who seek your life! Your guards have\nbetrayed you! This bloody dagger is the signal that you are dead.\n(_CONSPIRATORS begin to shout below in the street._) Oh, there is not a\nmoment to be lost! Throw it out! Throw it out! Nothing can save me now;\nthis dagger is poisoned! I feel death already in my heart.\n\nCZAR (_holding dagger out of her reach_). Death is in my heart too; we\nshall die together.\n\nVERA. Oh, love! love! love! be merciful to me! The wolves are hot upon\nyou! you must live for liberty, for Russia, for me! Oh, you do not love\nme! You offered me an empire once! Give me this dagger now! Oh, you are\ncruel! My life for yours! What does it matter? (_Loud shouts in the\nstreet, "VERA! VERA! To the rescue! To the rescue!_")\n\nCZAR. The bitterness of death is past for me.\n\nVERA. Oh, they are breaking in below! See! The bloody man behind you!\n(_CZAREVITCH turns round for an instant._) Ah! (_VERA snatches dagger\nand flings it out of window._)\n\nCONSPS. (_below_). Long live the people!\n\nCZAR. What have you done?\n\nVERA. I have saved Russia (_Dies._)\n\n\nTABLEAU.\n\n\n\n\nCORRECTIONS AND ADDITIONS.\n\nMADE BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS ORIGINAL COPY.\n\n_The numbers of the "Notes" correspond with the superior figures in the\nbody of the text._\n\n\nACT I.\n\n Note [1]: Changed to 2 in violet pencil.\n [2]: Lines from 2 to 2 scored out.\n [3]: These lines scored out, and "we will have" added.\n [4]: This word underlined.\n [5]: These lines scored out.\n [6]: These lines scored out, "what news to-night?" inserted.\n [7]: Lines scored out.\n [8]: Altered to "He."\n [9]: Lines scored out.\n [10]: Altered to "signal for."\n [11]: Lines scored out.\n [12]: Lines scored out.\n [13]: Altered to "Be calm, Michael!"\n [14]: These words underlined.\n [15]: Words underlined.\n [16]: Word underlined.\n [17]: Lines scored out.\n [18]: Words scored out.\n [19]: Lines scored out, "from Berlin" inserted.\n [20]: Word scored through.\n [21]: Altered to "strong."\n [22]: These lines scored through.\n [23]: Scored through.\n [24]: Altered to "martial law scheme."\n [25]: Altered to "To raise the barricades."\n [26]: Crossed out.\n [27]: The word "pause" as a stage direction inserted.\n [28]: Lines crossed out.\n [29]: Scored through.\n [30]: Scored through.\n [31]: Word underlined.\n [32]: Word underlined.\n [33]: Words "Who is there?" inserted.\n [34]: Scored through.\n [35]: Scored through.\n [36]: Scored through.\n [37]: Altered to "He has sold us."\n [38]: Word underlined.\n\n\nACT II.\n\n Note [1]: Lines scored through.\n [2]: Altered to "you missed."\n [3]: Altered to "profession."\n [4]: Scored through.\n [5]: Word scored through.\n [6]: Insert "for them to go to."\n [7]: Insert "dining."\n [8]: Altered to "bored to death."\n [9]: Scored through.\n [10]: Word underlined.\n [11]: Altered to "a."\n [12]: Lines scored through.\n [13]: "O God!" scored through.\n [14]: Scored through.\n [15]: Lines scored through.\n [16]: Words scored through.\n [17]: Word underlined.\n [18]: Word underlined.\n [19]: Words underlined.\n [20]: Stage direction, "a pause" indicated.\n [21]: Altered to "may."\n [22]: Word "I" underlined.\n [23]: This speech cut out.\n\n\nACT III.\n\n Note [1]: "Marat" underlined.\n [2]: Altered to "VERA. Unmask! a spy!"\n [3]: Scored through.\n [4]: Scored through.\n [5]: Scored through.\n [6]: Lines scored through.\n [7]: Insert "and quite as unintelligible."\n [8]: Alter "PRES." to "VERA."\n [9]: Scored through.\n [10]: These lines struck out.\n [11]: This passage scored through.\n [12]: This is struck out.\n [13]: Scored through.\n [14]: Scored through.\n [15]: This speech cut out.\n [16]: Lines scored through.\n [17]: Lines scored through.\n [18]: Cut out this passage and insert "Alexis" after "but."\n [19]: Lines scored through.\n [20]: Altered to "No! No!"\n [21]: This passage is cut out.\n [22]: Insert "Alexis" in place of "him."\n [23]: Lines scored through.\n [24]: This speech cut out.\n [25]: This passage is scored through.\n [26]: The words "no laugh" are inserted here--possibly as a stage\n direction.\n [27]: Passage scored through.\n [28]: In place of "the Czar" read "Alexis."\n [29]: Delete this speech.\n [30]: This passage is scored out.\n [31]: This passage is scored out.\n [32]: This passage is scored out.\n\n\nACT IV.\n\n Note [1]: These three speeches are scored through.\n [2]: Insert "for the politician."\n [3]: All these lines are cut out.\n [4]: Alter to "Gentlemen."\n [5]: Cut out this sentence.\n [6]: Words scored through.\n [7]: Delete "the crown."\n [8]: Substitute "stop near" for "stay with."\n [9]: This passage is cut out.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\'s Note:\n\n Inconsistent hyphenation has been standardised. Minor typographical\n errors have been corrected without note, whilst significant\n amendments have been listed below:\n\n p. 25, \'Place S. Isaac\' amended to _Place St. Isaac_;\n p. 36, \'Prince Petouchof\' amended to _Count Petouchof_.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA ***\n\n***** This file should be named 26494-8.txt or 26494-8.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/4/9/26494/\n\nProduced by Meredith Bach, Stephen Blundell and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime\n and other stories\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: March 14, 2013 [eBook #773]\n[This file was first posted on January 5, 1997]\n\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n LORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S\n CRIME\n THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H.\n AND OTHER STORIES\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Tenth Edition_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_First Published_—\n _Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime_, _The _1887_\n Canterville Ghost_, _The Sphinx\n without a Secret_, _and the Model\n Millionaire_\n _Issued in Collected Form_ _1891_\n _The Portrait of Mr. W. H._ _1889_\n_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ _March_ _1908_\n(_Limited Edition on Handmade Paper and\nJapanese Vellum_)\n_Third Edition_ (_F’cap. 8vo 5s. net_) _September_ _1908_\n_Fourth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _October_ _1909_\n_Fifth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _March_ _1911_\n_Sixth and Seventh Editions_ (_F’cap. 8vo _April_ _1912_\n1s. net_)\n_Eighth Edition_ (_1s. net_) _September_ _1912_\n_Ninth Edition_ (_1s.net_) _May_ _1913_\n_Tenth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _1913_\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nLORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S CRIME 3\nTHE CANTERVILLE GHOST 65\nTHE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET 121\nTHE MODEL MILLIONAIRE 133\nTHE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. 145\n\n\n\n\nLORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S CRIME\nA STUDY OF DUTY\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nIT was Lady Windermere’s last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House\nwas even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from\nthe Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore\ntheir smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture-gallery stood the\nPrincess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny\nblack eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her\nvoice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It\nwas certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted\naffably to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with\neminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout\nprima-donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal\nAcademicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the\nsupper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of\nLady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly\nhalf-past eleven.\n\nAs soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture-gallery,\nwhere a celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the\nscientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and\nbegan to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully\nbeautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes,\nand her heavy coils of golden hair. _Or pur_ they were—not that pale\nstraw colour that nowadays usurps the gracious name of gold, but such\ngold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in strange amber; and they gave\nto her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the\nfascination of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early\nin life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like\ninnocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half\nof them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a\npersonality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett\ncredits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover,\nthe world had long ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now\nforty years of age, childless, and with that inordinate passion for\npleasure which is the secret of remaining young.\n\nSuddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear\ncontralto voice, ‘Where is my cheiromantist?’\n\n‘Your what, Gladys?’ exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary start.\n\n‘My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can’t live without him at present.’\n\n‘Dear Gladys! you are always so original,’ murmured the Duchess, trying\nto remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the\nsame as a cheiropodist.\n\n‘He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,’ continued Lady\nWindermere, ‘and is most interesting about it.’\n\n‘Good heavens!’ said the Duchess to herself, ‘he is a sort of\ncheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at\nany rate. It wouldn’t be quite so bad then.’\n\n‘I must certainly introduce him to you.’\n\n‘Introduce him!’ cried the Duchess; ‘you don’t mean to say he is here?’\nand she began looking about for a small tortoise-shell fan and a very\ntattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.\n\n‘Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without him.\nHe tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb had been the\nleast little bit shorter, I should have been a confirmed pessimist, and\ngone into a convent.’\n\n‘Oh, I see!’ said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; ‘he tells\nfortunes, I suppose?’\n\n‘And misfortunes, too,’ answered Lady Windermere, ‘any amount of them.\nNext year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land and sea, so I\nam going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket every\nevening. It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of\nmy hand, I forget which.’\n\n‘But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.’\n\n‘My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.\nI think every one should have their hands told once a month, so as to\nknow what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so\npleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn’t go and fetch Mr. Podgers\nat once, I shall have to go myself.’\n\n‘Let me go, Lady Windermere,’ said a tall handsome young man, who was\nstanding by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile.\n\n‘Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn’t recognise\nhim.’\n\n‘If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn’t well miss\nhim. Tell me what he is like, and I’ll bring him to you at once.’\n\n‘Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not\nmysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stout man,\nwith a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles; something\nbetween a family doctor and a country attorney. I’m really very sorry,\nbut it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look\nexactly like poets, and all my poets look exactly like pianists; and I\nremember last season asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man\nwho had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and\ncarried a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came\nhe looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the\nevening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully\ndisappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only\nlaughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is\nMr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of\nPaisley’s hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the left\nhand, the other.’\n\n‘Dear Gladys, I really don’t think it is quite right,’ said the Duchess,\nfeebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.\n\n‘Nothing interesting ever is,’ said Lady Windermere: ‘_on a fait le monde\nainsi_. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet\ncheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley, and if you\nsay that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I have, I will never\nbelieve in you again.’\n\n‘I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,’ said the\nDuchess gravely.\n\n‘Your Grace is quite right,’ said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the little fat\nhand with its short square fingers, ‘the mountain of the moon is not\ndeveloped. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the\nwrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the _rascette_! You will\nlive to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy. Ambition—very\nmoderate, line of intellect not exaggerated, line of heart—’\n\n‘Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,’ cried Lady Windermere.\n\n‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Mr. Podgers, bowing, ‘if\nthe Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see great\npermanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of duty.’\n\n‘Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,’ said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.\n\n‘Economy is not the least of your Grace’s virtues,’ continued Mr.\nPodgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter.\n\n‘Economy is a very good thing,’ remarked the Duchess complacently; ‘when\nI married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to\nlive in.’\n\n‘And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,’ cried Lady\nWindermere.\n\n‘Well, my dear,’ said the Duchess, ‘I like—’\n\n‘Comfort,’ said Mr. Podgers, ‘and modern improvements, and hot water laid\non in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only\nthing our civilisation can give us.\n\n‘You have told the Duchess’s character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and now\nyou must tell Lady Flora’s’; and in answer to a nod from the smiling\nhostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder-blades,\nstepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand\nwith spatulate fingers.\n\n‘Ah, a pianist! I see,’ said Mr. Podgers, ‘an excellent pianist, but\nperhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with a great\nlove of animals.’\n\n‘Quite true!’ exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere,\n‘absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and\nwould turn our town house into a menagerie if her father would let her.’\n\n‘Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,’\ncried Lady Windermere, laughing, ‘only I like lions better than collie\ndogs.’\n\n‘Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,’ said Mr. Podgers, with a pompous\nbow.\n\n‘If a woman can’t make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,’ was\nthe answer. ‘But you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir\nThomas, show Mr. Podgers yours’; and a genial-looking old gentleman, in a\nwhite waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged hand, with a\nvery long third finger.\n\n‘An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come.\nBeen ship-wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in danger of a\nshipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, very punctual, and\nwith a passion for collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between\nthe ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about thirty.\nGreat aversion to cats and Radicals.’\n\n‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed Sir Thomas; ‘you must really tell my wife’s\nhand, too.’\n\n‘Your second wife’s,’ said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir\nThomas’s hand in his. ‘Your second wife’s. I shall be charmed’; but\nLady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and sentimental\neyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future exposed; and\nnothing that Lady Windermere could do would induce Monsieur de Koloff,\nthe Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many\npeople seemed afraid to face the odd little man with his stereotyped\nsmile, his gold spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes; and when he told\npoor Lady Fermor, right out before every one, that she did not care a bit\nfor music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt\nthat cheiromancy was a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to\nbe encouraged, except in a _tête-à-tête_.\n\nLord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady\nFermor’s unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgers with a\ngreat deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity to have his\nown hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting himself forward,\ncrossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was sitting, and, with a\ncharming blush, asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.\n\n‘Of course, he won’t mind,’ said Lady Windermere, ‘that is what he is\nhere for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump\nthrough hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I\nshall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me to-morrow,\nto talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out that you have a bad\ntemper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall\ncertainly let her know all about it.’\n\nLord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. ‘I am not afraid,’ he answered.\n‘Sybil knows me as well as I know her.’\n\n‘Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for\nmarriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I\nhave merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same thing.\nMr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his hand read. Don’t\ntell him that he is engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in London,\nbecause that appeared in the _Morning Post_ a month ago.\n\n‘Dear Lady Windermere,’ cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, ‘do let Mr.\nPodgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I should go on\nthe stage, and I am so interested.’\n\n‘If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away.\nCome over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur’s hand.’\n\n‘Well,’ said Lady Jedburgh, making a little _moue_ as she rose from the\nsofa, ‘if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to\nbe part of the audience at any rate.’\n\n‘Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,’ said Lady\nWindermere; ‘and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice.\nLord Arthur is one of my special favourites.’\n\nBut when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur’s hand he grew curiously pale, and\nsaid nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great bushy\neyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had when\nhe was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his\nyellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and\nclammy.\n\nLord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and,\nfor the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to\nrush from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the\nworst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.\n\n‘I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,’ he said.\n\n‘We are all waiting,’ cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient\nmanner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.\n\n‘I believe Arthur is going on the stage,’ said Lady Jedburgh, ‘and that,\nafter your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.’\n\nSuddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur’s right hand, and seized hold of\nhis left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of his\nspectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face became\na white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his _sang-froid_, and\nlooking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, ‘It is the hand\nof a charming young man.\n\n‘Of course it is!’ answered Lady Windermere, ‘but will he be a charming\nhusband? That is what I want to know.’\n\n‘All charming young men are,’ said Mr. Podgers.\n\n‘I don’t think a husband should be too fascinating,’ murmured Lady\nJedburgh pensively, ‘it is so dangerous.’\n\n‘My dear child, they never are too fascinating,’ cried Lady Windermere.\n‘But what I want are details. Details are the only things that interest.\nWhat is going to happen to Lord Arthur?’\n\n‘Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage—’\n\n‘Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!’\n\n‘And lose a relative.’\n\n‘Not his sister, I hope?’ said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.\n\n‘Certainly not his sister,’ answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating wave\nof the hand, ‘a distant relative merely.’\n\n‘Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,’ said Lady Windermere. ‘I have\nabsolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares about distant\nrelatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I\nsuppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for\nchurch, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have\neaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. François used to\nmake excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at\npresent, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General\nBoulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?’\n\n‘Not at all, dear Gladys,’ answered the Duchess, waddling towards the\ndoor. ‘I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the\ncheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my tortoise-shell\nfan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace shawl, Flora?\nOh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I’m sure’; and the worthy creature\nfinally managed to get downstairs without dropping her scent-bottle more\nthan twice.\n\nAll this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace,\nwith the same feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of\ncoming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as she swept past him on\nLord Plymdale’s arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls, and\nhe hardly heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to follow her. He\nthought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come between\nthem made his eyes dim with tears.\n\nLooking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of\nPallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s head. He seemed turned to stone, and\nhis face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate\nand luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite\nin its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and\nnow for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of\nDestiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.\n\nHow mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his\nhand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another\ncould decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-red sign of\ncrime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than chessmen,\nmoved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy, for\nhonour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt\nthat some tragedy was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly\ncalled upon to bear an intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate.\nThey can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether\nthey will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it\nis different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which\nthey have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and\nour Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the\nplay is badly cast.\n\nSuddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he\nstarted, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow\ncolour. The two men’s eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.\n\n‘The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked\nme to bring it to her,’ said Mr. Podgers finally. ‘Ah, I see it on the\nsofa! Good evening.’\n\n‘Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to\na question I am going to put to you.’\n\n‘Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid I\nmust go.’\n\n‘You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.’\n\n‘Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,’ said Mr. Podgers, with\nhis sickly smile. ‘The fair sex is apt to be impatient.’\n\nLord Arthur’s finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor\nDuchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment. He\nwalked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his\nhand out.\n\n‘Tell me what you saw there,’ he said. ‘Tell me the truth. I must know\nit. I am not a child.’\n\nMr. Podgers’s eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and he\nmoved uneasily from one foot to the other, while his fingers played\nnervously with a flash watch-chain.\n\n‘What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur, more\nthan I told you?’\n\n‘I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I will pay\nyou. I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds.’\n\nThe green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again.\n\n‘Guineas?’ said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice.\n\n‘Certainly. I will send you a cheque to-morrow. What is your club?’\n\n‘I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address is—,\nbut allow me to give you my card’; and producing a bit of gilt-edge\npasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed it, with a low\nbow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it,\n\n _Mr. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERS_\n _Professional Cheiromantist_\n 103_a_ _West Moon Street_\n\n‘My hours are from ten to four,’ murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically, ‘and\nI make a reduction for families.’\n\n‘Be quick,’ cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding his hand\nout.\n\nMr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy _portière_ across\nthe door.\n\n‘It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down.’\n\n‘Be quick, sir,’ cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily on\nthe polished floor.\n\nMr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small magnifying glass,\nand wiped it carefully with his handkerchief.\n\n‘I am quite ready,’ he said.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nTEN minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with\ngrief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his way\nthrough the crowd of fur-coated footmen that stood round the large\nstriped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The night was\nbitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and flickered in\nthe keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned\nlike fire. On and on he went, almost with the gait of a drunken man. A\npoliceman looked curiously at him as he passed, and a beggar, who\nslouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery\ngreater than his own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his\nhands. He thought he could detect the stain of blood already upon them,\nand a faint cry broke from his trembling lips.\n\nMurder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very\nnight seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear.\nThe dark corners of the streets were full of it. It grinned at him from\nthe roofs of the houses.\n\nFirst he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him.\nHe leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow against the\nwet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the trees. ‘Murder!\nmurder!’ he kept repeating, as though iteration could dim the horror of\nthe word. The sound of his own voice made him shudder, yet he almost\nhoped that Echo might hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its\ndreams. He felt a mad desire to stop the casual passer-by, and tell him\neverything.\n\nThen he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys. Two\nwomen with painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From a dark\ncourtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrill screams,\nand, huddled upon a damp door-step, he saw the crook-backed forms of\npoverty and eld. A strange pity came over him. Were these children of\nsin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his? Were they, like\nhim, merely the puppets of a monstrous show?\n\nAnd yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck\nhim; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How\nincoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He was amazed\nat the discord between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real\nfacts of existence. He was still very young.\n\nAfter a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The silent\nroadway looked like a long riband of polished silver, flecked here and\nthere by the dark arabesques of waving shadows. Far into the distance\ncurved the line of flickering gas-lamps, and outside a little walled-in\nhouse stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleep inside. He walked\nhastily in the direction of Portland Place, now and then looking round,\nas though he feared that he was being followed. At the corner of Rich\nStreet stood two men, reading a small bill upon a hoarding. An odd\nfeeling of curiosity stirred him, and he crossed over. As he came near,\nthe word ‘Murder,’ printed in black letters, met his eye. He started,\nand a deep flush came into his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a\nreward for any information leading to the arrest of a man of medium\nheight, between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat,\na black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right cheek.\nHe read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretched man would be\ncaught, and how he had been scarred. Perhaps, some day, his own name\nmight be placarded on the walls of London. Some day, perhaps, a price\nwould be set on his head also.\n\nThe thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and\nhurried on into the night.\n\nWhere he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a\nlabyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web of sombre\nstreets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at last in\nPiccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square, he met\nthe great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The white-smocked\ncarters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode\nsturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each\nother; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling team,\nsat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping\ntight hold of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great\npiles of vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky,\nlike masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous\nrose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There\nwas something in the dawn’s delicate loveliness that seemed to him\ninexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in\nbeauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with their rough,\ngood-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange London\nthey saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a\npallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they\nthought of it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its\nshame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of\nall it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a\nmart where they brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for\na few hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still\nasleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as\nthey were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait,\nthey brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived\nwith Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He envied them all that\nthey did not know.\n\nBy the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and\nthe birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nWHEN Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o’clock, and the midday sun was\nstreaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up and\nlooked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over the great\ncity, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver. In the\nflickering green of the square below some children were flitting about\nlike white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded with people on their\nway to the Park. Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had the\nthings of evil seemed more remote.\n\nThen his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he had\ndrunk it, he drew aside a heavy _portière_ of peach-coloured plush, and\npassed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from above, through\nthin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble tank\nglimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till the cool ripples\ntouched throat and hair, and then dipped his head right under, as though\nhe would have wiped away the stain of some shameful memory. When he\nstepped out he felt almost at peace. The exquisite physical conditions\nof the moment had dominated him, as indeed often happens in the case of\nvery finely-wrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can purify as\nwell as destroy.\n\nAfter breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette.\nOn the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stood a large\nphotograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at Lady Noel’s ball.\nThe small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to one side, as\nthough the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the burden of so much\nbeauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet music;\nand all the tender purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from the\ndreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress of _crêpe-de-chine_, and\nher large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little\nfigures men find in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch\nof Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not _petite_. She\nwas simply perfectly proportioned—a rare thing in an age when so many\nwomen are either over life-size or insignificant.\n\nNow as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity\nthat is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom of murder\nhanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of Judas, a sin\nworse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What happiness could\nthere be for them, when at any moment he might be called upon to carry\nout the awful prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life would be\ntheirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the scales? The\nmarriage must be postponed, at all costs. Of this he was quite resolved.\nArdently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers,\nwhen they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite\njoy, he recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was\nfully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had\ncommitted the murder. This done, he could stand before the altar with\nSybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of\nwrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that she\nwould never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head in shame.\nBut done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.\n\nMany men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of\ndalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too\nconscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than mere\npassion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is good\nand noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance against what he was\nasked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not\na sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there was no other\ncourse open. He had to choose between living for himself and living for\nothers, and terrible though the task laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet\nhe knew that he must not suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner\nor later we are all called upon to decide on the same issue—of us all,\nthe same question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life—before\nhis nature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of middle-age, or\nhis heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable egotism of our day, and he\nfelt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunately also, for him, he\nwas no mere dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had he been so, he would have\nhesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution mar his purpose. But he was\nessentially practical. Life to him meant action, rather than thought.\nHe had that rarest of all things, common sense.\n\nThe wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time\ncompletely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame that he\nlooked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, his fierce\nemotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings made them seem\nunreal to him now. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to\nrant and rave about the inevitable. The only question that seemed to\ntrouble him was, whom to make away with; for he was not blind to the fact\nthat murder, like the religions of the Pagan world, requires a victim as\nwell as a priest. Not being a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he\nfelt that this was not the time for the gratification of any personal\npique or dislike, the mission in which he was engaged being one of great\nand grave solemnity. He accordingly made out a list of his friends and\nrelatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful consideration,\ndecided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who lived\nin Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his mother’s side. He\nhad always been very fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and as\nhe was very wealthy himself, having come into all Lord Rugby’s property\nwhen he came of age, there was no possibility of his deriving any vulgar\nmonetary advantage by her death. In fact, the more he thought over the\nmatter, the more she seemed to him to be just the right person, and,\nfeeling that any delay would be unfair to Sybil, he determined to make\nhis arrangements at once.\n\nThe first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the\ncheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton writing-table that\nstood near the window, drew a cheque for £105, payable to the order of\nMr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an envelope, told his valet to\ntake it to West Moon Street. He then telephoned to the stables for his\nhansom, and dressed to go out. As he was leaving the room he looked back\nat Sybil Merton’s photograph, and swore that, come what may, he would\nnever let her know what he was doing for her sake, but would keep the\nsecret of his self-sacrifice hidden always in his heart.\n\nOn his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist’s, and sent Sybil a\nbeautiful basket of narcissus, with lovely white petals and staring\npheasants’ eyes, and on arriving at the club, went straight to the\nlibrary, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him a\nlemon-and-soda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully decided that\npoison was the best means to adopt in this troublesome business.\nAnything like personal violence was extremely distasteful to him, and\nbesides, he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina in any way\nthat might attract public attention, as he hated the idea of being\nlionised at Lady Windermere’s, or seeing his name figuring in the\nparagraphs of vulgar society—newspapers. He had also to think of Sybil’s\nfather and mother, who were rather old-fashioned people, and might\npossibly object to the marriage if there was anything like a scandal,\nthough he felt certain that if he told them the whole facts of the case\nthey would be the very first to appreciate the motives that had actuated\nhim. He had every reason, then, to decide in favour of poison. It was\nsafe, sure, and quiet, and did away with any necessity for painful\nscenes, to which, like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection.\n\nOf the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, and as\nthe waiter seemed quite unable to find anything in the library but\n_Ruff’s Guide_ and _Bailey’s Magazine_, he examined the book-shelves\nhimself, and finally came across a handsomely-bound edition of the\n_Pharmacopoeia_, and a copy of Erskine’s _Toxicology_, edited by Sir\nMathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians, and one of\nthe oldest members of the Buckingham, having been elected in mistake for\nsomebody else; a _contretemps_ that so enraged the Committee, that when\nthe real man came up they black-balled him unanimously. Lord Arthur was\na good deal puzzled at the technical terms used in both books, and had\nbegun to regret that he had not paid more attention to his classics at\nOxford, when in the second volume of Erskine, he found a very interesting\nand complete account of the properties of aconitine, written in fairly\nclear English. It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It\nwas swift—indeed, almost immediate, in its effect—perfectly painless, and\nwhen taken in the form of a gelatine capsule, the mode recommended by Sir\nMathew, not by any means unpalatable. He accordingly made a note, upon\nhis shirt-cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal dose, put the books\nback in their places, and strolled up St. James’s Street, to Pestle and\nHumbey’s, the great chemists. Mr. Pestle, who always attended personally\non the aristocracy, was a good deal surprised at the order, and in a very\ndeferential manner murmured something about a medical certificate being\nnecessary. However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him that it was\nfor a large Norwegian mastiff that he was obliged to get rid of, as it\nshowed signs of incipient rabies, and had already bitten the coachman\ntwice in the calf of the leg, he expressed himself as being perfectly\nsatisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his wonderful knowledge of\nToxicology, and had the prescription made up immediately.\n\nLord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver _bonbonnière_\nthat he saw in a shop window in Bond Street, threw away Pestle and\nHambey’s ugly pill-box, and drove off at once to Lady Clementina’s.\n\n‘Well, _monsieur le mauvais sujet_,’ cried the old lady, as he entered\nthe room, ‘why haven’t you been to see me all this time?’\n\n‘My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself,’ said Lord Arthur,\nsmiling.\n\n‘I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss Sybil\nMerton, buying _chiffons_ and talking nonsense? I cannot understand why\npeople make such a fuss about being married. In my day we never dreamed\nof billing and cooing in public, or in private for that matter.’\n\n‘I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty-four hours, Lady Clem. As\nfar as I can make out, she belongs entirely to her milliners.’\n\n‘Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly old woman\nlike myself. I wonder you men don’t take warning. _On a fait des folies\npour moi_, and here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, with a false front\nand a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady Jansen, who sends me\nall the worst French novels she can find, I don’t think I could get\nthrough the day. Doctors are no use at all, except to get fees out of\none. They can’t even cure my heartburn.’\n\n‘I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,’ said Lord Arthur\ngravely. ‘It is a wonderful thing, invented by an American.’\n\n‘I don’t think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sure I\ndon’t. I read some American novels lately, and they were quite\nnonsensical.’\n\n‘Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! I assure you\nit is a perfect cure. You must promise to try it’; and Lord Arthur\nbrought the little box out of his pocket, and handed it to her.\n\n‘Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? That is\nvery sweet of you. And is this the wonderful medicine? It looks like a\n_bonbon_. I’ll take it at once.’\n\n‘Good heavens! Lady Clem,’ cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of her hand,\n‘you mustn’t do anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathic medicine, and\nif you take it without having heartburn, it might do you no end of harm.\nWait till you have an attack, and take it then. You will be astonished\nat the result.’\n\n‘I should like to take it now,’ said Lady Clementina, holding up to the\nlight the little transparent capsule, with its floating bubble of liquid\naconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The fact is that, though I hate\ndoctors, I love medicines. However, I’ll keep it till my next attack.’\n\n‘And when will that be?’ asked Lord Arthur eagerly. ‘Will it be soon?’\n\n‘I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morning with it.\nBut one never knows.’\n\n‘You are sure to have one before the end of the month then, Lady Clem?’\n\n‘I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are to-day, Arthur! Really,\nSybil has done you a great deal of good. And now you must run away, for\nI am dining with some very dull people, who won’t talk scandal, and I\nknow that if I don’t get my sleep now I shall never be able to keep awake\nduring dinner. Good-bye, Arthur, give my love to Sybil, and thank you so\nmuch for the American medicine.’\n\n‘You won’t forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?’ said Lord Arthur,\nrising from his seat.\n\n‘Of course I won’t, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of you to\nthink of me, and I shall write and tell you if I want any more.’\n\nLord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling of immense\nrelief.\n\nThat night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her how he had\nbeen suddenly placed in a position of terrible difficulty, from which\nneither honour nor duty would allow him to recede. He told her that the\nmarriage must be put off for the present, as until he had got rid of his\nfearful entanglements, he was not a free man. He implored her to trust\nhim, and not to have any doubts about the future. Everything would come\nright, but patience was necessary.\n\nThe scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton’s house, in Park\nLane, where Lord Arthur had dined as usual. Sybil had never seemed more\nhappy, and for a moment Lord Arthur had been tempted to play the coward’s\npart, to write to Lady Clementina for the pill, and to let the marriage\ngo on as if there was no such person as Mr. Podgers in the world. His\nbetter nature, however, soon asserted itself, and even when Sybil flung\nherself weeping into his arms, he did not falter. The beauty that\nstirred his senses had touched his conscience also. He felt that to\nwreck so fair a life for the sake of a few months’ pleasure would be a\nwrong thing to do.\n\nHe stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and being\ncomforted in turn, and early the next morning he left for Venice, after\nwriting a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about the necessary\npostponement of the marriage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nIN Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to have come\nover from Corfu in his yacht. The two young men spent a delightful\nfortnight together. In the morning they rode on the Lido, or glided up\nand down the green canals in their long black gondola; in the afternoon\nthey usually entertained visitors on the yacht; and in the evening they\ndined at Florian’s, and smoked innumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet\nsomehow Lord Arthur was not happy. Every day he studied the obituary\ncolumn in the _Times_, expecting to see a notice of Lady Clementina’s\ndeath, but every day he was disappointed. He began to be afraid that\nsome accident had happened to her, and often regretted that he had\nprevented her taking the aconitine when she had been so anxious to try\nits effect. Sybil’s letters, too, though full of love, and trust, and\ntenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and sometimes he used to\nthink that he was parted from her for ever.\n\nAfter a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and determined to\nrun down the coast to Ravenna, as he heard that there was some capital\ncock-shooting in the Pinetum. Lord Arthur at first refused absolutely to\ncome, but Surbiton, of whom he was extremely fond, finally persuaded him\nthat if he stayed at Danieli’s by himself he would be moped to death, and\non the morning of the 15th they started, with a strong nor’-east wind\nblowing, and a rather choppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free,\nopen-air life brought the colour back to Lord Arthur’s cheek, but about\nthe 22nd he became anxious about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of\nSurbiton’s remonstrances, came back to Venice by train.\n\nAs he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the proprietor\ncame forward to meet him with a sheaf of telegrams. Lord Arthur snatched\nthem out of his hand, and tore them open. Everything had been\nsuccessful. Lady Clementina had died quite suddenly on the night of the\n17th!\n\nHis first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegram\nannouncing his immediate return to London. He then ordered his valet to\npack his things for the night mail, sent his gondoliers about five times\ntheir proper fare, and ran up to his sitting-room with a light step and a\nbuoyant heart. There he found three letters waiting for him. One was\nfrom Sybil herself, full of sympathy and condolence. The others were\nfrom his mother, and from Lady Clementina’s solicitor. It seemed that\nthe old lady had dined with the Duchess that very night, had delighted\nevery one by her wit and _esprit_, but had gone home somewhat early,\ncomplaining of heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed,\nhaving apparently suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been sent for at\nonce, but, of course, there was nothing to be done, and she was to be\nburied on the 22nd at Beauchamp Chalcote. A few days before she died she\nhad made her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house in Curzon\nStreet, and all her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, with the\nexception of her collection of miniatures, which was to go to her sister,\nLady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst necklace, which Sybil Merton was\nto have. The property was not of much value; but Mr. Mansfield, the\nsolicitor, was extremely anxious for Lord Arthur to return at once, if\npossible, as there were a great many bills to be paid, and Lady\nClementina had never kept any regular accounts.\n\nLord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina’s kind remembrance\nof him, and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great deal to answer for. His\nlove of Sybil, however, dominated every other emotion, and the\nconsciousness that he had done his duty gave him peace and comfort. When\nhe arrived at Charing Cross, he felt perfectly happy.\n\nThe Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise that he\nwould never again allow anything to come between them, and the marriage\nwas fixed for the 7th June. Life seemed to him once more bright and\nbeautiful, and all his old gladness came back to him again.\n\nOne day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street, in\ncompany with Lady Clementina’s solicitor and Sybil herself, burning\npackages of faded letters, and turning out drawers of odd rubbish, the\nyoung girl suddenly gave a little cry of delight.\n\n‘What have you found, Sybil?’ said Lord Arthur, looking up from his work,\nand smiling.\n\n‘This lovely little silver _bonbonnière_, Arthur. Isn’t it quaint and\nDutch? Do give it to me! I know amethysts won’t become me till I am\nover eighty.’\n\nIt was the box that had held the aconitine.\n\nLord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He had\nalmost entirely forgotten what he had done, and it seemed to him a\ncurious coincidence that Sybil, for whose sake he had gone through all\nthat terrible anxiety, should have been the first to remind him of it.\n\n‘Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to poor Lady Clem myself.’\n\n‘Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the _bonbon_ too? I had no notion\nthat Lady Clementina liked sweets. I thought she was far too\nintellectual.’\n\nLord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his mind.\n\n‘_Bonbon_, Sybil? What do you mean?’ he said in a slow, hoarse voice.\n\n‘There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty, and I\nhave not the slightest intention of eating it. What is the matter,\nArthur? How white you look!’\n\nLord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside it was\nthe amber-coloured capsule, with its poison-bubble. Lady Clementina had\ndied a natural death after all!\n\nThe shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flung the\ncapsule into the fire, and sank on the sofa with a cry of despair.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nMR. Merton was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of the\nmarriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress for the\nwedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the match. Dearly,\nhowever, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her whole life into\nLord Arthur’s hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could say could make her\nwaver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, it took him days to get\nover his terrible disappointment, and for a time his nerves were\ncompletely unstrung. His excellent common sense, however, soon asserted\nitself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him long in doubt\nabout what to do. Poison having proved a complete failure, dynamite, or\nsome other form of explosive, was obviously the proper thing to try.\n\nHe accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and relatives,\nand, after careful consideration, determined to blow up his uncle, the\nDean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of great culture and\nlearning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a wonderful collection of\ntimepieces, ranging from the fifteenth century to the present day, and it\nseemed to Lord Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean’s offered him an\nexcellent opportunity for carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an\nexplosive machine was, of course, quite another matter. The London\nDirectory gave him no information on the point, and he felt that there\nwas very little use in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never\nseemed to know anything about the movements of the dynamite faction till\nafter an explosion had taken place, and not much even then.\n\nSuddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very\nrevolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere’s in the\nwinter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life of Peter the\nGreat, and to have come over to England for the purpose of studying the\ndocuments relating to that Tsar’s residence in this country as a ship\ncarpenter; but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist agent,\nand there was no doubt that the Russian Embassy did not look with any\nfavour upon his presence in London. Lord Arthur felt that he was just\nthe man for his purpose, and drove down one morning to his lodgings in\nBloomsbury, to ask his advice and assistance.\n\n‘So you are taking up politics seriously?’ said Count Rouvaloff, when\nLord Arthur had told him the object of his mission; but Lord Arthur, who\nhated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to him that he had not the\nslightest interest in social questions, and simply wanted the explosive\nmachine for a purely family matter, in which no one was concerned but\nhimself.\n\nCount Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and then\nseeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a piece of paper,\ninitialled it, and handed it to him across the table.\n\n‘Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dear\nfellow.’\n\n‘They shan’t have it,’ cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after shaking the\nyoung Russian warmly by the hand he ran downstairs, examined the paper,\nand told the coachman to drive to Soho Square.\n\nThere he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he came to a\nplace called Bayle’s Court. He passed under the archway, and found\nhimself in a curious _cul-de-sac_, that was apparently occupied by a\nFrench Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines was stretched\nacross from house to house, and there was a flutter of white linen in the\nmorning air. He walked right to the end, and knocked at a little green\nhouse. After some delay, during which every window in the court became a\nblurred mass of peering faces, the door was opened by a rather\nrough-looking foreigner, who asked him in very bad English what his\nbusiness was. Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given\nhim. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very\nshabby front parlour on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr\nWinckelkopf, as he was called in England, bustled into the room, with a\nvery wine-stained napkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand.\n\n‘Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,’ said Lord Arthur,\nbowing, ‘and I am anxious to have a short interview with you on a matter\nof business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to\nsupply me with an explosive clock.’\n\n‘Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,’ said the genial little German,\nlaughing. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I\nremember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere’s. I hope her\nladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I finish my\nbreakfast? There is an excellent _pâté_, and my friends are kind enough\nto say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German\nEmbassy,’ and before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise at being\nrecognised, he found himself seated in the back-room, sipping the most\ndelicious Marcobrünner out of a pale yellow hock-glass marked with the\nImperial monogram, and chatting in the friendliest manner possible to the\nfamous conspirator.\n\n‘Explosive clocks,’ said Herr Winckelkopf, ‘are not very good things for\nforeign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing the Custom\nHouse, the train service is so irregular, that they usually go off before\nthey have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want one\nfor home use, I can supply you with an excellent article, and guarantee\nthat you will he satisfied with the result. May I ask for whom it is\nintended? If it is for the police, or for any one connected with\nScotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do anything for you. The English\ndetectives are really our best friends, and I have always found that by\nrelying on their stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not\nspare one of them.’\n\n‘I assure you,’ said Lord Arthur, ‘that it has nothing to do with the\npolice at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean of\nChichester.’\n\n‘Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord\nArthur. Few young men do nowadays.’\n\n‘I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,’ said Lord Arthur,\nblushing. ‘The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.’\n\n‘It is a purely private matter then?’\n\n‘Purely private.’\n\nHerr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in\na few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about the size of a penny,\nand a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an ormolu figure of\nLiberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.\n\nLord Arthur’s face brightened up when he saw it. ‘That is just what I\nwant,’ he cried, ‘and now tell me how it goes off.’\n\n‘Ah! there is my secret,’ answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his\ninvention with a justifiable look of pride; ‘let me know when you wish it\nto explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.’\n\n‘Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once—’\n\n‘That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand for\nsome friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to-morrow.’\n\n‘Oh, it will be quite time enough!’ said Lord Arthur politely, ‘if it is\ndelivered to-morrow night or Thursday morning. For the moment of the\nexplosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at\nthat hour.’\n\n‘Friday, at noon,’ repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that\neffect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near the fireplace.\n\n‘And now,’ said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, ‘pray let me know how\nmuch I am in your debt.’\n\n‘It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make any\ncharge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock will be\nthree pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I am only too\npleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff’s.’\n\n‘But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?’\n\n‘Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for money;\nI live entirely for my art.’\n\nLord Arthur laid down £4, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German\nfor his kindness, and, having succeeded in declining an invitation to\nmeet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the following Saturday, left the\nhouse and went off to the Park.\n\nFor the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and\non Friday at twelve o’clock he drove down to the Buckingham to wait for\nnews. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept posting up telegrams\nfrom various parts of the country giving the results of horse-races, the\nverdicts in divorce suits, the state of the weather, and the like, while\nthe tape ticked out wearisome details about an all-night sitting in the\nHouse of Commons, and a small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four\no’clock the evening papers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the\nlibrary with the _Pall Mall_, the _St. James’s_, the _Globe_, and the\n_Echo_, to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to\nread the reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion\nHouse, on the subject of South African Missions, and the advisability of\nhaving black Bishops in every province, and for some reason or other had\na strong prejudice against the _Evening News_. None of the papers,\nhowever, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and Lord\nArthur felt that the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to\nhim, and for a time he was quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he\nwent to see the next day was full of elaborate apologies, and offered to\nsupply him with another clock free of charge, or with a case of\nnitro-glycerine bombs at cost price. But he had lost all faith in\nexplosives, and Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is\nso adulterated nowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure\ncondition. The little German, however, while admitting that something\nmust have gone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the\nclock might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he\nhad once sent to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though timed to\nexplode in ten days, had not done so for something like three months. It\nwas quite true that when it did go off, it merely succeeded in blowing a\nhousemaid to atoms, the Governor having gone out of town six weeks\nbefore, but at least it showed that dynamite, as a destructive force,\nwas, when under the control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat\nunpunctual agent. Lord Arthur was a little consoled by this reflection,\nbut even here he was destined to disappointment, for two days afterwards,\nas he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and\nshowed him a letter she had just received from the Deanery.\n\n‘Jane writes charming letters,’ said the Duchess; ‘you must really read\nher last. It is quite as good as the novels Mudie sends us.’\n\nLord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:—\n\n THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,\n 27_th_ _May_.\n\n My Dearest Aunt,\n\n Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also\n for the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their\n wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and\n irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see that they\n should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I don’t\n know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in his sermons,\n we live in an age of unbelief.\n\n We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa\n last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage\n paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read\n his remarkable sermon, ‘Is Licence Liberty?’ for on the top of the\n clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said was the cap of\n Liberty on her head. I didn’t think it very becoming myself, but\n papa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all right. Parker\n unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and\n we were all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock\n struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little puff of smoke came\n from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty fell off,\n and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it\n looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits of\n laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we found it\n was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a particular\n hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it went\n off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the\n library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away to the\n schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all day long.\n Do you think Arthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose\n they are quite fashionable in London. Papa says they should do a\n great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can’t last, but must\n fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at the time of the French\n Revolution. How awful it seems!\n\n I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most\n instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in their\n rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is\n absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more\n important things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your\n flowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn.\n I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the\n Bishop’s on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you\n have bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and\n that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had another\n explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables.\n I don’t think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though he is\n very flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. It\n shows that people read his sermons, and profit by them.\n\n Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite,\n and, hoping that Uncle Cecil’s gout is better, believe me, dear aunt,\n ever your affectionate niece,\n\n JANE PERCY.\n\n _PS._—Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the\n fashion.\n\nLord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the\nDuchess went into fits of laughter.\n\n‘My dear Arthur,’ she cried, ‘I shall never show you a young lady’s\nletter again! But what shall I say about the clock? I think it is a\ncapital invention, and I should like to have one myself.’\n\n‘I don’t think much of them,’ said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and,\nafter kissing his mother, he left the room.\n\nWhen he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes filled\nwith tears. He had done his best to commit this murder, but on both\noccasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own. He had tried\nto do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had turned traitor.\nHe was oppressed with the sense of the barrenness of good intentions, of\nthe futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break\noff the marriage altogether. Sybil would suffer, it is true, but\nsuffering could not really mar a nature so noble as hers. As for\nhimself, what did it matter? There is always some war in which a man can\ndie, some cause to which a man can give his life, and as life had no\npleasure for him, so death had no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom.\nHe would not stir to help her.\n\nAt half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton was\nthere with a party of young men, and he was obliged to dine with them.\nTheir trivial conversation and idle jests did not interest him, and as\nsoon as coffee was brought he left them, inventing some engagement in\norder to get away. As he was going out of the club, the hall-porter\nhanded him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call\ndown the next evening, and look at an explosive umbrella, that went off\nas soon as it was opened. It was the very latest invention, and had just\narrived from Geneva. He tore the letter up into fragments. He had made\nup his mind not to try any more experiments. Then he wandered down to\nthe Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered\nthrough a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion’s eye, and\ninnumerable stars spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a\npurple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and\nfloated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to\nscarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some time,\ntwelve o’clock boomed from the tall tower at Westminster, and at each\nstroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble. Then the\nrailway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large\nruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became fainter.\n\nAt two o’clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal\neverything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on the other\nside of the river seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that\nsilver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge dome of St.\nPaul’s loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.\n\nAs he approached Cleopatra’s Needle he saw a man leaning over the\nparapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the gas-light falling\nfull upon his face.\n\nIt was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the fat,\nflabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble smile, the\nsensual mouth.\n\nLord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he stole\nsoftly up behind. In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and\nflung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and\nall was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see nothing\nof the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit\nwater. After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was\nvisible. Once he thought that he caught sight of the bulky misshapen\nfigure striking out for the staircase by the bridge, and a horrible\nfeeling of failure came over him, but it turned out to be merely a\nreflection, and when the moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed\naway. At last he seemed to have realised the decree of destiny. He\nheaved a deep sigh of relief, and Sybil’s name came to his lips.\n\n‘Have you dropped anything, sir?’ said a voice behind him suddenly.\n\nHe turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull’s-eye lantern.\n\n‘Nothing of importance, sergeant,’ he answered, smiling, and hailing a\npassing hansom, he jumped in, and told the man to drive to Belgrave\nSquare.\n\nFor the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There were\nmoments when he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into the room, and\nyet at other times he felt that Fate could not be so unjust to him.\nTwice he went to the cheiromantist’s address in West Moon Street, but he\ncould not bring himself to ring the bell. He longed for certainty, and\nwas afraid of it.\n\nFinally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of the club having\ntea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton’s account of the last comic\nsong at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He\ntook up the _St. James’s_, and was listlessly turning over its pages,\nwhen this strange heading caught his eye:\n\n SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST.\n\nHe turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph ran as\nfollows:\n\n Yesterday morning, at seven o’clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R.\n Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore at Greenwich,\n just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate gentleman had been\n missing for some days, and considerable anxiety for his safety had\n been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is supposed that he committed\n suicide under the influence of a temporary mental derangement, caused\n by overwork, and a verdict to that effect was returned this afternoon\n by the coroner’s jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an elaborate\n treatise on the subject of the Human Hand, that will shortly be\n published, when it will no doubt attract much attention. The\n deceased was sixty-five years of age, and does not seem to have left\n any relations.\n\nLord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand, to\nthe immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in vain to stop him,\nand drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from the window, and\nsomething told her that he was the bearer of good news. She ran down to\nmeet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew that all was well.\n\n‘My dear Sybil,’ cried Lord Arthur, ‘let us be married to-morrow!’\n\n‘You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!’ said Sybil,\nlaughing through her tears.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nWHEN the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter’s was\ncrowded with a perfect mob of smart people. The service was read in the\nmost impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and everybody agreed\nthat they had never seen a handsomer couple than the bride and\nbridegroom. They were more than handsome, however—they were happy.\nNever for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret all that he had suffered\nfor Sybil’s sake, while she, on her side, gave him the best things a\nwoman can give to any man—worship, tenderness, and love. For them\nromance was not killed by reality. They always felt young.\n\nSome years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born to them,\nLady Windermere came down on a visit to Alton Priory, a lovely old place,\nthat had been the Duke’s wedding present to his son; and one afternoon as\nshe was sitting with Lady Arthur under a lime-tree in the garden,\nwatching the little boy and girl as they played up and down the\nrose-walk, like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took her hostess’s hand in\nhers, and said, ‘Are you happy, Sybil?’\n\n‘Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy. Aren’t you?’\n\n‘I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last person who is\nintroduced to me; but, as a rule, as soon as I know people I get tired of\nthem.’\n\n‘Don’t your lions satisfy you, Lady Windermere?’\n\n‘Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as their manes\nare cut, they are the dullest creatures going. Besides, they behave very\nbadly, if you are really nice to them. Do you remember that horrid Mr.\nPodgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I didn’t mind that at\nall, and even when he wanted to borrow money I forgave him, but I could\nnot stand his making love to me. He has really made me hate cheiromancy.\nI go in for telepathy now. It is much more amusing.’\n\n‘You mustn’t say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady Windermere; it\nis the only subject that Arthur does not like people to chaff about. I\nassure you he is quite serious over it.’\n\n‘You don’t mean to say that he believes in it, Sybil?’\n\n‘Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is’; and Lord Arthur came up the\ngarden with a large bunch of yellow roses in his hand, and his two\nchildren dancing round him.\n\n‘Lord Arthur?’\n\n‘Yes, Lady Windermere.’\n\n‘You don’t mean to say that you believe in cheiromancy?’\n\n‘Of course I do,’ said the young man, smiling.\n\n‘But why?’\n\n‘Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life,’ he murmured, throwing\nhimself into a wicker chair.\n\n‘My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?’\n\n‘Sybil,’ he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking into her\nviolet eyes.\n\n‘What nonsense!’ cried Lady Windermere. ‘I never heard such nonsense in\nall my life.’\n\n\n\n\nTHE CANTERVILLE GHOST\nA HYLO-IDEALISTIC ROMANCE\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nWHEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,\nevery one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no\ndoubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville\nhimself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his\nduty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.\n\n‘We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,’ said Lord\nCanterville, ‘since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was\nfrightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two\nskeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for\ndinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been\nseen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of\nthe parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King’s College,\nCambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our\nyounger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very\nlittle sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came\nfrom the corridor and the library.’\n\n‘My Lord,’ answered the Minister, ‘I will take the furniture and the\nghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we have\neverything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows\npainting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses and\nprima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in\nEurope, we’d have it at home in a very short time in one of our public\nmuseums, or on the road as a show.’\n\n‘I fear that the ghost exists,’ said Lord Canterville, smiling, ‘though\nit may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It\nhas been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always\nmakes its appearance before the death of any member of our family.’\n\n‘Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But\nthere is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature\nare not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.’\n\n‘You are certainly very natural in America,’ answered Lord Canterville,\nwho did not quite understand Mr. Otis’s last observation, ‘and if you\ndon’t mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember\nI warned you.’\n\nA few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the close of\nthe season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.\nMrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been\na celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,\nwith fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving\ntheir native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the\nimpression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had\nnever fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a\nreally wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she\nwas quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have\nreally everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course,\nlanguage. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a\nmoment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired,\nrather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American\ndiplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three\nsuccessive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent\ndancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise\nhe was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of\nfifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large\nblue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord\nBilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half,\njust in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young\nDuke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to\nEton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After\nVirginia came the twins, who were usually called ‘The Stars and Stripes,’\nas they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and with\nthe exception of the worthy Minister the only true republicans of the\nfamily.\n\nAs Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway\nstation, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they\nstarted on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening,\nand the air was delicate with the scent of the pine-woods. Now and then\nthey heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep\nin the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little\nsquirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the\nrabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls,\nwith their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of\nCanterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds,\na curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of\nrooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the\nhouse, some big drops of rain had fallen.\n\nStanding on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in\nblack silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the\nhousekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville’s earnest request, had\nconsented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low\ncurtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, ‘I\nbid you welcome to Canterville Chase.’ Following her, they passed\nthrough the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled\nin black oak, at the end of which was a large stained-glass window. Here\nthey found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they\nsat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.\n\nSuddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by\nthe fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to\nMrs. Umney, ‘I am afraid something has been spilt there.’\n\n‘Yes, madam,’ replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, ‘blood has been\nspilt on that spot.’\n\n‘How horrid,’ cried Mrs. Otis; ‘I don’t at all care for blood-stains in a\nsitting-room. It must be removed at once.’\n\nThe old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, ‘It\nis the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that\nvery spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir\nSimon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very\nmysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his\nguilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much\nadmired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed.’\n\n‘That is all nonsense,’ cried Washington Otis; ‘Pinkerton’s Champion\nStain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,’ and\nbefore the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallen upon his\nknees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what\nlooked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the\nblood-stain could be seen.\n\n‘I knew Pinkerton would do it,’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked\nround at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than\na terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of\nthunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.\n\n‘What a monstrous climate!’ said the American Minister calmly, as he lit\na long cheroot. ‘I guess the old country is so overpopulated that they\nhave not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of\nopinion that emigration is the only thing for England.’\n\n‘My dear Hiram,’ cried Mrs. Otis, ‘what can we do with a woman who\nfaints?’\n\n‘Charge it to her like breakages,’ answered the Minister; ‘she won’t\nfaint after that’; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.\nThere was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she\nsternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.\n\n‘I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,’ she said, ‘that would make\nany Christian’s hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not\nclosed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.’ Mr.\nOtis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were\nnot afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on\nher new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of\nsalary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nTHE storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note\noccurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,\nthey found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. ‘I don’t\nthink it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,’ said Washington,\n‘for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.’ He\naccordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it\nappeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the library\nhad been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried\nupstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to\nsuspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of\nghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical\nSociety, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and\nPodmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when\nconnected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective\nexistence of phantasmata were removed for ever.\n\nThe day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the\nwhole family went out for a drive. They did not return home till nine\no’clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned\nupon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive\nexpectation which so often precede the presentation of psychical\nphenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr.\nOtis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured\nAmericans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss\nFanny Davenport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of\nobtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best\nEnglish houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the\nworld-soul; the advantages of the baggage check system in railway\ntravelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the\nLondon drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was\nSir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o’clock the\nfamily retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time\nafter, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside\nhis room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming\nnearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at\nthe time. It was exactly one o’clock. He was quite calm, and felt his\npulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued,\nand with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his\nslippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened\nthe door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man\nof terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair\nfell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of\nantique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung\nheavy manacles and rusty gyves.\n\n‘My dear sir,’ said Mr. Otis, ‘I really must insist on your oiling those\nchains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the\nTammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious\nupon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect\non the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall\nleave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply\nyou with more should you require it.’ With these words the United States\nMinister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door,\nretired to rest.\n\nFor a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural\nindignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor,\nhe fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly\ngreen light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak\nstaircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures\nappeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently\nno time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as\na means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house\nbecame quite quiet.\n\nOn reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against\na moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realise his\nposition. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three\nhundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the\nDowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before\nthe glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone\noff into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains of\none of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he\nhad blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who\nhad been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr\nto nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having\nwakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chair\nby the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks\nwith an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become\nreconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that\nnotorious sceptic Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night\nwhen the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his dressing-room,\nwith the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just\nbefore he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of £50,000 at\nCrockford’s by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made\nhim swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him again, from\nthe butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green\nhand tapping at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was\nalways obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the\nmark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself\nat last in the carp-pond at the end of the King’s Walk. With the\nenthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his most celebrated\nperformances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his\nlast appearance as ‘Red Ruben, or the Strangled Babe,’ his _début_ as\n‘Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,’ and the _furore_ he had\nexcited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own\nbones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, some wretched\nmodern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator,\nand throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no\nghosts in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he\ndetermined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude\nof deep thought.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nTHE next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed\nthe ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a\nlittle annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. ‘I have\nno wish,’ he said, ‘to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say\nthat, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don’t\nthink it is at all polite to throw pillows at him’—a very just remark, at\nwhich, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. ‘Upon\nthe other hand,’ he continued, ‘if he really declines to use the Rising\nSun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be\nquite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the\nbedrooms.’\n\nFor the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing\nthat excited any attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain\non the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was\nalways locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept closely barred.\nThe chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of\ncomment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would\nbe vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family\nprayers, according to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed\nEpiscopalian Church, they found it a bright emerald-green. These\nkaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on\nthe subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did not\nenter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained\nreason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the\nblood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green.\n\nThe second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after\nthey had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the\nhall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armour had\nbecome detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while,\nseated in a high-backed chair, was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his\nknees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having\nbrought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on\nhim, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and\ncareful practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister\ncovered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with\nCalifornian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a\nwild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing\nWashington Otis’s candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total\ndarkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself, and\ndetermined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had\non more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have\nturned Lord Raker’s wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made\nthree of Lady Canterville’s French governesses give warning before their\nmonth was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the\nold vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo\ndied away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue\ndressing-gown. ‘I am afraid you are far from well,’ she said, ‘and have\nbrought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell’s tincture. If it is indigestion, you\nwill find it a most excellent remedy.’ The ghost glared at her in fury,\nand began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large\nblack dog, an accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to\nwhich the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord\nCanterville’s uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching\nfootsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he\ncontented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with\na deep churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.\n\nOn reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the\nmost violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross\nmaterialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what\nreally distressed him most was, that he had been unable to wear the suit\nof mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by\nthe sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at\nleast out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose\ngraceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary\nhour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own\nsuit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament,\nand had been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the\nVirgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely\noverpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and\nhad fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees\nseverely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand.\n\nFor some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of\nhis room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.\nHowever, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to\nmake a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his\nfamily. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and\nspent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding\nin favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet\nfrilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a\nviolent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the\nwindows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was\njust such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to\nmake his way quietly to Washington Otis’s room, gibber at him from the\nfoot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound\nof slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware\nthat it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville\nblood-stain, by means of Pinkerton’s Paragon Detergent. Having reduced\nthe reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was\nthen to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and\nhis wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis’s forehead, while\nhe hissed into her trembling husband’s ear the awful secrets of the\ncharnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up\nhis mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and\ngentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more\nthan sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the\ncounterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite\ndetermined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of\ncourse, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation\nof nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to\nstand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they\nbecame paralysed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet,\nand crawl round the room, with white bleached bones and one rolling\neye-ball, in the character of ‘Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide’s Skeleton,’ a\n_rôle_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect,\nand which he considered quite equal to his famous part of ‘Martin the\nManiac, or the Masked Mystery.’\n\nAt half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was\ndisturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the\nlight-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves\nbefore they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still,\nand, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the\nwindow panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind\nwandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family\nslept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he\ncould hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He\nstepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his\ncruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole\npast the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered\nwife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil\nshadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he\nthought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying\nof a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange\nsixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger\nin the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that\nled to luckless Washington’s room. For a moment he paused there, the\nwind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into\ngrotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man’s\nshroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was\ncome. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had\nhe done so, than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid\nhis blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was\nstanding a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous\nas a madman’s dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,\nand fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its\nfeatures into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet\nlight, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to\nhis own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was\na placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of\nshame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,\nand, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.\n\nNever having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,\nand, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to\nhis room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the\ncorridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister’s\njack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the\nprivacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small\npallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,\nthe brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go\nand speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,\njust as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards\nthe spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling\nthat, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of\nhis new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the\nspot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently\nhappened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow\neyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning\nup against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed\nforward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped\noff and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he\nfound himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush,\na kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to\nunderstand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with\nfeverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these\nfearful words:—\n\n YE OLDE GHOSTE\n\n Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook.\n Beware of Ye Imitationes.\n All others are Counterfeite.\n\nThe whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and\noutwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his\ntoothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his\nhead, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique\nschool, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of\nblood would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.\n\nHardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a\ndistant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,\nand waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange\nreason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of\nthe housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to\nhis room, thinking of his vain hope and baffled purpose. There he\nconsulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly\nfond, and found that, on every occasion on which his oath had been used,\nChanticleer had always crowed a second time. ‘Perdition seize the\nnaughty fowl,’ he muttered, ‘I have seen the day when, with my stout\nspear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me\nan ’twere in death!’ He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and\nstayed there till evening.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nTHE next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement\nof the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were\ncompletely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five\ndays he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point\nof the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want\nit, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a\nlow, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the\nsymbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic\napparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a\ndifferent matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn\nduty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large\noriel window on the first and third Wednesday in every month, and he did\nnot see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is quite\ntrue that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was\nmost conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For\nthe next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual\nbetween midnight and three o’clock, taking every possible precaution\nagainst being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as\nlightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black\nvelvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling\nhis chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of\ndifficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection.\nHowever, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr.\nOtis’s bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated\nat first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a\ngreat deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it\nserved his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was not left\nunmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across the\ncorridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while\ndressed for the part of ‘Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods,’\nhe met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the\ntwins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the\ntop of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he\nresolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and social\nposition, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next\nnight in his celebrated character of ‘Reckless Rupert, or the Headless\nEarl.’\n\nHe had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in\nfact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means\nof it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord\nCanterville’s grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome\nJack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to\nmarry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and\ndown the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by\nLord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken\nheart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it\nhad been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult\n‘make-up,’ if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with\none of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more\nscientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three\nhours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was\nvery pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went\nwith the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only\nfind one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite\nsatisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of the wainscoting and\ncrept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,\nwhich I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the\ncolour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an\neffective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell\nright down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his left\nshoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled\nshrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his\nnervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he\ncould go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only\nthing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he\nhad not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences\nmight have been very serious.\n\nHe now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family,\nand contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in\nlist slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of\ndraughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the\ntwins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He\nhad gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there,\nat any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by\nmaking satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United\nStates Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the\nCanterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long\nshroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip\nof yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton’s spade. In\nfact, he was dressed for the character of ‘Jonas the Graveless, or the\nCorpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,’ one of his most remarkable\nimpersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to\nremember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their\nneighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o’clock in the\nmorning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he\nwas strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any\ntraces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a\ndark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads,\nand shrieked out ‘BOO!’ in his ear.\n\nSeized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he\nrushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him there\nwith the big garden-syringe; and being thus hemmed in by his enemies on\nevery side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron\nstove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way\nhome through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a\nterrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.\n\nAfter this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins\nlay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with\nnutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the\nservants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings\nwere so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed\nhis great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had\nbeen engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clam-bake,\nwhich amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker,\nand other American national games; and Virginia rode about the lanes on\nher pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to\nspend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was\ngenerally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis\nwrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply,\nexpressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best\ncongratulations to the Minister’s worthy wife.\n\nThe Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house,\nand though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters\nrest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young Duke\nof Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a\nhundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice with the\nCanterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of\nthe card-room in such a helpless paralytic state, that though he lived on\nto a great age, he was never able to say anything again but ‘Double\nSixes.’ The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of\nrespect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made\nto hush it up; and a full account of all the circumstances connected with\nit will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle’s _Recollections of\nthe Prince Regent and his Friends_. The ghost, then, was naturally very\nanxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the Stiltons,\nwith whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin\nhaving been married _en secondes noces_ to the Sieur de Bulkeley, from\nwhom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended.\nAccordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to Virginia’s little\nlover in his celebrated impersonation of ‘The Vampire Monk, or, the\nBloodless Benedictine,’ a performance so horrible that when old Lady\nStartup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year’s Eve, in the year\n1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in\nviolent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the\nCantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money\nto her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the\ntwins prevented his leaving his room, and the little Duke slept in peace\nunder the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, and dreamed of\nVirginia.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nA FEW days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out\nriding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting\nthrough a hedge, that, on her return home, she made up her mind to go up\nby the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past the\nTapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied she\nsaw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother’s maid, who sometimes\nused to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To\nher immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He\nwas sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing\ntrees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long\navenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one\nof extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did\nhe look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and\nlock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and\ncomfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that\nhe was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him.\n\n‘I am so sorry for you,’ she said, ‘but my brothers are going back to\nEton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.’\n\n‘It is absurd asking me to behave myself,’ he answered, looking round in\nastonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him,\n‘quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and\nwalk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for\nexisting.’\n\n‘It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very\nwicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had\nkilled your wife.’\n\n‘Well, I quite admit it,’ said the Ghost petulantly, ‘but it was a purely\nfamily matter, and concerned no one else.’\n\n‘It is very wrong to kill any one,’ said Virginia, who at times had a\nsweet Puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.\n\n‘Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very\nplain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about\ncookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent\npricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to table? However, it is\nno matter now, for it is all over, and I don’t think it was very nice of\nher brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.’\n\n‘Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?\nI have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?’\n\n‘No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all\nthe same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude,\nvulgar, dishonest family.’\n\n‘Stop!’ cried Virginia, stamping her foot, ‘it is you who are rude, and\nhorrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints\nout of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the\nlibrary. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I\ncouldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the\nchrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese\nwhite, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to\nlook at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I was\nvery much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who\never heard of emerald-green blood?’\n\n‘Well, really,’ said the Ghost, rather meekly, ‘what was I to do? It is\na very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother\nbegan it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I\nshould not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of\ntaste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in\nEngland; but I know you Americans don’t care for things of this kind.’\n\n‘You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate\nand improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a\nfree passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,\nthere will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are\nall Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I\nknow lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to\nhave a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family Ghost.’\n\n‘I don’t think I should like America.’\n\n‘I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,’ said Virginia\nsatirically.\n\n‘No ruins! no curiosities!’ answered the Ghost; ‘you have your navy and\nyour manners.’\n\n‘Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week’s\nholiday.’\n\n‘Please don’t go, Miss Virginia,’ he cried; ‘I am so lonely and so\nunhappy, and I really don’t know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I\ncannot.’\n\n‘That’s quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the\ncandle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at\nchurch, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even\nbabies know how to do that, and they are not very clever.’\n\n‘I have not slept for three hundred years,’ he said sadly, and Virginia’s\nbeautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; ‘for three hundred years I have not\nslept, and I am so tired.’\n\nVirginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves.\nShe came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his\nold withered face.\n\n‘Poor, poor Ghost,’ she murmured; ‘have you no place where you can\nsleep?’\n\n‘Far away beyond the pine-woods,’ he answered, in a low dreamy voice,\n‘there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there\nare the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale\nsings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal\nmoon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the\nsleepers.’\n\nVirginia’s eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.\n\n‘You mean the Garden of Death,’ she whispered.\n\n‘Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown\nearth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence.\nTo have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life,\nto be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of\nDeath’s house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than\nDeath is.’\n\nVirginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments\nthere was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.\n\nThen the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the\nwind.\n\n‘Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?’\n\n‘Oh, often,’ cried the little girl, looking up; ‘I know it quite well.\nIt is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read.\nThere are only six lines:\n\n When a golden girl can win\n Prayer from out the lips of sin,\n When the barren almond bears,\n And a little child gives away its tears,\n Then shall all the house be still\n And peace come to Canterville.\n\nBut I don’t know what they mean.’\n\n‘They mean,’ he said sadly, ‘that you must weep for me for my sins,\nbecause I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no\nfaith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the\nAngel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in\ndarkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not\nharm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell\ncannot prevail.’\n\nVirginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as\nhe looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very\npale, and with a strange light in her eyes. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said\nfirmly, ‘and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.’\n\nHe rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent\nover it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold\nas ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he\nled her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were\nbroidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with\ntheir tiny hands waved to her to go back. ‘Go back! little Virginia,’\nthey cried, ‘go back!’ but the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and\nshe shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails, and\ngoggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured\n‘Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,’ but the\nGhost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they\nreached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could\nnot understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away\nlike a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold\nwind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress.\n‘Quick, quick,’ cried the Ghost, ‘or it will be too late,’ and, in a\nmoment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber\nwas empty.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nABOUT ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not\ncome down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a\nlittle time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia\nanywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every\nevening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all\nalarmed at first, but when six o’clock struck, and Virginia did not\nappear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for\nher, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At\nhalf-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace\nof their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of\nexcitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly\nremembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gypsies\npermission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for\nBlackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son\nand two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was\nperfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but\nMr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle.\nOn arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gypsies had gone, and\nit was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the fire\nwas still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent\noff Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and\ndespatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county, telling\nthem to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or\ngypsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after\ninsisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner, rode off\ndown the Ascot Road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone a couple\nof miles when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round,\nsaw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed and\nno hat. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,’ gasped out the boy, ‘but I can’t\neat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don’t be angry with\nme; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never have been\nall this trouble. You won’t send me back, will you? I can’t go! I\nwon’t go!’\n\nThe Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and\nwas a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from\nhis horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, ‘Well, Cecil,\nif you won’t go back I suppose you must come with me, but I must get you\na hat at Ascot.’\n\n‘Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!’ cried the little Duke, laughing,\nand they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of\nthe station-master if any one answering the description of Virginia had\nbeen seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The\nstation-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him that\na strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for\nthe little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his\nshutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,\nwhich he was told was a well-known haunt of the gypsies, as there was a\nlarge common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but\ncould get no information from him, and, after riding all over the common,\nthey turned their horses’ heads homewards, and reached the Chase about\neleven o’clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found\nWashington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with\nlanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of\nVirginia had been discovered. The gypsies had been caught on Brockley\nmeadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden\ndeparture by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and\nhad gone off in a hurry for fear they might be late. Indeed, they had\nbeen quite distressed at hearing of Virginia’s disappearance, as they\nwere very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his\npark, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.\nThe carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over,\nbut without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate,\nVirginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest\ndepression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom\nfollowing behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they\nfound a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library\nwas poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and\nhaving her forehead bathed with eau-de-cologne by the old housekeeper.\nMr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up\nsupper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one\nspoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very\nfond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the\nentreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that\nnothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in the\nmorning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately.\nJust as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight began to boom\nfrom the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash\nand a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a\nstrain of unearthly music floated through the air, a panel at the top of\nthe staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing,\nlooking very pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped\nVirginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped\nher passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with violent kisses,\nand the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.\n\n‘Good heavens! child, where have you been?’ said Mr. Otis, rather\nangrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.\n‘Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and\nyour mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these\npractical jokes any more.’\n\n‘Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!’ shrieked the twins, as they\ncapered about.\n\n‘My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side\nagain,’ murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and\nsmoothed the tangled gold of her hair.\n\n‘Papa,’ said Virginia quietly, ‘I have been with the Ghost. He is dead,\nand you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was\nreally sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of\nbeautiful jewels before he died.’\n\nThe whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave\nand serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the\nwainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a\nlighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they\ncame to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia\ntouched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves\nin a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window.\nImbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt\nskeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and\nseemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an\nold-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach.\nThe jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered\ninside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of\ndust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little\nhands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party\nlooked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now\ndisclosed to them.\n\n‘Hallo!’ suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of\nthe window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was\nsituated. ‘Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see\nthe flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.’\n\n‘God has forgiven him,’ said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her feet,\nand a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.\n\n‘What an angel you are!’ cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round\nher neck and kissed her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nFOUR days after these curious incidents a funeral started from\nCanterville Chase at about eleven o’clock at night. The hearse was drawn\nby eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of\nnodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich\npurple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville\ncoat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the\nservants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully\nimpressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up\nspecially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage\nalong with little Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his\nwife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the last carriage was\nMrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by\nthe ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see\nthe last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the\nchurchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read in the\nmost impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony\nwas over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the\nCanterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was\nbeing lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward and laid on it a\nlarge cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As she did so, the\nmoon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the\nlittle churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing.\nShe thought of the ghost’s description of the Garden of Death, her eyes\nbecame dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.\n\nThe next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had\nan interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to\nVirginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby\nnecklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of\nsixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt\nconsiderable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.\n\n‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I know that in this country mortmain is held to\napply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that\nthese jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg\nyou, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them\nsimply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under\ncertain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child,\nand has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such\nappurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I\nmay say, is no mean authority upon Art—having had the privilege of\nspending several winters in Boston when she was a girl—that these gems\nare of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall\nprice. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you\nwill recognise how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain\nin the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain\ngauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the\nBritish aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who\nhave been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles of\nrepublican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very\nanxious that you should allow her to retain the box as a memento of your\nunfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and\nconsequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to\ncomply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal\nsurprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediævalism in\nany form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born\nin one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a\ntrip to Athens.’\n\nLord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister’s speech,\npulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and\nwhen Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and said,\n‘My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor,\nSir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are much\nindebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are\nclearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to\ntake them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a\nfortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms,\nnothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal\ndocument, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I\nassure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss\nVirginia grows up I daresay she will be pleased to have pretty things to\nwear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and the\nghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at\nonce into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown\nin the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you\nacquired his property by purchase.’\n\nMr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville’s refusal, and\nbegged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was\nquite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to\nretain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of\n1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen’s first\ndrawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the\nuniversal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which\nis the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her\nboy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and\nthey loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match,\nexcept the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke\nfor one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than\nthree expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr.\nOtis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke personally,\nbut, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words,\n‘was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a\npleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of republican simplicity\nshould be forgotten.’ His objections, however, were completely\noverruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St.\nGeorge’s, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was\nnot a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of England.\n\nThe Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to\nCanterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in\nthe afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had been\na great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon’s\ntombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the\ninitials of the old gentleman’s name, and the verse from the library\nwindow. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she\nstrewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they\nstrolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat\ndown on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a\ncigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his\ncigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, ‘Virginia, a wife\nshould have no secrets from her husband.’\n\n‘Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.’\n\n‘Yes, you have,’ he answered, smiling, ‘you have never told me what\nhappened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.’\n\n‘I have never told any one, Cecil,’ said Virginia gravely.\n\n‘I know that, but you might tell me.’\n\n‘Please don’t ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe\nhim a great deal. Yes, don’t laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see\nwhat Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than\nboth.’\n\nThe Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.\n\n‘You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,’ he murmured.\n\n‘You have always had that, Cecil.’\n\n‘And you will tell our children some day, won’t you?’\n\nVirginia blushed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET\nAN ETCHING\n\n\nONE afternoon I was sitting outside the Café de la Paix, watching the\nsplendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over my vermouth\nat the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was passing before me,\nwhen I heard some one call my name. I turned round, and saw Lord\nMurchison. We had not met since we had been at college together, nearly\nten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we\nshook hands warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked\nhim immensely, he was so handsome, so high-spirited, and so honourable.\nWe used to say of him that he would be the best of fellows, if he did not\nalways speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more\nfor his frankness. I found him a good deal changed. He looked anxious\nand puzzled, and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could\nnot be modern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and\nbelieved in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed in the House of\nPeers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he was\nmarried yet.\n\n‘I don’t understand women well enough,’ he answered.\n\n‘My dear Gerald,’ I said, ‘women are meant to be loved, not to be\nunderstood.’\n\n‘I cannot love where I cannot trust,’ he replied.\n\n‘I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,’ I exclaimed; ‘tell\nme about it.’\n\n‘Let us go for a drive,’ he answered, ‘it is too crowded here. No, not a\nyellow carriage, any other colour—there, that dark green one will do’;\nand in a few moments we were trotting down the boulevard in the direction\nof the Madeleine.\n\n‘Where shall we go to?’ I said.\n\n‘Oh, anywhere you like!’ he answered—‘to the restaurant in the Bois; we\nwill dine there, and you shall tell me all about yourself.’\n\n‘I want to hear about you first,’ I said. ‘Tell me your mystery.’\n\nHe took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, and handed\nit to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She\nwas tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes\nand loosened hair. She looked like a _clairvoyante_, and was wrapped in\nrich furs.\n\n‘What do you think of that face?’ he said; ‘is it truthful?’\n\nI examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a\nsecret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its\nbeauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteries—the beauty, in fact,\nwhich is psychological, not plastic—and the faint smile that just played\nacross the lips was far too subtle to be really sweet.\n\n‘Well,’ he cried impatiently, ‘what do you say?’\n\n‘She is the Gioconda in sables,’ I answered. ‘Let me know all about\nher.’\n\n‘Not now,’ he said; ‘after dinner,’ and began to talk of other things.\n\nWhen the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of\nhis promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or three times up and\ndown the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me the following\nstory:—\n\n‘One evening,’ he said, ‘I was walking down Bond Street about five\no’clock. There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic was\nalmost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a little yellow\nbrougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention. As I\npassed by there looked out from it the face I showed you this afternoon.\nIt fascinated me immediately. All that night I kept thinking of it, and\nall the next day. I wandered up and down that wretched Row, peering into\nevery carriage, and waiting for the yellow brougham; but I could not find\n_ma belle inconnue_, and at last I began to think she was merely a dream.\nAbout a week afterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was\nfor eight o’clock; but at half-past eight we were still waiting in the\ndrawing-room. Finally the servant threw open the door, and announced\nLady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. She came in very\nslowly, looking like a moonbeam in grey lace, and, to my intense delight,\nI was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat down, I remarked\nquite innocently, “I think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time\nago, Lady Alroy.” She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice,\n“Pray do not talk so loud; you may be overheard.” I felt miserable at\nhaving made such a bad beginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject\nof the French plays. She spoke very little, always in the same low\nmusical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of some one listening. I\nfell passionately, stupidly in love, and the indefinable atmosphere of\nmystery that surrounded her excited my most ardent curiosity. When she\nwas going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I asked her if I\nmight call and see her. She hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see\nif any one was near us, and then said, “Yes; to-morrow at a quarter to\nfive.” I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me about her; but all that I\ncould learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park Lane,\nand as some scientific bore began a dissertation on widows, as\nexemplifying the survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and went\nhome.\n\n‘The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told\nby the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went down to the club\nquite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after long consideration wrote\nher a letter, asking if I might be allowed to try my chance some other\nafternoon. I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little\nnote saying she would be at home on Sunday at four and with this\nextraordinary postscript: “Please do not write to me here again; I will\nexplain when I see you.” On Sunday she received me, and was perfectly\ncharming; but when I was going away she begged of me, if I ever had\noccasion to write to her again, to address my letter to “Mrs. Knox, care\nof Whittaker’s Library, Green Street.” “There are reasons,” she said,\n“why I cannot receive letters in my own house.”\n\n‘All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of\nmystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she was in the power of\nsome man, but she looked so unapproachable, that I could not believe it.\nIt was really very difficult for me to come to any conclusion, for she\nwas like one of those strange crystals that one sees in museums, which\nare at one moment clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to\nask her to be my wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that\nshe imposed on all my visits, and on the few letters I sent her. I wrote\nto her at the library to ask her if she could see me the following Monday\nat six. She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I\nwas infatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I thought then—in\nconsequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The\nmystery troubled me, maddened me. Why did chance put me in its track?’\n\n‘You discovered it, then?’ I cried.\n\n‘I fear so,’ he answered. ‘You can judge for yourself.’\n\n‘When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four\no’clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives\nin Regent’s Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and took a short cut\nthrough a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly I saw in front of me\nLady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking very fast. On coming to the last\nhouse in the street, she went up the steps, took out a latch-key, and let\nherself in. “Here is the mystery,” I said to myself; and I hurried on\nand examined the house. It seemed a sort of place for letting lodgings.\nOn the doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had dropped. I picked it\nup and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do.\nI came to the conclusion that I had no right to spy on her, and I drove\ndown to the club. At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa,\nin a tea-gown of silver tissue looped up by some strange moonstones that\nshe always wore. She was looking quite lovely. “I am so glad to see\nyou,” she said; “I have not been out all day.” I stared at her in\namazement, and pulling the handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to\nher. “You dropped this in Cumnor Street this afternoon, Lady Alroy,” I\nsaid very calmly. She looked at me in terror but made no attempt to take\nthe handkerchief. “What were you doing there?” I asked. “What right\nhave you to question me?” she answered. “The right of a man who loves\nyou,” I replied; “I came here to ask you to be my wife.” She hid her\nface in her hands, and burst into floods of tears. “You must tell me,” I\ncontinued. She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said,\n“Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you.”—“You went to meet some\none,” I cried; “this is your mystery.” She grew dreadfully white, and\nsaid, “I went to meet no one.”—“Can’t you tell the truth?” I exclaimed.\n“I have told it,” she replied. I was mad, frantic; I don’t know what I\nsaid, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the\nhouse. She wrote me a letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and\nstarted for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back, and\nthe first thing I saw in the _Morning Post_ was the death of Lady Alroy.\nShe had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five days of\ncongestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved\nher so much, I had loved her so madly. Good God! how I had loved that\nwoman!’\n\n‘You went to the street, to the house in it?’ I said.\n\n‘Yes,’ he answered.\n\n‘One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured\nwith doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman\nopened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. “Well, sir,”\nshe replied, “the drawing-rooms are supposed to be let; but I have not\nseen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing on them, you can\nhave them.”—“Is this the lady?” I said, showing the photograph. “That’s\nher, sure enough,” she exclaimed; “and when is she coming back,\nsir?”—“The lady is dead,” I replied. “Oh sir, I hope not!” said the\nwoman; “she was my best lodger. She paid me three guineas a week merely\nto sit in my drawing-rooms now and then.” “She met some one here?” I\nsaid; but the woman assured me that it was not so, that she always came\nalone, and saw no one. “What on earth did she do here?” I cried. “She\nsimply sat in the drawing-room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had\ntea,” the woman answered. I did not know what to say, so I gave her a\nsovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don’t\nbelieve the woman was telling the truth?’\n\n‘I do.’\n\n‘Then why did Lady Alroy go there?’\n\n‘My dear Gerald,’ I answered, ‘Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania\nfor mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with\nher veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for\nsecrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without a secret.’\n\n‘Do you really think so?’\n\n‘I am sure of it,’ I replied.\n\nHe took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph.\n‘I wonder?’ he said at last.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MODEL MILLIONAIRE\nA NOTE OF ADMIRATION\n\n\nUNLESS one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow.\nRomance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the\nunemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to\nhave a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are the great\ntruths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised. Poor Hughie!\nIntellectually, we must admit, he was not of much importance. He never\nsaid a brilliant or even an ill-natured thing in his life. But then he\nwas wonderfully good-looking, with his crisp brown hair, his clear-cut\nprofile, and his grey eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with\nwomen and he had every accomplishment except that of making money. His\nfather had bequeathed him his cavalry sword and a _History of the\nPeninsular War_ in fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his\nlooking-glass, put the second on a shelf between _Ruff’s Guide_ and\n_Bailey’s Magazine_, and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt\nallowed him. He had tried everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange\nfor six months; but what was a butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He\nhad been a tea-merchant for a little longer, but had soon tired of pekoe\nand souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did not\nanswer; the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he became nothing, a\ndelightful, ineffectual young man with a perfect profile and no\nprofession.\n\nTo make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura\nMerton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper and his\ndigestion in India, and had never found either of them again. Laura\nadored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoe-strings. They were the\nhandsomest couple in London, and had not a penny-piece between them. The\nColonel was very fond of Hughie, but would not hear of any engagement.\n\n‘Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own,\nand we will see about it,’ he used to say; and Hughie looked very glum in\nthose days, and had to go to Laura for consolation.\n\nOne morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons\nlived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor\nwas a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. But he was also\nan artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he was a strange\nrough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged beard. However, when\nhe took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly\nsought after. He had been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it\nmust be acknowledged, entirely on account of his personal charm. ‘The\nonly people a painter should know,’ he used to say, ‘are people who are\n_bête_ and beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and\nan intellectual repose to talk to. Men who are dandies and women who are\ndarlings rule the world, at least they should do so.’ However, after he\ngot to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright,\nbuoyant spirits and his generous, reckless nature, and had given him the\npermanent _entrée_ to his studio.\n\nWhen Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a\nwonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself was\nstanding on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a\nwizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous\nexpression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears\nand tatters; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand\nhe leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered\nhat for alms.\n\n‘What an amazing model!’ whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his\nfriend.\n\n‘An amazing model?’ shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; ‘I should\nthink so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every day. A\n_trouvaille_, _mon cher_; a living Velasquez! My stars! what an etching\nRembrandt would have made of him!’\n\n‘Poor old chap!’ said Hughie, ‘how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to\nyou painters, his face is his fortune?’\n\n‘Certainly,’ replied Trevor, ‘you don’t want a beggar to look happy, do\nyou?’\n\n‘How much does a model get for sitting?’ asked Hughie, as he found\nhimself a comfortable seat on a divan.\n\n‘A shilling an hour.’\n\n‘And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?’\n\n‘Oh, for this I get two thousand!’\n\n‘Pounds?’\n\n‘Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.’\n\n‘Well, I think the model should have a percentage,’ cried Hughie,\nlaughing; ‘they work quite as hard as you do.’\n\n‘Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint\nalone, and standing all day long at one’s easel! It’s all very well,\nHughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are moments when Art\nalmost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn’t chatter;\nI’m very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.’\n\nAfter some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the framemaker\nwanted to speak to him.\n\n‘Don’t run away, Hughie,’ he said, as he went out, ‘I will be back in a\nmoment.’\n\nThe old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor’s absence to rest for a\nmoment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlorn and\nwretched that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in his pockets\nto see what money he had. All he could find was a sovereign and some\ncoppers. ‘Poor old fellow,’ he thought to himself, ‘he wants it more\nthan I do, but it means no hansoms for a fortnight’; and he walked across\nthe studio and slipped the sovereign into the beggar’s hand.\n\nThe old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered lips.\n‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘thank you.’\n\nThen Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little at what\nhe had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charming scolding for\nhis extravagance, and had to walk home.\n\nThat night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o’clock, and\nfound Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinking hock and\nseltzer.\n\n‘Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?’ he said, as he\nlit his cigarette.\n\n‘Finished and framed, my boy!’ answered Trevor; ‘and, by the bye, you\nhave made a conquest. That old model you saw is quite devoted to you. I\nhad to tell him all about you—who you are, where you live, what your\nincome is, what prospects you have—’\n\n‘My dear Alan,’ cried Hughie, ‘I shall probably find him waiting for me\nwhen I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor old wretch! I\nwish I could do something for him. I think it is dreadful that any one\nshould be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at home—do you\nthink he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to\nbits.’\n\n‘But he looks splendid in them,’ said Trevor. ‘I wouldn’t paint him in a\nfrock coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. What seems\npoverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I’ll tell him of your\noffer.’\n\n‘Alan,’ said Hughie seriously, ‘you painters are a heartless lot.’\n\n‘An artist’s heart is his head,’ replied Trevor; ‘and besides, our\nbusiness is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it as we\nknow it. _À chacun son métier_. And now tell me how Laura is. The old\nmodel was quite interested in her.’\n\n‘You don’t mean to say you talked to him about her?’ said Hughie.\n\n‘Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, the lovely\nLaura, and the £10,000.’\n\n‘You told that old beggar all my private affairs?’ cried Hughie, looking\nvery red and angry.\n\n‘My dear boy,’ said Trevor, smiling, ‘that old beggar, as you call him,\nis one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all London to-morrow\nwithout overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital, dines\noff gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war when he chooses.’\n\n‘What on earth do you mean?’ exclaimed Hughie.\n\n‘What I say,’ said Trevor. ‘The old man you saw to-day in the studio was\nBaron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and\nthat sort of thing, and gave me a commission a month ago to paint him as\na beggar. _Que voulez-vous_? _La fantaisie d’un millionnaire_! And I\nmust say he made a magnificent figure in his rags, or perhaps I should\nsay in my rags; they are an old suit I got in Spain.’\n\n‘Baron Hausberg!’ cried Hughie. ‘Good heavens! I gave him a sovereign!’\nand he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay.\n\n‘Gave him a sovereign!’ shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar of\nlaughter. ‘My dear boy, you’ll never see it again. _Son affaire c’est\nl’argent des autres_.’\n\n‘I think you might have told me, Alan,’ said Hughie sulkily, ‘and not\nhave let me make such a fool of myself.’\n\n‘Well, to begin with, Hughie,’ said Trevor, ‘it never entered my mind\nthat you went about distributing alms in that reckless way. I can\nunderstand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving a sovereign to an\nugly one—by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that I really was not at home\nto-day to any one; and when you came in I didn’t know whether Hausberg\nwould like his name mentioned. You know he wasn’t in full dress.’\n\n‘What a duffer he must think me!’ said Hughie.\n\n‘Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept\nchuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. I\ncouldn’t make out why he was so interested to know all about you; but I\nsee it all now. He’ll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you the\ninterest every six months, and have a capital story to tell after\ndinner.’\n\n‘I am an unlucky devil,’ growled Hughie. ‘The best thing I can do is to\ngo to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn’t tell any one. I shouldn’t dare\nshow my face in the Row.’\n\n‘Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit,\nHughie. And don’t run away. Have another cigarette, and you can talk\nabout Laura as much as you like.’\n\nHowever, Hughie wouldn’t stop, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and\nleaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.\n\nThe next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him up a\ncard on which was written, ‘Monsieur Gustave Naudin, _de la part de_ M.\nle Baron Hausberg.’ ‘I suppose he has come for an apology,’ said Hughie\nto himself; and he told the servant to show the visitor up.\n\nAn old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into the room,\nand said, in a slight French accent, ‘Have I the honour of addressing\nMonsieur Erskine?’\n\nHughie bowed.\n\n‘I have come from Baron Hausberg,’ he continued. ‘The Baron—’\n\n‘I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,’ stammered\nHughie.\n\n‘The Baron,’ said the old gentleman with a smile, ‘has commissioned me to\nbring you this letter’; and he extended a sealed envelope.\n\nOn the outside was written, ‘A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura\nMerton, from an old beggar,’ and inside was a cheque for £10,000.\n\nWhen they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a\nspeech at the wedding breakfast.\n\n‘Millionaire models,’ remarked Alan, ‘are rare enough; but, by Jove,\nmodel millionaires are rarer still!’\n\n\n\n\nTHE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H.\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nI HAD been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in Birdcage\nWalk, and we were sitting in the library over our coffee and cigarettes,\nwhen the question of literary forgeries happened to turn up in\nconversation. I cannot at present remember how it was that we struck\nupon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that time, but I know that\nwe had a long discussion about Macpherson, Ireland, and Chatterton, and\nthat with regard to the last I insisted that his so-called forgeries were\nmerely the result of an artistic desire for perfect representation; that\nwe had no right to quarrel with an artist for the conditions under which\nhe chooses to present his work; and that all Art being to a certain\ndegree a mode of acting, an attempt to realise one’s own personality on\nsome imaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents and\nlimitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was to\nconfuse an ethical with an æsthetical problem.\n\nErskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been listening to\nme with the amused deference of a man of forty, suddenly put his hand\nupon my shoulder and said to me, ‘What would you say about a young man\nwho had a strange theory about a certain work of art, believed in his\ntheory, and committed a forgery in order to prove it?’\n\n‘Ah! that is quite a different matter,’ I answered.\n\nErskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey\nthreads of smoke that were rising from his cigarette. ‘Yes,’ he said,\nafter a pause, ‘quite different.’\n\nThere was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of\nbitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity. ‘Did you ever know\nanybody who did that?’ I cried.\n\n‘Yes,’ he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire,—‘a great friend\nof mine, Cyril Graham. He was very fascinating, and very foolish, and\nvery heartless. However, he left me the only legacy I ever received in\nmy life.’\n\n‘What was that?’ I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and going over\nto a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two windows, unlocked it,\nand came back to where I was sitting, holding in his hand a small panel\npicture set in an old and somewhat tarnished Elizabethan frame.\n\nIt was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenth-century\ncostume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting on an open\nbook. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was of quite\nextraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat effeminate.\nIndeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely cropped hair, one\nwould have said that the face with its dreamy wistful eyes, and its\ndelicate scarlet lips, was the face of a girl. In manner, and especially\nin the treatment of the hands, the picture reminded one of François\nClouet’s later work. The black velvet doublet with its fantastically\ngilded points, and the peacock-blue background against which it showed up\nso pleasantly, and from which it gained such luminous value of colour,\nwere quite in Clouet’s style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy\nthat hung somewhat formally from the marble pedestal had that hard\nseverity of touch—so different from the facile grace of the\nItalians—which even at the Court of France the great Flemish master never\ncompletely lost, and which in itself has always been a characteristic of\nthe northern temper.\n\n‘It is a charming thing,’ I cried, ‘but who is this wonderful young man,\nwhose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?’\n\n‘This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,’ said Erskine, with a sad smile. It\nmight have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed to me that his\neyes were quite bright with tears.\n\n‘Mr. W. H.!’ I exclaimed; ‘who was Mr. W. H.?’\n\n‘Don’t you remember?’ he answered; ‘look at the book on which his hand is\nresting.’\n\n‘I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out,’ I replied.\n\n‘Take this magnifying-glass and try,’ said Erskine, with the same sad\nsmile still playing about his mouth.\n\nI took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to spell\nout the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. ‘To the onlie begetter of\nthese insuing sonnets.’ . . . ‘Good heavens!’ I cried, ‘is this\nShakespeare’s Mr. W. H.?’\n\n‘Cyril Graham used to say so,’ muttered Erskine.\n\n‘But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,’ I answered. ‘I know the\nPenshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few weeks\nago.’\n\n‘Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord\nPembroke?’ he asked.\n\n‘I am sure of it,’ I answered. ‘Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs. Mary\nFitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is no doubt at all\nabout it.’\n\n‘Well, I agree with you,’ said Erskine, ‘but I did not always think so.\nI used to believe—well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril Graham and\nhis theory.’\n\n‘And what was that?’ I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait, which\nhad already begun to have a strange fascination for me.\n\n‘It is a long story,’ said Erskine, taking the picture away from\nme—rather abruptly I thought at the time—‘a very long story; but if you\ncare to hear it, I will tell it to you.’\n\n‘I love theories about the Sonnets,’ I cried; ‘but I don’t think I am\nlikely to be converted to any new idea. The matter has ceased to be a\nmystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was a mystery.’\n\n‘As I don’t believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you to it,’\nsaid Erskine, laughing; ‘but it may interest you.’\n\n‘Tell it to me, of course,’ I answered. ‘If it is half as delightful as\nthe picture, I shall be more than satisfied.’\n\n‘Well,’ said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, ‘I must begin by telling you\nabout Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same house at Eton. I\nwas a year or two older than he was, but we were immense friends, and did\nall our work and all our play together. There was, of course, a good\ndeal more play than work, but I cannot say that I am sorry for that. It\nis always an advantage not to have received a sound commercial education,\nand what I learned in the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful\nto me as anything I was taught at Cambridge. I should tell you that\nCyril’s father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a\nhorrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in\nthe diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in\nfact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril’s guardian after the death\nof his parents. I don’t think that Lord Crediton cared very much for\nCyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying a man who\nhad not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like\na costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him\nonce on Speech-day. He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me\nnot to grow up “a damned Radical” like my father. Cyril had very little\naffection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his holidays\nwith us in Scotland. They never really got on together at all. Cyril\nthought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate,\nI suppose, in some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital\nfencer. In fact he got the foils before he left Eton. But he was very\nlanguid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a\nstrong objection to football. The two things that really gave him\npleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and\nreciting Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became a member\nof the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of\nhis acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we were so\ndifferent in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge\nfeet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as\ngout does in English families. Cyril used to say that of the two he\npreferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on personal\nappearance, and once read a paper before our debating society to prove\nthat it was better to be good-looking than to be good. He certainly was\nwonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines and\ncollege tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to say that he\nwas merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere\nprettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and\nnothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of his manner.\nHe fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and a great many\npeople who were not. He was often wilful and petulant, and I used to\nthink him dreadfully insincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his\ninordinate desire to please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was\ncontented with very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly\nspoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of\ntheir attraction.\n\n‘However, I must tell you about Cyril’s acting. You know that no\nactresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not in my\ntime. I don’t know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril was always\ncast for the girls’ parts, and when _As You Like It_ was produced he\nplayed Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In fact, Cyril Graham\nwas the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible\nto describe to you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole\nthing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid little theatre, as\nit was then, was crowded every night. Even when I read the play now I\ncan’t help thinking of Cyril. It might have been written for him. The\nnext term he took his degree, and came to London to read for the\ndiplomatic. But he never did any work. He spent his days in reading\nShakespeare’s Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of\ncourse, wild to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton\ncould do to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be\nalive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good\nadvice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error.\nIf you do, you will be sorry for it.\n\n‘Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a letter\nfrom Cyril asking me to come round to his rooms that evening. He had\ncharming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the Green Park, and as I used\nto go to see him every day, I was rather surprised at his taking the\ntrouble to write. Of course I went, and when I arrived I found him in a\nstate of great excitement. He told me that he had at last discovered the\ntrue secret of Shakespeare’s Sonnets; that all the scholars and critics\nhad been entirely on the wrong tack; and that he was the first who,\nworking purely by internal evidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. really\nwas. He was perfectly wild with delight, and for a long time would not\ntell me his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of notes, took his\ncopy of the Sonnets off the mantelpiece, and sat down and gave me a long\nlecture on the whole subject.\n\n‘He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare\naddressed these strangely passionate poems must have been somebody who\nwas a really vital factor in the development of his dramatic art, and\nthat this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or Lord Southampton.\nIndeed, whoever he was, he could not have been anybody of high birth, as\nwas shown very clearly by the 25th Sonnet, in which Shakespeare\ncontrasting himself with those who are “great princes’ favourites,” says\nquite frankly—\n\n Let those who are in favour with their stars\n Of public honour and proud titles boast,\n Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\n Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.\n\nAnd ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of him he\nso adored.\n\n Then happy I, that love and am beloved\n Where I may not remove nor be removed.\n\nThis sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we fancied\nthat it was addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or the Earl of\nSouthampton, both of whom were men of the highest position in England and\nfully entitled to be called “great princes”; and he in corroboration of\nhis view read me Sonnets CXXIV. and CXXV., in which Shakespeare tells us\nthat his love is not “the child of state,” that it “suffers not in\nsmiling pomp,” but is “builded far from accident.” I listened with a\ngood deal of interest, for I don’t think the point had ever been made\nbefore; but what followed was still more curious, and seemed to me at the\ntime to dispose entirely of Pembroke’s claim. We know from Meres that\nthe Sonnets had been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. informs us that\nShakespeare’s friendship for Mr. W. H. had been already in existence for\nthree years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in 1580, did not come to\nLondon till he was eighteen years of age, that is to say till 1598, and\nShakespeare’s acquaintance with Mr. W. H. must have begun in 1594, or at\nthe latest in 1595. Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord\nPembroke till after the Sonnets had been written.\n\n‘Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke’s father did not die till 1601;\nwhereas it was evident from the line,\n\n You had a father; let your son say so,\n\nthat the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was absurd to\nimagine that any publisher of the time, and the preface is from the\npublisher’s hand, would have ventured to address William Herbert, Earl of\nPembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord Buckhurst being spoken of as Mr.\nSackville being not really a parallel instance, as Lord Buckhurst was not\na peer, but merely the younger son of a peer, with a courtesy title, and\nthe passage in _England’s Parnassus_, where he is so spoken of, is not a\nformal and stately dedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for\nLord Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily demolished while I sat\nby in wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less difficulty.\nSouthampton became at a very early age the lover of Elizabeth Vernon, so\nhe needed no entreaties to marry; he was not beautiful; he did not\nresemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. did—\n\n Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee\n Calls back the lovely April of her prime;\n\nand, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning sonnets\n(CXXXV. and CXLIII.) show that the Christian name of Shakespeare’s friend\nwas the same as his own—_Will_.\n\n‘As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr. W. H.\nis a misprint for Mr. W. S., meaning Mr. William Shakespeare; that “Mr.\nW. H. all” should be read “Mr. W. Hall”; that Mr. W. H. is Mr. William\nHathaway; and that a full stop should be placed after “wisheth,” making\nMr. W. H. the writer and not the subject of the dedication,—Cyril got rid\nof them in a very short time; and it is not worth while to mention his\nreasons, though I remember he sent me off into a fit of laughter by\nreading to me, I am glad to say not in the original, some extracts from a\nGerman commentator called Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. was no\nless a person than “Mr. William Himself.” Nor would he allow for a\nmoment that the Sonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John\nDavies of Hereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious\nand tragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare’s heart,\nand made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would he admit that\nthey were merely a philosophical allegory, and that in them Shakespeare\nis addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood, or the Spirit of Beauty,\nor the Reason, or the Divine Logos, or the Catholic Church. He felt, as\nindeed I think we all must feel, that the Sonnets are addressed to an\nindividual,—to a particular young man whose personality for some reason\nseems to have filled the soul of Shakespeare with terrible joy and no\nless terrible despair.\n\n‘Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me to\ndismiss from my mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed on the\nsubject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his own theory. The\nproblem he pointed out was this: Who was that young man of Shakespeare’s\nday who, without being of noble birth or even of noble nature, was\naddressed by him in terms of such passionate adoration that we can but\nwonder at the strange worship, and are almost afraid to turn the key that\nunlocks the mystery of the poet’s heart? Who was he whose physical\nbeauty was such that it became the very corner-stone of Shakespeare’s\nart; the very source of Shakespeare’s inspiration; the very incarnation\nof Shakespeare’s dreams? To look upon him as simply the object of\ncertain love-poems is to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art\nof which Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the Sonnets\nthemselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret things—it is\nthe art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding; and he to whom\nShakespeare said—\n\n Thou art all my art, and dost advance\n As high as learning my rude ignorance,\n\nhe to whom he promised immortality,\n\n Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men,—\n\nwas surely none other than the boy-actor for whom he created Viola and\nImogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and Cleopatra herself.\nThis was Cyril Graham’s theory, evolved as you see purely from the\nSonnets themselves, and depending for its acceptance not so much on\ndemonstrable proof or formal evidence, but on a kind of spiritual and\nartistic sense, by which alone he claimed could the true meaning of the\npoems be discerned. I remember his reading to me that fine sonnet—\n\n How can my Muse want subject to invent,\n While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse\n Thine own sweet argument, too excellent\n For every vulgar paper to rehearse?\n O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me\n Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;\n For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,\n When thou thyself dost give invention light?\n Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth\n Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;\n And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth\n Eternal numbers to outlive long date—\n\nand pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and indeed he\nwent through all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, or fancied that he\nshowed, that, according to his new explanation of their meaning, things\nthat had seemed obscure, or evil, or exaggerated, became clear and\nrational, and of high artistic import, illustrating Shakespeare’s\nconception of the true relations between the art of the actor and the art\nof the dramatist.\n\n‘It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare’s\ncompany some wonderful boy-actor of great beauty, to whom he intrusted\nthe presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespeare was a practical\ntheatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet, and Cyril Graham had\nactually discovered the boy-actor’s name. He was Will, or, as he\npreferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The Christian name he found of\ncourse in the punning sonnets, CXXXV. and CXLIII.; the surname was,\naccording to him, hidden in the seventh line of the 20th Sonnet, where\nMr. W. H. is described as—\n\n A man in hew, all _Hews_ in his controwling.\n\n‘In the original edition of the Sonnets “Hews” is printed with a capital\nletter and in italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearly that a play\non words was intended, his view receiving a good deal of corroboration\nfrom those sonnets in which curious puns are made on the words “use” and\n“usury.” Of course I was converted at once, and Willie Hughes became to\nme as real a person as Shakespeare. The only objection I made to the\ntheory was that the name of Willie Hughes does not occur in the list of\nthe actors of Shakespeare’s company as it is printed in the first folio.\nCyril, however, pointed out that the absence of Willie Hughes’s name from\nthis list really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from Sonnet\nLXXXVI. that Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare’s company to play at\na rival theatre, probably in some of Chapman’s plays. It is in reference\nto this that in the great sonnet on Chapman, Shakespeare said to Willie\nHughes—\n\n But when your countenance fill’d up his line,\n Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine—\n\nthe expression “when your countenance filled up his line” referring\nobviously to the beauty of the young actor giving life and reality and\nadded charm to Chapman’s verse, the same idea being also put forward in\nthe 79th Sonnet—\n\n Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,\n My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;\n But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,\n And my sick Muse doth give another place;\n\nand in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says—\n\n Every alien pen has got my _use_\n And under thee their poesy disperse,\n\nthe play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the phrase\n“under thee their poesy disperse,” meaning “by your assistance as an\nactor bring their plays before the people.”\n\n‘It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading and\nre-reading the Sonnets. After some time, however, I began to see that\nbefore the theory could be placed before the world in a really perfected\nform, it was necessary to get some independent evidence about the\nexistence of this young actor, Willie Hughes. If this could be once\nestablished, there could be no possible doubt about his identity with Mr.\nW. H.; but otherwise the theory would fall to the ground. I put this\nforward very strongly to Cyril, who was a good deal annoyed at what he\ncalled my Philistine tone of mind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the\nsubject. However, I made him promise that in his own interest he would\nnot publish his discovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the\nreach of doubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City\nchurches, the Alleyn MSS. at Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers of\nthe Lord Chamberlain—everything, in fact, that we thought might contain\nsome allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered nothing, of course, and\nevery day the existence of Willie Hughes seemed to me to become more\nproblematical. Cyril was in a dreadful state, and used to go over the\nwhole question day after day, entreating me to believe; but I saw the one\nflaw in the theory, and I refused to be convinced till the actual\nexistence of Willie Hughes, a boy-actor of Elizabethan days, had been\nplaced beyond the reach of doubt or cavil.\n\n‘One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at the\ntime, but I afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this was not the\ncase; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a telegram from him,\nhanded in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to come and dine with him that\nevening at eight o’clock. When I arrived, he said to me, “The only\napostle who did not deserve proof was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the\nonly apostle who got it.” I asked him what he meant. He answered that\nhe had not merely been able to establish the existence in the sixteenth\ncentury of a boy-actor of the name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the\nmost conclusive evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. He\nwould not tell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he solemnly\nproduced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had discovered it\nby the merest chance nailed to the side of an old chest that he had\nbought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire. The chest itself, which was a\nvery fine example of Elizabethan work, he had, of course, brought with\nhim, and in the centre of the front panel the initials W. H. were\nundoubtedly carved. It was this monogram that had attracted his\nattention, and he told me that it was not till he had had the chest in\nhis possession for several days that he had thought of making any careful\nexamination of the inside. One morning, however, he saw that one of the\nsides of the chest was much thicker than the other, and looking more\nclosely, he discovered that a framed panel picture was clamped against\nit. On taking it out, he found it was the picture that is now lying on\nthe sofa. It was very dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to\nclean it, and, to his great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere chance on\nthe one thing for which he had been looking. Here was an authentic\nportrait of Mr. W. H., with his hand resting on the dedicatory page of\nthe Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be faintly seen the name of\nthe young man written in black uncial letters on a faded gold ground,\n“Master Will. Hews.”\n\n‘Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment that\nCyril Graham was playing a trick on me, or that he was trying to prove\nhis theory by means of a forgery.’\n\n‘But is it a forgery?’ I asked.\n\n‘Of course it is,’ said Erskine. ‘It is a very good forgery; but it is a\nforgery none the less. I thought at the time that Cyril was rather calm\nabout the whole matter; but I remember he more than once told me that he\nhimself required no proof of the kind, and that he thought the theory\ncomplete without it. I laughed at him, and told him that without it the\ntheory would fall to the ground, and I warmly congratulated him on the\nmarvellous discovery. We then arranged that the picture should be etched\nor facsimiled, and placed as the frontispiece to Cyril’s edition of the\nSonnets; and for three months we did nothing but go over each poem line\nby line, till we had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One\nunlucky day I was in a print-shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the counter\nsome extremely beautiful drawings in silver-point. I was so attracted by\nthem that I bought them; and the proprietor of the place, a man called\nRawlings, told me that they were done by a young painter of the name of\nEdward Merton, who was very clever, but as poor as a church mouse. I\nwent to see Merton some days afterwards, having got his address from the\nprintseller, and found a pale, interesting young man, with a rather\ncommon-looking wife—his model, as I subsequently learned. I told him how\nmuch I admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked\nhim if he would show me some of his other work. As we were looking over\na portfolio, full of really very lovely things,—for Merton had a most\ndelicate and delightful touch,—I suddenly caught sight of a drawing of\nthe picture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt whatever about it. It was\nalmost a _facsimile_—the only difference being that the two masks of\nTragedy and Comedy were not suspended from the marble table as they are\nin the picture, but were lying on the floor at the young man’s feet.\n“Where on earth did you get that?” I said. He grew rather confused, and\nsaid—“Oh, that is nothing. I did not know it was in this portfolio. It\nis not a thing of any value.” “It is what you did for Mr. Cyril Graham,”\nexclaimed his wife; “and if this gentleman wishes to buy it, let him have\nit.” “For Mr. Cyril Graham?” I repeated. “Did you paint the picture of\nMr. W. H.?” “I don’t understand what you mean,” he answered, growing\nvery red. Well, the whole thing was quite dreadful. The wife let it all\nout. I gave her five pounds when I was going away. I can’t bear to\nthink of it now; but of course I was furious. I went off at once to\nCyril’s chambers, waited there for three hours before he came in, with\nthat horrid lie staring me in the face, and told him I had discovered his\nforgery. He grew very pale and said—“I did it purely for your sake. You\nwould not be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of\nthe theory.” “The truth of the theory!” I exclaimed; “the less we talk\nabout that the better. You never even believed in it yourself. If you\nhad, you would not have committed a forgery to prove it.” High words\npassed between us; we had a fearful quarrel. I dare say I was unjust.\nThe next morning he was dead.’\n\n‘Dead!’ I cried,\n\n‘Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed upon\nthe frame of the picture, just where the name had been painted. By the\ntime I arrived—his servant had sent for me at once—the police were\nalready there. He had left a letter for me, evidently written in the\ngreatest agitation and distress of mind.’\n\n‘What was in it?’ I asked.\n\n‘Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery of\nthe picture had been done simply as a concession to me, and did not in\nthe slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory; and, that in\norder to show me how firm and flawless his faith in the whole thing was,\nhe was going to offer his life as a sacrifice to the secret of the\nSonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. I remember he ended by saying\nthat he intrusted to me the Willie Hughes theory, and that it was for me\nto present it to the world, and to unlock the secret of Shakespeare’s\nheart.’\n\n‘It is a most tragic story,’ I cried; ‘but why have you not carried out\nhis wishes?’\n\nErskine shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because it is a perfectly unsound\ntheory from beginning to end,’ he answered.\n\n‘My dear Erskine,’ I said, getting up from my seat, ‘you are entirely\nwrong about the whole matter. It is the only perfect key to\nShakespeare’s Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete in every\ndetail. I believe in Willie Hughes.’\n\n‘Don’t say that,’ said Erskine gravely; ‘I believe there is something\nfatal about the idea, and intellectually there is nothing to be said for\nit. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assure you the theory is\nentirely fallacious. It is plausible up to a certain point. Then it\nstops. For heaven’s sake, my dear boy, don’t take up the subject of\nWillie Hughes. You will break your heart over it.’\n\n‘Erskine,’ I answered, ‘it is your duty to give this theory to the world.\nIf you will not do it, I will. By keeping it back you wrong the memory\nof Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most splendid of all the martyrs of\nliterature. I entreat you to do him justice. He died for this\nthing,—don’t let his death be in vain.’\n\nErskine looked at me in amazement. ‘You are carried away by the\nsentiment of the whole story,’ he said. ‘You forget that a thing is not\nnecessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted to Cyril\nGraham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did not recover it for\nyears. I don’t think I have ever recovered it. But Willie Hughes?\nThere is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. No such person ever\nexisted. As for bringing the whole thing before the world—the world\nthinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by accident. The only proof of his\nsuicide was contained in the letter to me, and of this letter the public\nnever heard anything. To the present day Lord Crediton thinks that the\nwhole thing was accidental.’\n\n‘Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,’ I answered; ‘and if\nyou will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at least of his faith.’\n\n‘His faith,’ said Erskine, ‘was fixed in a thing that was false, in a\nthing that was unsound, in a thing that no Shakespearean scholar would\naccept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don’t make a fool\nof yourself, and don’t follow a trail that leads nowhere. You start by\nassuming the existence of the very person whose existence is the thing to\nbe proved. Besides, everybody knows that the Sonnets were addressed to\nLord Pembroke. The matter is settled once for all.’\n\n‘The matter is not settled!’ I exclaimed. ‘I will take up the theory\nwhere Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove to the world that he was\nright.’\n\n‘Silly boy!’ said Erskine. ‘Go home: it is after two, and don’t think\nabout Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I told you anything about it,\nand very sorry indeed that I should have converted you to a thing in\nwhich I don’t believe.’\n\n‘You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern literature,’\nI answered; ‘and I shall not rest till I have made you recognise, till I\nhave made everybody recognise, that Cyril Graham was the most subtle\nShakespearean critic of our day.’\n\nAs I walked home through St. James’s Park the dawn was just breaking over\nLondon. The white swans were lying asleep on the polished lake, and the\ngaunt Palace looked purple against the pale-green sky. I thought of\nCyril Graham, and my eyes filled with tears.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nIT was past twelve o’clock when I awoke, and the sun was streaming in\nthrough the curtains of my room in long slanting beams of dusty gold. I\ntold my servant that I would be at home to no one; and after I had had a\ncup of chocolate and a _petit-pain_, I took down from the book-shelf my\ncopy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and began to go carefully through them.\nEvery poem seemed to me to corroborate Cyril Graham’s theory. I felt as\nif I had my hand upon Shakespeare’s heart, and was counting each separate\nthrob and pulse of passion. I thought of the wonderful boy-actor, and\nsaw his face in every line.\n\nTwo sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the 53rd and\nthe 67th. In the first of these, Shakespeare, complimenting Willie\nHughes on the versatility of his acting, on his wide range of parts, a\nrange extending from Rosalind to Juliet, and from Beatrice to Ophelia,\nsays to him—\n\n What is your substance, whereof are you made,\n That millions of strange shadows on you tend?\n Since every one hath, every one, one shade,\n And you, but one, can every shadow lend—\n\nlines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to an\nactor, for the word ‘shadow’ had in Shakespeare’s day a technical meaning\nconnected with the stage. ‘The best in this kind are but shadows,’ says\nTheseus of the actors in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, and there are\nmany similar allusions in the literature of the day. These sonnets\nevidently belonged to the series in which Shakespeare discusses the\nnature of the actor’s art, and of the strange and rare temperament that\nis essential to the perfect stage-player. ‘How is it,’ says Shakespeare\nto Willie Hughes, ‘that you have so many personalities?’ and then he goes\non to point out that his beauty is such that it seems to realise every\nform and phase of fancy, to embody each dream of the creative\nimagination—an idea that is still further expanded in the sonnet that\nimmediately follows, where, beginning with the fine thought,\n\n O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem\n By that sweet ornament which _truth_ doth give!\n\nShakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truth of\nvisible presentation on the stage, adds to the wonder of poetry, giving\nlife to its loveliness, and actual reality to its ideal form. And yet,\nin the 67th Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie Hughes to abandon the\nstage with its artificiality, its false mimic life of painted face and\nunreal costume, its immoral influences and suggestions, its remoteness\nfrom the true world of noble action and sincere utterance.\n\n Ah, wherefore with infection should he live\n And with his presence grace impiety,\n That sin by him advantage should achieve\n And lace itself with his society?\n Why should false painting imitate his cheek,\n And steal dead seeming of his living hue?\n Why should poor beauty indirectly seek\n Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?\n\nIt may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, who\nrealised his own perfection as an artist and his humanity as a man on the\nideal plane of stage-writing and stage-playing, should have written in\nthese terms about the theatre; but we must remember that in Sonnets CX.\nand CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he too was wearied of the world of\npuppets, and full of shame at having made himself ‘a motley to the view.’\nThe 111th Sonnet is especially bitter:—\n\n O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,\n The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,\n That did not better for my life provide\n Than public means which public manners breeds.\n Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,\n And almost thence my nature is subdued\n To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:\n Pity me then and wish I were renew’d—\n\nand there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signs familiar to\nall real students of Shakespeare.\n\nOne point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it was days\nbefore I struck on the true interpretation, which indeed Cyril Graham\nhimself seems to have missed. I could not understand how it was that\nShakespeare set so high a value on his young friend marrying. He himself\nhad married young, and the result had been unhappiness, and it was not\nlikely that he would have asked Willie Hughes to commit the same error.\nThe boy-player of Rosalind had nothing to gain from marriage, or from the\npassions of real life. The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties\nto have children, seemed to me a jarring note. The explanation of the\nmystery came on me quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious\ndedication. It will be remembered that the dedication runs as follows:—\n\n TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF\n THESE INSUING SONNETS\n MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE\n AND THAT ETERNITIE\n PROMISED\n BY\n OUR EVER-LIVING POET\n WISHETH\n THE WELL-WISHING\n ADVENTURER IN\n SETTING\n FORTH.\n\n T. T.\n\nSome scholars have supposed that the word ‘begetter’ in this dedication\nmeans simply the procurer of the Sonnets for Thomas Thorpe the publisher;\nbut this view is now generally abandoned, and the highest authorities are\nquite agreed that it is to be taken in the sense of inspirer, the\nmetaphor being drawn from the analogy of physical life. Now I saw that\nthe same metaphor was used by Shakespeare himself all through the poems,\nand this set me on the right track. Finally I made my great discovery.\nThe marriage that Shakespeare proposes for Willie Hughes is the marriage\nwith his Muse, an expression which is definitely put forward in the 82nd\nSonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection of the\nboy-actor for whom he had written his greatest parts, and whose beauty\nhad indeed suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying—\n\n I grant thou wert not married to my Muse.\n\nThe children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh and blood, but\nmore immortal children of undying fame. The whole cycle of the early\nsonnets is simply Shakespeare’s invitation to Willie Hughes to go upon\nthe stage and become a player. How barren and profitless a thing, he\nsays, is this beauty of yours if it be not used:—\n\n When forty winters shall besiege thy brow\n And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,\n Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,\n Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:\n Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,\n Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,\n To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\n Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\n\nYou must create something in art: my verse ‘is thine, and _born_ of\nthee’; only listen to me, and I will ‘_bring forth_ eternal numbers to\noutlive long date,’ and you shall people with forms of your own image the\nimaginary world of the stage. These children that you beget, he\ncontinues, will not wither away, as mortal children do, but you shall\nlive in them and in my plays: do but—\n\n Make thee another self, for love of me,\n That beauty still may live in thine or thee.\n\nI collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate this view,\nand they produced a strong impression on me, and showed me how complete\nCyril Graham’s theory really was. I also saw that it was quite easy to\nseparate those lines in which he speaks of the Sonnets themselves from\nthose in which he speaks of his great dramatic work. This was a point\nthat had been entirely overlooked by all critics up to Cyril Graham’s\nday. And yet it was one of the most important points in the whole series\nof poems. To the Sonnets Shakespeare was more or less indifferent. He\ndid not wish to rest his fame on them. They were to him his ‘slight\nMuse,’ as he calls them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private\ncirculation only among a few, a very few, friends. Upon the other hand\nhe was extremely conscious of the high artistic value of his plays, and\nshows a noble self-reliance upon his dramatic genius. When he says to\nWillie Hughes:\n\n But thy eternal summer shall not fade,\n Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\n Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,\n When in _eternal lines_ to time thou grow’st:\n So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,\n So long lives this, and this gives life to thee;—\n\nthe expression ‘eternal lines’ clearly alludes to one of his plays that\nhe was sending him at the time, just as the concluding couplet points to\nhis confidence in the probability of his plays being always acted. In\nhis address to the Dramatic Muse (Sonnets C. and CI.), we find the same\nfeeling.\n\n Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long\n To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?\n Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,\n Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?\n\nhe cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedy and\nComedy for her ‘neglect of Truth in Beauty dyed,’ and says—\n\n Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?\n Excuse not silence so, for ‘t lies in thee\n To make him much outlive a gilded tomb\n And to be praised of ages yet to be.\n Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how\n To make him seem long hence as he shows now.\n\nIt is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives to this\nidea its fullest expression. To imagine that the ‘powerful rhyme’ of the\nsecond line refers to the sonnet itself, is to mistake Shakespeare’s\nmeaning entirely. It seemed to me that it was extremely likely, from the\ngeneral character of the sonnet, that a particular play was meant, and\nthat the play was none other but _Romeo and Juliet_.\n\n Not marble, nor the gilded monuments\n Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;\n But you shall shine more bright in these contents\n Than unswept stone besmear’d with sluttish time.\n When wasteful wars shall statues overturn,\n And broils root out the work of masonry,\n Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn\n The living record of your memory.\n ‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity\n Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room\n Even in the eyes of all posterity\n That wear this world out to the ending doom.\n So, till the judgement that yourself arise,\n You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.\n\nIt was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhere\nShakespeare promised Willie Hughes immortality in a form that appealed to\nmen’s eyes—that is to say, in a spectacular form, in a play that is to be\nlooked at.\n\nFor two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out, and\nrefusing all invitations. Every day I seemed to be discovering something\nnew, and Willie Hughes became to me a kind of spiritual presence, an\never-dominant personality. I could almost fancy that I saw him standing\nin the shadow of my room, so well had Shakespeare drawn him, with his\ngolden hair, his tender flower-like grace, his dreamy deep-sunken eyes,\nhis delicate mobile limbs, and his white lily hands. His very name\nfascinated me. Willie Hughes! Willie Hughes! How musically it sounded!\nYes; who else but he could have been the master-mistress of Shakespeare’s\npassion, {1} the lord of his love to whom he was bound in vassalage, {2}\nthe delicate minion of pleasure, {3} the rose of the whole world, {4} the\nherald of the spring {5} decked in the proud livery of youth, {6} the\nlovely boy whom it was sweet music to hear, {7} and whose beauty was the\nvery raiment of Shakespeare’s heart, {8} as it was the keystone of his\ndramatic power? How bitter now seemed the whole tragedy of his desertion\nand his shame!—shame that he made sweet and lovely {9} by the mere magic\nof his personality, but that was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare\nforgave him, should not we forgive him also? I did not care to pry into\nthe mystery of his sin.\n\nHis abandonment of Shakespeare’s theatre was a different matter, and I\ninvestigated it at great length. Finally I came to the conclusion that\nCyril Graham had been wrong in regarding the rival dramatist of the 80th\nSonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe who was alluded to. At the\ntime the Sonnets were written, such an expression as ‘the proud full sail\nof his great verse’ could not have been used of Chapman’s work, however\napplicable it might have been to the style of his later Jacobean plays.\nNo: Marlowe was clearly the rival dramatist of whom Shakespeare spoke in\nsuch laudatory terms; and that\n\n Affable familiar ghost\n Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,\n\nwas the Mephistopheles of his _Doctor Faustus_. No doubt, Marlowe was\nfascinated by the beauty and grace of the boy-actor, and lured him away\nfrom the Blackfriars Theatre, that he might play the Gaveston of his\n_Edward II_. That Shakespeare had the legal right to retain Willie\nHughes in his own company is evident from Sonnet LXXXVII., where he\nsays:—\n\n Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,\n And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:\n The _charter of thy worth_ gives thee releasing;\n My _bonds_ in thee are all determinate.\n For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?\n And for that riches where is my deserving?\n The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,\n _And so my patent back again is swerving_.\n Thyself thou gayest, thy own worth then not knowing,\n Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;\n So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,\n Comes home again, on better judgement making.\n Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,\n In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.\n\nBut him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force.\nWillie Hughes became a member of Lord Pembroke’s company, and, perhaps in\nthe open yard of the Red Bull Tavern, played the part of King Edward’s\ndelicate minion. On Marlowe’s death, he seems to have returned to\nShakespeare, who, whatever his fellow-partners may have thought of the\nmatter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness and treachery of the young\nactor.\n\nHow well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stage-player!\nWillie Hughes was one of those\n\n That do not do the thing they most do show,\n Who, moving others, are themselves as stone.\n\nHe could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passion without\nrealising it.\n\n In many’s looks the false heart’s history\n Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,\n\nbut with Willie Hughes it was not so. ‘Heaven,’ says Shakespeare, in a\nsonnet of mad idolatry—\n\n Heaven in thy creation did decree\n That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;\n Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be,\n Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.\n\nIn his ‘inconstant mind’ and his ‘false heart,’ it was easy to recognise\nthe insincerity and treachery that somehow seem inseparable from the\nartistic nature, as in his love of praise that desire for immediate\nrecognition that characterises all actors. And yet, more fortunate in\nthis than other actors, Willie Hughes was to know something of\nimmortality. Inseparably connected with Shakespeare’s plays, he was to\nlive in them.\n\n Your name from hence immortal life shall have,\n Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:\n The earth can yield me but a common grave,\n When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie.\n Your monument shall be my gentle verse,\n Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read,\n And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,\n When all the breathers of this world are dead.\n\nThere were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes’s power over his\naudience—the ‘gazers,’ as Shakespeare calls them; but perhaps the most\nperfect description of his wonderful mastery over dramatic art was in _A\nLover’s Complaint_, where Shakespeare says of him:—\n\n In him a plenitude of subtle matter,\n Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,\n Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,\n Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,\n In either’s aptness, as it best deceives,\n To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,\n Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.\n\n * * * * *\n\n So on the tip of his subduing tongue,\n All kind of arguments and questions deep,\n All replication prompt and reason strong,\n For his advantage still did wake and sleep,\n To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep.\n He had the dialect and the different skill,\n Catching all passions in his craft of will.\n\nOnce I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethan\nliterature. In a wonderfully graphic account of the last days of the\ngreat Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas Knell, tells us that the night\nbefore the Earl died, ‘he called William Hewes, which was his musician,\nto play upon the virginals and to sing. “Play,” said he, “my song, Will\nHewes, and I will sing it to myself.” So he did it most joyfully, not as\nthe howling swan, which, still looking down, waileth her end, but as a\nsweet lark, lifting up his hands and casting up his eyes to his God, with\nthis mounted the crystal skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue the\ntop of highest heavens.’ Surely the boy who played on the virginals to\nthe dying father of Sidney’s Stella was none other but the Will Hews to\nwhom Shakespeare dedicated the Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself\nsweet ‘music to hear.’ Yet Lord Essex died in 1576, when Shakespeare\nhimself was but twelve years of age. It was impossible that his musician\ncould have been the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. Perhaps Shakespeare’s\nyoung friend was the son of the player upon the virginals? It was at\nleast something to have discovered that Will Hews was an Elizabethan\nname. Indeed the name Hews seemed to have been closely connected with\nmusic and the stage. The first English actress was the lovely Margaret\nHews, whom Prince Rupert so madly loved. What more probable than that\nbetween her and Lord Essex’s musician had come the boy-actor of\nShakespeare’s plays? But the proofs, the links—where were they? Alas! I\ncould not find them. It seemed to me that I was always on the brink of\nabsolute verification, but that I could never really attain to it.\n\nFrom Willie Hughes’s life I soon passed to thoughts of his death. I used\nto wonder what had been his end.\n\nPerhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 went across\nsea to Germany and played before the great Duke Henry Julius of\nBrunswick, himself a dramatist of no mean order, and at the Court of that\nstrange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so enamoured of beauty that he\nwas said to have bought for his weight in amber the young son of a\ntravelling Greek merchant, and to have given pageants in honour of his\nslave all through that dreadful famine year of 1606–7, when the people\ndied of hunger in the very streets of the town, and for the space of\nseven months there was no rain. We know at any rate that _Romeo and\nJuliet_ was brought out at Dresden in 1613, along with _Hamlet_ and _King\nLear_, and it was surely to none other than Willie Hughes that in 1615\nthe death-mask of Shakespeare was brought by the hand of one of the suite\nof the English ambassador, pale token of the passing away of the great\npoet who had so dearly loved him. Indeed there would have been something\npeculiarly fitting in the idea that the boy-actor, whose beauty had been\nso vital an element in the realism and romance of Shakespeare’s art,\nshould have been the first to have brought to Germany the seed of the new\nculture, and was in his way the precursor of that _Aufklärung_ or\nIllumination of the eighteenth century, that splendid movement which,\nthough begun by Lessing and Herder, and brought to its full and perfect\nissue by Goethe, was in no small part helped on by another\nactor—Friedrich Schroeder—who awoke the popular consciousness, and by\nmeans of the feigned passions and mimetic methods of the stage showed the\nintimate, the vital, connection between life and literature. If this was\nso—and there was certainly no evidence against it—it was not improbable\nthat Willie Hughes was one of those English comedians (_mimæ quidam ex\nBritannia_, as the old chronicle calls them), who were slain at Nuremberg\nin a sudden uprising of the people, and were secretly buried in a little\nvineyard outside the city by some young men ‘who had found pleasure in\ntheir performances, and of whom some had sought to be instructed in the\nmysteries of the new art.’ Certainly no more fitting place could there\nbe for him to whom Shakespeare said, ‘thou art all my art,’ than this\nlittle vineyard outside the city walls. For was it not from the sorrows\nof Dionysos that Tragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of Comedy,\nwith its careless merriment and quick replies, first heard on the lips of\nthe Sicilian vine-dressers? Nay, did not the purple and red stain of the\nwine-froth on face and limbs give the first suggestion of the charm and\nfascination of disguise—the desire for self-concealment, the sense of the\nvalue of objectivity thus showing itself in the rude beginnings of the\nart? At any rate, wherever he lay—whether in the little vineyard at the\ngate of the Gothic town, or in some dim London churchyard amidst the roar\nand bustle of our great city—no gorgeous monument marked his\nresting-place. His true tomb, as Shakespeare saw, was the poet’s verse,\nhis true monument the permanence of the drama. So had it been with\nothers whose beauty had given a new creative impulse to their age. The\nivory body of the Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the Nile, and\non the yellow hills of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust of the young\nAthenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture, and Charmides in philosophy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nAFTER three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal to\nErskine to do justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to give to the\nworld his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets—the only\ninterpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have not any\ncopy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to lay my hand\nupon the original; but I remember that I went over the whole ground, and\ncovered sheets of paper with passionate reiteration of the arguments and\nproofs that my study had suggested to me. It seemed to me that I was not\nmerely restoring Cyril Graham to his proper place in literary history,\nbut rescuing the honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of\na commonplace intrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I put\ninto the letter all my faith.\n\nNo sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came over\nme. It seemed to me that I had given away my capacity for belief in the\nWillie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that something had gone out of me,\nas it were, and that I was perfectly indifferent to the whole subject.\nWhat was it that had happened? It is difficult to say. Perhaps, by\nfinding perfect expression for a passion, I had exhausted the passion\nitself. Emotional forces, like the forces of physical life, have their\npositive limitations. Perhaps the mere effort to convert any one to a\ntheory involves some form of renunciation of the power of credence.\nPerhaps I was simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having\nburnt out, my reason was left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However\nit came about, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no doubt\nthat Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle dream, the\nboyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent spirits, was more\nanxious to convince others than to be himself convinced.\n\nAs I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my letter,\nI determined to go and see him at once, and to make my apologies to him\nfor my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning I drove down to Birdcage\nWalk, and found Erskine sitting in his library, with the forged picture\nof Willie Hughes in front of him.\n\n‘My dear Erskine!’ I cried, ‘I have come to apologise to you.’\n\n‘To apologise to me?’ he said. ‘What for?’\n\n‘For my letter,’ I answered.\n\n‘You have nothing to regret in your letter,’ he said. ‘On the contrary,\nyou have done me the greatest service in your power. You have shown me\nthat Cyril Graham’s theory is perfectly sound.’\n\n‘You don’t mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?’ I exclaimed.\n\n‘Why not?’ he rejoined. ‘You have proved the thing to me. Do you think\nI cannot estimate the value of evidence?’\n\n‘But there is no evidence at all,’ I groaned, sinking into a chair.\n‘When I wrote to you I was under the influence of a perfectly silly\nenthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham’s death,\nfascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder and novelty\nof the whole idea. I see now that the theory is based on a delusion.\nThe only evidence for the existence of Willie Hughes is that picture in\nfront of you, and the picture is a forgery. Don’t be carried away by\nmere sentiment in this matter. Whatever romance may have to say about\nthe Willie Hughes theory, reason is dead against it.’\n\n‘I don’t understand you,’ said Erskine, looking at me in amazement.\n‘Why, you yourself have convinced me by your letter that Willie Hughes is\nan absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Or is all that you\nhave been saying to me merely a joke?’\n\n‘I cannot explain it to you,’ I rejoined, ‘but I see now that there is\nreally nothing to be said in favour of Cyril Graham’s interpretation.\nThe Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. For heaven’s sake don’t\nwaste your time in a foolish attempt to discover a young Elizabethan\nactor who never existed, and to make a phantom puppet the centre of the\ngreat cycle of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.’\n\n‘I see that you don’t understand the theory,’ he replied.\n\n‘My dear Erskine,’ I cried, ‘not understand it! Why, I feel as if I had\ninvented it. Surely my letter shows you that I not merely went into the\nwhole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every kind. The one flaw\nin the theory is that it presupposes the existence of the person whose\nexistence is the subject of dispute. If we grant that there was in\nShakespeare’s company a young actor of the name of Willie Hughes, it is\nnot difficult to make him the object of the Sonnets. But as we know that\nthere was no actor of this name in the company of the Globe Theatre, it\nis idle to pursue the investigation further.’\n\n‘But that is exactly what we don’t know,’ said Erskine. ‘It is quite\ntrue that his name does not occur in the list given in the first folio;\nbut, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in favour of the\nexistence of Willie Hughes than against it, if we remember his\ntreacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rival dramatist.’\n\nWe argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say could\nmake Erskine surrender his faith in Cyril Graham’s interpretation. He\ntold me that he intended to devote his life to proving the theory, and\nthat he was determined to do justice to Cyril Graham’s memory. I\nentreated him, laughed at him, begged of him, but it was of no use.\nFinally we parted, not exactly in anger, but certainly with a shadow\nbetween us. He thought me shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called\non him again his servant told me that he had gone to Germany.\n\nTwo years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall-porter handed\nme a letter with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine, and written at\nthe Hôtel d’Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it I was filled with\nhorror, though I did not quite believe that he would be so mad as to\ncarry his resolve into execution. The gist of the letter was that he had\ntried in every way to verify the Willie Hughes theory, and had failed,\nand that as Cyril Graham had given his life for this theory, he himself\nhad determined to give his own life also to the same cause. The\nconcluding words of the letter were these: ‘I still believe in Willie\nHughes; and by the time you receive this, I shall have died by my own\nhand for Willie Hughes’s sake: for his sake, and for the sake of Cyril\nGraham, whom I drove to his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant\nlack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you rejected it.\nIt comes to you now stained with the blood of two lives,—do not turn away\nfrom it.’\n\nIt was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could not\nbelieve it. To die for one’s theological beliefs is the worst use a man\ncan make of his life, but to die for a literary theory! It seemed\nimpossible.\n\nI looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate\nchance had prevented my going to the club for several days, or I might\nhave got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too late. I drove\noff to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by the night-mail from\nCharing Cross. The journey was intolerable. I thought I would never\narrive. As soon as I did I drove to the Hôtel l’Angleterre. They told\nme that Erskine had been buried two days before in the English cemetery.\nThere was something horribly grotesque about the whole tragedy. I said\nall kinds of wild things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at\nme.\n\nSuddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the vestibule.\nWhen she saw me she came up to me, murmured something about her poor son,\nand burst into tears. I led her into her sitting-room. An elderly\ngentleman was there waiting for her. It was the English doctor.\n\nWe talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his motive\nfor committing suicide. It was evident that he had not told his mother\nanything about the reason that had driven him to so fatal, so mad an act.\nFinally Lady Erskine rose and said, George left you something as a\nmemento. It was a thing he prized very much. I will get it for you.\n\nAs soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said, ‘What a\ndreadful shock it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonder that she\nbears it as well as she does.’\n\n‘Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming,’ he answered.\n\n‘Knew it for months past!’ I cried. ‘But why didn’t she stop him? Why\ndidn’t she have him watched? He must have been mad.’\n\nThe doctor stared at me. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.\n\n‘Well,’ I cried, ‘if a mother knows that her son is going to commit\nsuicide—’\n\n‘Suicide!’ he answered. ‘Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He died\nof consumption. He came here to die. The moment I saw him I knew that\nthere was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and the other was very much\naffected. Three days before he died he asked me was there any hope. I\ntold him frankly that there was none, and that he had only a few days to\nlive. He wrote some letters, and was quite resigned, retaining his\nsenses to the last.’\n\nAt that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture of\nWillie Hughes in her hand. ‘When George was dying he begged me to give\nyou this,’ she said. As I took it from her, her tears fell on my hand.\n\nThe picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired by my\nartistic friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet, but an\nOudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history. But sometimes,\nwhen I look at it, I think that there is really a great deal to be said\nfor the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n{1} Sonnet xx. 2.\n\n{2} Sonnet xxvi. 1.\n\n{3} Sonnet cxxvi. 9.\n\n{4} Sonnet cix. 14.\n\n{5} Sonnet i. 10.\n\n{6} Sonnet ii. 3.\n\n{7} Sonnet viii. 1.\n\n{8} Sonnet xxii. 6.\n\n{9} Sonnet xcv. 1.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 773-0.txt or 773-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/7/773\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Oscar Wilde, Edited by Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Poems\n with the Ballad of Reading Gaol\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: Robert Ross\n\nRelease Date: March 31, 2013 [eBook #1057]\n[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997]\n[Last updated: July 2, 2014]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n POEMS\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n\n WITH THE BALLAD OF\n READING GAOL\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Twelfth Edition_\n\n_First Published_—\n _Ravenna_ _1878_\n _Poems_ _1881_\n ,, _Fifth Edition_ _1882_\n _The Sphinx_ _1894_\n _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ _1898_\n_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ (_Limited _March 1908_\nEditions on Handmade Paper and Japanese Vellum_)\n_Seventh Edition_ (_F’cap. 8vo_). _September 1909_\n_Eighth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _November 1909_\n_Ninth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _December 1909_\n_Tenth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _November 1910_\n_Eleventh Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _December 1911_\n_Twelfth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _April 1913_\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\n_This collection of Wilde’s Poems contains the volume of_ 1881 _in its\nentirety_, ‘_The Sphinx_’, ‘_The Ballad of Reading Gaol_,’ _and_\n‘_Ravenna_.’ _Of the Uncollected Poems published in the Uniform Edition\nof_ 1908, _a few_, _including the Translations from the Greek and the\nPolish_, _are omitted_. _Two new poems_, ‘_Désespoir_’ _and_ ‘_Pan_,’_\nwhich I have recently discovered in manuscript_, _are now printed for the\nfirst time_. _Particulars as to the original publication of each poem\nwill be found in_ ‘_A Bibliography of the Poems of Oscar Wilde_,’ _by\nStuart Mason_, _London_ 1907.\n\n _ROBERT ROSS_.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nPOEMS (1881): PAGE\n Hélas! 3\n ELEUTHERIA:\n Sonnet To Liberty 7\n Ave Imperatrix 8\n To Milton 14\n Louis Napoleon 15\n Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in 16\n Bulgaria\n Quantum Mutata 17\n Libertatis Sacra Fames 18\n Theoretikos 19\n THE GARDEN OF EROS 21\n ROSA MYSTICA:\n Requiescat 39\n Sonnet on approaching Italy 40\n San Miniato 41\n Ave Maria Gratia Plena 42\n Italia 43\n Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa 44\n Rome Unvisited 45\n Urbs Sacra Æterna 49\n Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine 50\n Chapel\n Easter Day 51\n E Tenebris 52\n Vita Nuova 53\n Madonna Mia 54\n The New Helen 55\n THE BURDEN OF ITYS 61\n WIND FLOWERS:\n Impression du Matin 83\n Magdalen Walks 84\n Athanasia 86\n Serenade 89\n Endymion 91\n La Bella Donna della mia Mente 93\n Chanson 95\n CHARMIDES 97\n FLOWERS OF GOLD:\n Impressions: I. Les Silhouettes 135\n II. La Fuite de la Lune 136\n The Grave of Keats 137\n Theocritus: A Villanelle 138\n In the Gold Room: A Harmony 139\n Ballade de Marguerite 140\n The Dole of the King’s Daughter 143\n Amor Intellectualis 145\n Santa Decca 146\n A Vision 147\n Impression de Voyage 148\n The Grave of Shelley 149\n By the Arno 150\n IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÀTRE:\n Fabien dei Franchi 155\n Phèdre 156\n Sonnets written at the Lyceum Theatre\n I. Portia 157\n II. Queen Henrietta Maria 158\n III. Camma 159\n PANTHEA 161\n THE FOURTH MOVEMENT:\n Impression: Le Réveillon 175\n At Verona 176\n Apologia 177\n Quia Multum Amavi 179\n Silentium Amoris 180\n Her Voice 181\n My Voice 183\n Tædium Vitæ 184\n HUMANITAD 185\n FLOWER OF LOVE:\n ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ 211\nUNCOLLECTED POEMS (1876–1893):\n From Spring Days to Winter 217\n Tristitiæ 219\n The True Knowledge 220\n Impressions: I. Le Jardin 221\n II. La Mer 222\n Under the Balcony 223\n The Harlot’s House 225\n Le Jardin des Tuileries 227\n On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters 228\n The New Remorse 229\n Fantasisies Décoratives: I. Le Panneau 230\n II. Les Ballons 232\n Canzonet 233\n Symphony in Yellow 235\n In the Forest 236\n To my Wife: With a Copy of my Poems 237\n With a Copy of ‘A House of Pomegranates’ 238\n Roses and Rue 239\n Désespoir 242\n Pan: Double Villanelle 243\nTHE SPHINX (1894) 245\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (1898) 269\nRAVENNA (1878) 305\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS\n\n\nHÉLAS!\n\n\n TO _drift with every passion till my soul_\n _Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play_,\n _Is it for this that I have given away_\n _Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control_?\n _Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll_\n _Scrawled over on some boyish holiday_\n _With idle songs for pipe and virelay_,\n _Which do but mar the secret of the whole_.\n _Surely there was a time I might have trod_\n _The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance_\n _Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God_:\n _Is that time dead_? _lo_! _with a little rod_\n _I did but touch the honey of romance_—\n _And must I lose a soul’s inheritance_?\n\n\n\nELEUTHERIA\n\n\nSONNET TO LIBERTY\n\n\n NOT that I love thy children, whose dull eyes\n See nothing save their own unlovely woe,\n Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,—\n But that the roar of thy Democracies,\n Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,\n Mirror my wildest passions like the sea\n And give my rage a brother—! Liberty!\n For this sake only do thy dissonant cries\n Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings\n By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades\n Rob nations of their rights inviolate\n And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet,\n These Christs that die upon the barricades,\n God knows it I am with them, in some things.\n\n\nAVE IMPERATRIX\n\n\n SET in this stormy Northern sea,\n Queen of these restless fields of tide,\n England! what shall men say of thee,\n Before whose feet the worlds divide?\n\n The earth, a brittle globe of glass,\n Lies in the hollow of thy hand,\n And through its heart of crystal pass,\n Like shadows through a twilight land,\n\n The spears of crimson-suited war,\n The long white-crested waves of fight,\n And all the deadly fires which are\n The torches of the lords of Night.\n\n The yellow leopards, strained and lean,\n The treacherous Russian knows so well,\n With gaping blackened jaws are seen\n Leap through the hail of screaming shell.\n\n The strong sea-lion of England’s wars\n Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,\n To battle with the storm that mars\n The stars of England’s chivalry.\n\n The brazen-throated clarion blows\n Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,\n And the high steeps of Indian snows\n Shake to the tread of armèd men.\n\n And many an Afghan chief, who lies\n Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,\n Clutches his sword in fierce surmise\n When on the mountain-side he sees\n\n The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes\n To tell how he hath heard afar\n The measured roll of English drums\n Beat at the gates of Kandahar.\n\n For southern wind and east wind meet\n Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,\n England with bare and bloody feet\n Climbs the steep road of wide empire.\n\n O lonely Himalayan height,\n Grey pillar of the Indian sky,\n Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight\n Our wingèd dogs of Victory?\n\n The almond-groves of Samarcand,\n Bokhara, where red lilies blow,\n And Oxus, by whose yellow sand\n The grave white-turbaned merchants go:\n\n And on from thence to Ispahan,\n The gilded garden of the sun,\n Whence the long dusty caravan\n Brings cedar wood and vermilion;\n\n And that dread city of Cabool\n Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,\n Whose marble tanks are ever full\n With water for the noonday heat:\n\n Where through the narrow straight Bazaar\n A little maid Circassian\n Is led, a present from the Czar\n Unto some old and bearded khan,—\n\n Here have our wild war-eagles flown,\n And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;\n But the sad dove, that sits alone\n In England—she hath no delight.\n\n In vain the laughing girl will lean\n To greet her love with love-lit eyes:\n Down in some treacherous black ravine,\n Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.\n\n And many a moon and sun will see\n The lingering wistful children wait\n To climb upon their father’s knee;\n And in each house made desolate\n\n Pale women who have lost their lord\n Will kiss the relics of the slain—\n Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—\n Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.\n\n For not in quiet English fields\n Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,\n Where we might deck their broken shields\n With all the flowers the dead love best.\n\n For some are by the Delhi walls,\n And many in the Afghan land,\n And many where the Ganges falls\n Through seven mouths of shifting sand.\n\n And some in Russian waters lie,\n And others in the seas which are\n The portals to the East, or by\n The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.\n\n O wandering graves! O restless sleep!\n O silence of the sunless day!\n O still ravine! O stormy deep!\n Give up your prey! Give up your prey!\n\n And thou whose wounds are never healed,\n Whose weary race is never won,\n O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield\n For every inch of ground a son?\n\n Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,\n Change thy glad song to song of pain;\n Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,\n And will not yield them back again.\n\n Wave and wild wind and foreign shore\n Possess the flower of English land—\n Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,\n Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.\n\n What profit now that we have bound\n The whole round world with nets of gold,\n If hidden in our heart is found\n The care that groweth never old?\n\n What profit that our galleys ride,\n Pine-forest-like, on every main?\n Ruin and wreck are at our side,\n Grim warders of the House of Pain.\n\n Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?\n Where is our English chivalry?\n Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,\n And sobbing waves their threnody.\n\n O loved ones lying far away,\n What word of love can dead lips send!\n O wasted dust! O senseless clay!\n Is this the end! is this the end!\n\n Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead\n To vex their solemn slumber so;\n Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,\n Up the steep road must England go,\n\n Yet when this fiery web is spun,\n Her watchmen shall descry from far\n The young Republic like a sun\n Rise from these crimson seas of war.\n\n\nTO MILTON\n\n\n MILTON! I think thy spirit hath passed away\n From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;\n This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours\n Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,\n And the age changed unto a mimic play\n Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:\n For all our pomp and pageantry and powers\n We are but fit to delve the common clay,\n Seeing this little isle on which we stand,\n This England, this sea-lion of the sea,\n By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,\n Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land\n Which bare a triple empire in her hand\n When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!\n\n\nLOUIS NAPOLEON\n\n\n EAGLE of Austerlitz! where were thy wings\n When far away upon a barbarous strand,\n In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,\n Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!\n\n Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,\n Or ride in state through Paris in the van\n Of thy returning legions, but instead\n Thy mother France, free and republican,\n\n Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place\n The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,\n That not dishonoured should thy soul go down\n To tell the mighty Sire of thy race\n\n That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,\n And found it sweeter than his honied bees,\n And that the giant wave Democracy\n Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.\n\n\nSONNET\n\n\n ON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA\n\n CHRIST, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones\n Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?\n And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her\n Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?\n For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,\n The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,\n Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain\n From those whose children lie upon the stones?\n Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom\n Curtains the land, and through the starless night\n Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!\n If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb\n Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might\n Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!\n\n\nQUANTUM MUTATA\n\n\n THERE was a time in Europe long ago\n When no man died for freedom anywhere,\n But England’s lion leaping from its lair\n Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so\n While England could a great Republic show.\n Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care\n Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair\n The Pontiff in his painted portico\n Trembled before our stern ambassadors.\n How comes it then that from such high estate\n We have thus fallen, save that Luxury\n With barren merchandise piles up the gate\n Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by:\n Else might we still be Milton’s heritors.\n\n\nLIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES\n\n\n ALBEIT nurtured in democracy,\n And liking best that state republican\n Where every man is Kinglike and no man\n Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,\n Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,\n Better the rule of One, whom all obey,\n Than to let clamorous demagogues betray\n Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.\n Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane\n Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street\n For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign\n Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,\n Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,\n Or Murder with his silent bloody feet.\n\n\nTHEORETIKOS\n\n\n THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay:\n Of all its ancient chivalry and might\n Our little island is forsaken quite:\n Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,\n And from its hills that voice hath passed away\n Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,\n Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit\n For this vile traffic-house, where day by day\n Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,\n And the rude people rage with ignorant cries\n Against an heritage of centuries.\n It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art\n And loftiest culture I would stand apart,\n Neither for God, nor for his enemies.\n\n\n\nTHE GARDEN OF EROS\n\n\n IT is full summer now, the heart of June;\n Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir\n Upon the upland meadow where too soon\n Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,\n Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,\n And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.\n\n Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,\n That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on\n To vex the rose with jealousy, and still\n The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,\n And like a strayed and wandering reveller\n Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger\n\n The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,\n One pale narcissus loiters fearfully\n Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid\n Of their own loveliness some violets lie\n That will not look the gold sun in the face\n For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place\n\n Which should be trodden by Persephone\n When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!\n Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!\n The hidden secret of eternal bliss\n Known to the Grecian here a man might find,\n Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.\n\n There are the flowers which mourning Herakles\n Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,\n Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze\n Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,\n That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,\n And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave\n\n Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed\n To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,\n Its little bellringer, go seek instead\n Some other pleasaunce; the anemone\n That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl\n Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl\n\n Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine\n In pale virginity; the winter snow\n Will suit it better than those lips of thine\n Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go\n And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,\n Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.\n\n The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus\n So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet\n Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous\n As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet\n Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar\n For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which are\n\n Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon\n Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,\n That morning star which does not dread the sun,\n And budding marjoram which but to kiss\n Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make\n Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take\n\n Yon curving spray of purple clematis\n Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,\n And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,\n But that one narciss which the startled Spring\n Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard\n In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,\n\n Ah! leave it for a subtle memory\n Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,\n When April laughed between her tears to see\n The early primrose with shy footsteps run\n From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,\n Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering\n gold.\n\n Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet\n As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!\n And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet\n Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,\n For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride\n And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.\n\n And I will cut a reed by yonder spring\n And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan\n Wonder what young intruder dares to sing\n In these still haunts, where never foot of man\n Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy\n The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.\n\n And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears\n Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,\n And why the hapless nightingale forbears\n To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone\n When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,\n And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.\n\n And I will sing how sad Proserpina\n Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,\n And lure the silver-breasted Helena\n Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,\n So shalt thou see that awful loveliness\n For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!\n\n And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale\n How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,\n And hidden in a grey and misty veil\n Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun\n Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase\n Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.\n\n And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,\n We may behold Her face who long ago\n Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea,\n And whose sad house with pillaged portico\n And friezeless wall and columns toppled down\n Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.\n\n Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,\n They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;\n Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile\n Is better than a thousand victories,\n Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo\n Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few\n\n Who for thy sake would give their manlihood\n And consecrate their being; I at least\n Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,\n And in thy temples found a goodlier feast\n Than this starved age can give me, spite of all\n Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.\n\n Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,\n The woods of white Colonos are not here,\n On our bleak hills the olive never blows,\n No simple priest conducts his lowing steer\n Up the steep marble way, nor through the town\n Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.\n\n Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,\n Whose very name should be a memory\n To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest\n Beneath the Roman walls, and melody\n Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play\n The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.\n\n Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left\n One silver voice to sing his threnody,\n But ah! too soon of it we were bereft\n When on that riven night and stormy sea\n Panthea claimed her singer as her own,\n And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,\n\n Save for that fiery heart, that morning star\n Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye\n Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war\n The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy\n Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring\n The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,\n\n And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,\n And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot\n In passionless and fierce virginity\n Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute\n Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,\n And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.\n\n And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,\n And sung the Galilæan’s requiem,\n That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine\n He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him\n Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,\n And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.\n\n Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,\n It is not quenched the torch of poesy,\n The star that shook above the Eastern hill\n Holds unassailed its argent armoury\n From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—\n O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,\n\n Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,\n Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,\n With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled\n The weary soul of man in troublous need,\n And from the far and flowerless fields of ice\n Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.\n\n We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,\n Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,\n How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,\n And what enchantment held the king in thrall\n When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers\n That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,\n\n Long listless summer hours when the noon\n Being enamoured of a damask rose\n Forgets to journey westward, till the moon\n The pale usurper of its tribute grows\n From a thin sickle to a silver shield\n And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field\n\n Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,\n At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come\n Almost before the blackbird finds a mate\n And overstay the swallow, and the hum\n Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,\n Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,\n\n And through their unreal woes and mimic pain\n Wept for myself, and so was purified,\n And in their simple mirth grew glad again;\n For as I sailed upon that pictured tide\n The strength and splendour of the storm was mine\n Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;\n\n The little laugh of water falling down\n Is not so musical, the clammy gold\n Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town\n Has less of sweetness in it, and the old\n Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady\n Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.\n\n Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!\n Although the cheating merchants of the mart\n With iron roads profane our lovely isle,\n And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,\n Ay! though the crowded factories beget\n The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!\n\n For One at least there is,—He bears his name\n From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—\n Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame\n To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,\n Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,\n And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,\n\n Loves thee so well, that all the World for him\n A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,\n And Sorrow take a purple diadem,\n Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair\n Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be\n Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery\n\n Which Painters hold, and such the heritage\n This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,\n Being a better mirror of his age\n In all his pity, love, and weariness,\n Than those who can but copy common things,\n And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.\n\n But they are few, and all romance has flown,\n And men can prophesy about the sun,\n And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,\n Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,\n How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,\n And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.\n\n Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon\n That they have spied on beauty; what if we\n Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon\n Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,\n Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope\n Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!\n\n What profit if this scientific age\n Burst through our gates with all its retinue\n Of modern miracles! Can it assuage\n One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do\n To make one life more beautiful, one day\n More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay\n\n Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth\n Hath borne again a noisy progeny\n Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth\n Hurls them against the august hierarchy\n Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust\n They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must\n\n Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,\n From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,\n Create the new Ideal rule for man!\n Methinks that was not my inheritance;\n For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul\n Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.\n\n Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away\n Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat\n Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day\n Blew all its torches out: I did not note\n The waning hours, to young Endymions\n Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!\n\n Mark how the yellow iris wearily\n Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed\n By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,\n Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,\n Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,\n Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.\n\n Come let us go, against the pallid shield\n Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,\n The corncrake nested in the unmown field\n Answers its mate, across the misty stream\n On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,\n And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,\n\n Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the grass,\n In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,\n Who soon in gilded panoply will pass\n Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion\n Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim\n O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him\n\n Already the shrill lark is out of sight,\n Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—\n Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight\n Than could be tested in a crucible!—\n But the air freshens, let us go, why soon\n The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!\n\n\n\nROSA MYSTICA\n\n\nREQUIESCAT\n\n\n TREAD lightly, she is near\n Under the snow,\n Speak gently, she can hear\n The daisies grow.\n\n All her bright golden hair\n Tarnished with rust,\n She that was young and fair\n Fallen to dust.\n\n Lily-like, white as snow,\n She hardly knew\n She was a woman, so\n Sweetly she grew.\n\n Coffin-board, heavy stone,\n Lie on her breast,\n I vex my heart alone,\n She is at rest.\n\n Peace, Peace, she cannot hear\n Lyre or sonnet,\n All my life’s buried here,\n Heap earth upon it.\n\nAVIGNON.\n\n\nSONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY\n\n\n I REACHED the Alps: the soul within me burned,\n Italia, my Italia, at thy name:\n And when from out the mountain’s heart I came\n And saw the land for which my life had yearned,\n I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:\n And musing on the marvel of thy fame\n I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame\n The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.\n The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,\n And in the orchards every twining spray\n Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:\n But when I knew that far away at Rome\n In evil bonds a second Peter lay,\n I wept to see the land so very fair.\n\nTURIN.\n\n\nSAN MINIATO\n\n\n SEE, I have climbed the mountain side\n Up to this holy house of God,\n Where once that Angel-Painter trod\n Who saw the heavens opened wide,\n\n And throned upon the crescent moon\n The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—\n Mary! could I but see thy face\n Death could not come at all too soon.\n\n O crowned by God with thorns and pain!\n Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!\n My heart is weary of this life\n And over-sad to sing again.\n\n O crowned by God with love and flame!\n O crowned by Christ the Holy One!\n O listen ere the searching sun\n Show to the world my sin and shame.\n\n\nAVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA\n\n\n WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see\n A scene of wondrous glory, as was told\n Of some great God who in a rain of gold\n Broke open bars and fell on Danae:\n Or a dread vision as when Semele\n Sickening for love and unappeased desire\n Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire\n Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:\n With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,\n And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand\n Before this supreme mystery of Love:\n Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,\n An angel with a lily in his hand,\n And over both the white wings of a Dove.\n\nFLORENCE.\n\n\nITALIA\n\n\n ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen\n Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride\n From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!\n Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen\n Because rich gold in every town is seen,\n And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride\n Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride\n Beneath one flag of red and white and green.\n O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!\n Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town\n Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!\n Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?\n Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,\n And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.\n\nVENICE.\n\n\nSONNET\n\n\n WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA\n\n I WANDERED through Scoglietto’s far retreat,\n The oranges on each o’erhanging spray\n Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;\n Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet\n Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet\n Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:\n And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay\n Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.\n Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,\n ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,\n O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’\n Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours\n Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,\n The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.\n\n\nROME UNVISITED\n\n\n I.\n\n THE corn has turned from grey to red,\n Since first my spirit wandered forth\n From the drear cities of the north,\n And to Italia’s mountains fled.\n\n And here I set my face towards home,\n For all my pilgrimage is done,\n Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun\n Marshals the way to Holy Rome.\n\n O Blessed Lady, who dost hold\n Upon the seven hills thy reign!\n O Mother without blot or stain,\n Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!\n\n O Roma, Roma, at thy feet\n I lay this barren gift of song!\n For, ah! the way is steep and long\n That leads unto thy sacred street.\n\n II.\n\n AND yet what joy it were for me\n To turn my feet unto the south,\n And journeying towards the Tiber mouth\n To kneel again at Fiesole!\n\n And wandering through the tangled pines\n That break the gold of Arno’s stream,\n To see the purple mist and gleam\n Of morning on the Apennines\n\n By many a vineyard-hidden home,\n Orchard and olive-garden grey,\n Till from the drear Campagna’s way\n The seven hills bear up the dome!\n\n III.\n\n A PILGRIM from the northern seas—\n What joy for me to seek alone\n The wondrous temple and the throne\n Of him who holds the awful keys!\n\n When, bright with purple and with gold\n Come priest and holy cardinal,\n And borne above the heads of all\n The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.\n\n O joy to see before I die\n The only God-anointed king,\n And hear the silver trumpets ring\n A triumph as he passes by!\n\n Or at the brazen-pillared shrine\n Holds high the mystic sacrifice,\n And shows his God to human eyes\n Beneath the veil of bread and wine.\n\n IV.\n\n FOR lo, what changes time can bring!\n The cycles of revolving years\n May free my heart from all its fears,\n And teach my lips a song to sing.\n\n Before yon field of trembling gold\n Is garnered into dusty sheaves,\n Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves\n Flutter as birds adown the wold,\n\n I may have run the glorious race,\n And caught the torch while yet aflame,\n And called upon the holy name\n Of Him who now doth hide His face.\n\nARONA.\n\n\nURBS SACRA ÆTERNA\n\n\n ROME! what a scroll of History thine has been;\n In the first days thy sword republican\n Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:\n Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,\n Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;\n And now upon thy walls the breezes fan\n (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)\n The hated flag of red and white and green.\n When was thy glory! when in search for power\n Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,\n And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?\n Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,\n When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,\n The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.\n\nMONTRE MARIO.\n\n\nSONNET\n\n\n ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL\n\n NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,\n Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,\n Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love\n Than terrors of red flame and thundering.\n The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:\n A bird at evening flying to its nest\n Tells me of One who had no place of rest:\n I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.\n Come rather on some autumn afternoon,\n When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,\n And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,\n Come when the splendid fulness of the moon\n Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,\n And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.\n\n\nEASTER DAY\n\n\n THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:\n The people knelt upon the ground with awe:\n And borne upon the necks of men I saw,\n Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.\n Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,\n And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,\n Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:\n In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.\n My heart stole back across wide wastes of years\n To One who wandered by a lonely sea,\n And sought in vain for any place of rest:\n ‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.\n I, only I, must wander wearily,\n And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’\n\n\nE TENEBRIS\n\n\n COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,\n For I am drowning in a stormier sea\n Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:\n The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,\n My heart is as some famine-murdered land\n Whence all good things have perished utterly,\n And well I know my soul in Hell must lie\n If I this night before God’s throne should stand.\n ‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,\n Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name\n From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’\n Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,\n The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,\n The wounded hands, the weary human face.\n\n\nVITA NUOVA\n\n\n I STOOD by the unvintageable sea\n Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;\n The long red fires of the dying day\n Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;\n And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:\n ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full of pain,\n And who can garner fruit or golden grain\n From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’\n My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,\n Nathless I threw them as my final cast\n Into the sea, and waited for the end.\n When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw\n From the black waters of my tortured past\n The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!\n\n\nMADONNA MIA\n\n\n A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world’s pain,\n With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,\n And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears\n Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:\n Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,\n Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,\n And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,\n Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.\n Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,\n Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,\n Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,\n Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice\n Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw\n The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.\n\n\nTHE NEW HELEN\n\n\n WHERE hast thou been since round the walls of Troy\n The sons of God fought in that great emprise?\n Why dost thou walk our common earth again?\n Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,\n His purple galley and his Tyrian men\n And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?\n For surely it was thou, who, like a star\n Hung in the silver silence of the night,\n Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might\n Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!\n\n Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?\n In amorous Sidon was thy temple built\n Over the light and laughter of the sea\n Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,\n Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,\n All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;\n Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,\n And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss\n Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned\n From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!\n\n No! thou art Helen, and none other one!\n It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,\n And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent;\n It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried\n With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,\n In the last year of thy beleaguerment;\n Ay! even now the glory of thy fame\n Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,\n Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well\n Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.\n\n Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land\n Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,\n Where never mower rose at break of day\n But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,\n And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand\n Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey?\n Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream\n Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,\n The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam\n From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?\n\n Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill\n With one who is forgotten utterly,\n That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;\n Hidden away that never mightst thou see\n The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine\n To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;\n Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,\n But only Love’s intolerable pain,\n Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,\n Only the bitterness of child-bearing.\n\n The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death\n Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,\n While yet I know the summer of my days;\n For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath\n To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,\n So bowed am I before thy mystery;\n So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,\n That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,\n Yet care I not what ruin time may bring\n If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.\n\n Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,\n But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,\n Who flies before the north wind and the night,\n So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,\n Back to the tower of thine old delight,\n And the red lips of young Euphorion;\n Nor shall I ever see thy face again,\n But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,\n Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,\n Till all my loveless life shall pass away.\n\n O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while,\n Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,\n Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!\n For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile\n Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,\n Seeing I know no other god but thee:\n No other god save him, before whose feet\n In nets of gold the tired planets move,\n The incarnate spirit of spiritual love\n Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.\n\n Thou wert not born as common women are!\n But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,\n Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!\n And at thy coming some immortal star,\n Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,\n And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.\n Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep\n Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;\n No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,\n Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.\n\n Lily of love, pure and inviolate!\n Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!\n Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:\n For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,\n Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,\n Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,\n Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne\n For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,\n Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,\n And the white glory of thy loveliness.\n\n\n\nTHE BURDEN OF ITYS\n\n\n THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome,\n Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea\n Breaking across the woodland, with the foam\n Of meadow-sweet and white anemone\n To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there\n Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!\n\n Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take\n Yon creamy lily for their pavilion\n Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake\n A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,\n His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old\n Bishop in _partibus_! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.\n\n The wind the restless prisoner of the trees\n Does well for Palæstrina, one would say\n The mighty master’s hands were on the keys\n Of the Maria organ, which they play\n When early on some sapphire Easter morn\n In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne\n\n From his dark House out to the Balcony\n Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,\n Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy\n To toss their silver lances in the air,\n And stretching out weak hands to East and West\n In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.\n\n Is not yon lingering orange after-glow\n That stays to vex the moon more fair than all\n Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago\n I knelt before some crimson Cardinal\n Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,\n And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.\n\n The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous\n With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring\n Through this cool evening than the odorous\n Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,\n When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,\n And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.\n\n Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass\n Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird\n Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass\n I see that throbbing throat which once I heard\n On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,\n Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.\n\n Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves\n At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,\n And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves\n Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe\n To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait\n Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.\n\n And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,\n And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,\n And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees\n That round and round the linden blossoms play;\n And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,\n And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,\n\n And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring\n While the last violet loiters by the well,\n And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing\n The song of Linus through a sunny dell\n Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold\n And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.\n\n And sweet with young Lycoris to recline\n In some Illyrian valley far away,\n Where canopied on herbs amaracine\n We too might waste the summer-trancèd day\n Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,\n While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.\n\n But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot\n Of some long-hidden God should ever tread\n The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute\n Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head\n By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed\n To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.\n\n Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,\n Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!\n Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler\n Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn\n These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,\n For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield\n\n Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose\n Which all day long in vales Æolian\n A lad might seek in vain for over-grows\n Our hedges like a wanton courtesan\n Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too\n Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue\n\n Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs\n For swallows going south, would never spread\n Their azure tents between the Attic vines;\n Even that little weed of ragged red,\n Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady\n Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy\n\n Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames\n Which to awake were sweeter ravishment\n Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems\n Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant\n For Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here\n Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer\n\n There is a tiny yellow daffodil,\n The butterfly can see it from afar,\n Although one summer evening’s dew could fill\n Its little cup twice over ere the star\n Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold\n And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold\n\n As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae\n Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss\n The trembling petals, or young Mercury\n Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis\n Had with one feather of his pinions\n Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns\n\n Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,\n Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—\n Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre\n Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me\n It seems to bring diviner memories\n Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,\n\n Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where\n On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,\n The tangle of the forest in his hair,\n The silence of the woodland in his eyes,\n Wooing that drifting imagery which is\n No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis\n\n Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,\n Fed by two fires and unsatisfied\n Through their excess, each passion being loth\n For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side\n Yet killing love by staying; memories\n Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,\n\n Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf\n At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew\n Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf\n And called false Theseus back again nor knew\n That Dionysos on an amber pard\n Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s bard\n\n With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,\n Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,\n And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy\n Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,\n And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,\n As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;\n\n Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword\n Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,\n And all those tales imperishably stored\n In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich\n Than any gaudy galleon of Spain\n Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,\n\n For well I know they are not dead at all,\n The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:\n They are asleep, and when they hear thee call\n Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,\n This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade\n The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.\n\n If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird\n Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne\n Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard\n The horn of Atalanta faintly blown\n Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering\n Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—\n\n Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate\n That pleadest for the moon against the day!\n If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate\n On that sweet questing, when Proserpina\n Forgot it was not Sicily and leant\n Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—\n\n Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!\n If ever thou didst soothe with melody\n One of that little clan, that brotherhood\n Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany\n More than the perfect sun of Raphael\n And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.\n\n Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,\n Let elemental things take form again,\n And the old shapes of Beauty walk among\n The simple garths and open crofts, as when\n The son of Leto bare the willow rod,\n And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.\n\n Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here\n Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,\n And over whimpering tigers shake the spear\n With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,\n While at his side the wanton Bassarid\n Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!\n\n Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,\n And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,\n Upon whose icy chariot we could win\n Cithæron in an hour ere the froth\n Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun\n Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn\n\n Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,\n And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,\n Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast\n Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans\n So softly that the little nested thrush\n Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush\n\n Down the green valley where the fallen dew\n Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,\n Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew\n Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,\n And where their hornèd master sits in state\n Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!\n\n Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face\n Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,\n The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase\n Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,\n And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,\n After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.\n\n Sing on! and I the dying boy will see\n Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell\n That overweighs the jacinth, and to me\n The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,\n And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,\n And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!\n\n Cry out aloud on Itys! memory\n That foster-brother of remorse and pain\n Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,\n To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again\n Into the white-plumed battle of the waves\n And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!\n\n O for Medea with her poppied spell!\n O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!\n O for one leaf of that pale asphodel\n Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,\n And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she\n Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,\n\n Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased\n From lily to lily on the level mead,\n Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste\n The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,\n Ere the black steeds had harried her away\n Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.\n\n O for one midnight and as paramour\n The Venus of the little Melian farm!\n O that some antique statue for one hour\n Might wake to passion, and that I could charm\n The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,\n Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!\n\n Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,\n Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,\n I would forget the wearying wasted strife,\n The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,\n The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,\n The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!\n\n Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,\n Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal\n From joy its sweetest music, not as we\n Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal\n Our too untented wounds, and do but keep\n Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.\n\n Sing louder yet, why must I still behold\n The wan white face of that deserted Christ,\n Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,\n Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,\n And now in mute and marble misery\n Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?\n\n O Memory cast down thy wreathèd shell!\n Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!\n O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell\n Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!\n Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong\n To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!\n\n Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be dumb\n Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,\n Whose jocund carelessness doth more become\n This English woodland than thy keen despair,\n Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay\n Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.\n\n A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,\n Endymion would have passed across the mead\n Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard\n Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed\n To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid\n Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.\n\n A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,\n The silver daughter of the silver sea\n With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed\n Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope\n Had thrust aside the branches of her oak\n To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.\n\n A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss\n Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon\n Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis\n Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,\n And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile\n Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile\n\n Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,\n To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,\n Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare\n High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis\n Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer\n From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.\n\n Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!\n O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!\n O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill\n Come not with such despondent answering!\n No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,\n Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!\n\n It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,\n No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,\n The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,\n And from the copse left desolate and bare\n Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,\n Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody\n\n So sad, that one might think a human heart\n Brake in each separate note, a quality\n Which music sometimes has, being the Art\n Which is most nigh to tears and memory;\n Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?\n Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,\n\n Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,\n No woven web of bloody heraldries,\n But mossy dells for roving comrades made,\n Warm valleys where the tired student lies\n With half-shut book, and many a winding walk\n Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.\n\n The harmless rabbit gambols with its young\n Across the trampled towing-path, where late\n A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng\n Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;\n The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,\n Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds\n\n Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out\n Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock\n Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout\n Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,\n And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,\n And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.\n\n The heron passes homeward to the mere,\n The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,\n Gold world by world the silent stars appear,\n And like a blossom blown before the breeze\n A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,\n Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.\n\n She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,\n She knows Endymion is not far away;\n ’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed\n Which has no message of its own to play,\n So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,\n Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.\n\n Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill\n About the sombre woodland seems to cling\n Dying in music, else the air is still,\n So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing\n Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell\n Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.\n\n And far away across the lengthening wold,\n Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,\n Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold\n Marks the long High Street of the little town,\n And warns me to return; I must not wait,\n Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.\n\n\n\nWIND FLOWERS\n\n\nIMPRESSION DU MATIN\n\n\n THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold\n Changed to a Harmony in grey:\n A barge with ochre-coloured hay\n Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold\n\n The yellow fog came creeping down\n The bridges, till the houses’ walls\n Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s\n Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.\n\n Then suddenly arose the clang\n Of waking life; the streets were stirred\n With country waggons: and a bird\n Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.\n\n But one pale woman all alone,\n The daylight kissing her wan hair,\n Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,\n With lips of flame and heart of stone.\n\n\nMAGDALEN WALKS\n\n\n THE little white clouds are racing over the sky,\n And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,\n The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch\n Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.\n\n A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,\n The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,\n The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,\n Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.\n\n And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,\n And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,\n And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire\n Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.\n\n And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love\n Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,\n And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen\n Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.\n\n See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,\n Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,\n And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!\n The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.\n\n\nATHANASIA\n\n\n TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught\n Of all the great things men have saved from Time,\n The withered body of a girl was brought\n Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,\n And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid\n In the dim womb of some black pyramid.\n\n But when they had unloosed the linen band\n Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found\n Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand\n A little seed, which sown in English ground\n Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear\n And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.\n\n With such strange arts this flower did allure\n That all forgotten was the asphodel,\n And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,\n Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,\n For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,\n But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.\n\n In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white\n At its own beauty, hung across the stream,\n The purple dragon-fly had no delight\n With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,\n Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,\n Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.\n\n For love of it the passionate nightingale\n Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,\n And the pale dove no longer cared to sail\n Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,\n But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,\n With silvered wing and amethystine throat.\n\n While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue\n A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,\n And the warm south with tender tears of dew\n Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose\n Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky\n On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.\n\n But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field\n The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,\n And broad and glittering like an argent shield\n High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,\n Did no strange dream or evil memory make\n Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?\n\n Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years\n Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,\n It never knew the tide of cankering fears\n Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,\n The dread desire of death it never knew,\n Or how all folk that they were born must rue.\n\n For we to death with pipe and dancing go,\n Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,\n As some sad river wearied of its flow\n Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,\n Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!\n And counts it gain to die so gloriously.\n\n We mar our lordly strength in barren strife\n With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,\n It never feels decay but gathers life\n From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,\n We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,\n It is the child of all eternity.\n\n\nSERENADE\n\n\n (FOR MUSIC)\n\n THE western wind is blowing fair\n Across the dark Ægean sea,\n And at the secret marble stair\n My Tyrian galley waits for thee.\n Come down! the purple sail is spread,\n The watchman sleeps within the town,\n O leave thy lily-flowered bed,\n O Lady mine come down, come down!\n\n She will not come, I know her well,\n Of lover’s vows she hath no care,\n And little good a man can tell\n Of one so cruel and so fair.\n True love is but a woman’s toy,\n They never know the lover’s pain,\n And I who loved as loves a boy\n Must love in vain, must love in vain.\n\n O noble pilot, tell me true,\n Is that the sheen of golden hair?\n Or is it but the tangled dew\n That binds the passion-flowers there?\n Good sailor come and tell me now\n Is that my Lady’s lily hand?\n Or is it but the gleaming prow,\n Or is it but the silver sand?\n\n No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,\n ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,\n It is my own dear Lady true\n With golden hair and lily hand!\n O noble pilot, steer for Troy,\n Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,\n This is the Queen of life and joy\n Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!\n\n The waning sky grows faint and blue,\n It wants an hour still of day,\n Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,\n O Lady mine, away! away!\n O noble pilot, steer for Troy,\n Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,\n O loved as only loves a boy!\n O loved for ever evermore!\n\n\nENDYMION\n\n\n (FOR MUSIC)\n\n THE apple trees are hung with gold,\n And birds are loud in Arcady,\n The sheep lie bleating in the fold,\n The wild goat runs across the wold,\n But yesterday his love he told,\n I know he will come back to me.\n O rising moon! O Lady moon!\n Be you my lover’s sentinel,\n You cannot choose but know him well,\n For he is shod with purple shoon,\n You cannot choose but know my love,\n For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,\n And he is soft as any dove,\n And brown and curly is his hair.\n\n The turtle now has ceased to call\n Upon her crimson-footed groom,\n The grey wolf prowls about the stall,\n The lily’s singing seneschal\n Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all\n The violet hills are lost in gloom.\n O risen moon! O holy moon!\n Stand on the top of Helice,\n And if my own true love you see,\n Ah! if you see the purple shoon,\n The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,\n The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,\n Tell him that I am waiting where\n The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.\n\n The falling dew is cold and chill,\n And no bird sings in Arcady,\n The little fauns have left the hill,\n Even the tired daffodil\n Has closed its gilded doors, and still\n My lover comes not back to me.\n False moon! False moon! O waning moon!\n Where is my own true lover gone,\n Where are the lips vermilion,\n The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?\n Why spread that silver pavilion,\n Why wear that veil of drifting mist?\n Ah! thou hast young Endymion,\n Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!\n\n\nLA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE\n\n\n MY limbs are wasted with a flame,\n My feet are sore with travelling,\n For, calling on my Lady’s name,\n My lips have now forgot to sing.\n\n O Linnet in the wild-rose brake\n Strain for my Love thy melody,\n O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,\n My gentle Lady passeth by.\n\n She is too fair for any man\n To see or hold his heart’s delight,\n Fairer than Queen or courtesan\n Or moonlit water in the night.\n\n Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,\n (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)\n Green grasses through the yellow sheaves\n Of autumn corn are not more fair.\n\n Her little lips, more made to kiss\n Than to cry bitterly for pain,\n Are tremulous as brook-water is,\n Or roses after evening rain.\n\n Her neck is like white melilote\n Flushing for pleasure of the sun,\n The throbbing of the linnet’s throat\n Is not so sweet to look upon.\n\n As a pomegranate, cut in twain,\n White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,\n Her cheeks are as the fading stain\n Where the peach reddens to the south.\n\n O twining hands! O delicate\n White body made for love and pain!\n O House of love! O desolate\n Pale flower beaten by the rain!\n\n\nCHANSON\n\n\n A RING of gold and a milk-white dove\n Are goodly gifts for thee,\n And a hempen rope for your own love\n To hang upon a tree.\n\n For you a House of Ivory,\n (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!\n A narrow bed for me to lie,\n (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!\n\n Myrtle and jessamine for you,\n (O the red rose is fair to see)!\n For me the cypress and the rue,\n (Finest of all is rosemary)!\n\n For you three lovers of your hand,\n (Green grass where a man lies dead)!\n For me three paces on the sand,\n (Plant lilies at my head)!\n\n\n\nCHARMIDES\n\n\n I.\n\n HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home\n With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily\n Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam\n Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,\n And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite\n Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.\n\n Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear\n Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,\n And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,\n And bade the pilot head her lustily\n Against the nor’west gale, and all day long\n Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.\n\n And when the faint Corinthian hills were red\n Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,\n And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,\n And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,\n And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold\n Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,\n\n And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice\n Which of some swarthy trader he had bought\n Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,\n And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,\n And by the questioning merchants made his way\n Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day\n\n Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,\n Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet\n Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd\n Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat\n Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring\n The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling\n\n The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang\n His studded crook against the temple wall\n To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang\n Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;\n And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,\n And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,\n\n A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,\n A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery\n Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb\n Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee\n Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil\n Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil\n\n Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid\n To please Athena, and the dappled hide\n Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade\n Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,\n And from the pillared precinct one by one\n Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had\n done.\n\n And the old priest put out the waning fires\n Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed\n For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres\n Came fainter on the wind, as down the road\n In joyous dance these country folk did pass,\n And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.\n\n Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,\n And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,\n And the rose-petals falling from the wreath\n As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,\n And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon\n Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon\n\n Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,\n When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,\n And flinging wide the cedar-carven door\n Beheld an awful image saffron-clad\n And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared\n From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared\n\n Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled\n The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,\n And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,\n And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold\n In passion impotent, while with blind gaze\n The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.\n\n The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp\n Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast\n The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp\n Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast\n Divide the folded curtains of the night,\n And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.\n\n And guilty lovers in their venery\n Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,\n Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;\n And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats\n Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,\n Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.\n\n For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,\n And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,\n And the air quaked with dissonant alarums\n Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,\n And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,\n And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.\n\n Ready for death with parted lips he stood,\n And well content at such a price to see\n That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,\n The marvel of that pitiless chastity,\n Ah! well content indeed, for never wight\n Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.\n\n Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air\n Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,\n And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,\n And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;\n For whom would not such love make desperate?\n And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate\n\n Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,\n And bared the breasts of polished ivory,\n Till from the waist the peplos falling down\n Left visible the secret mystery\n Which to no lover will Athena show,\n The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.\n\n Those who have never known a lover’s sin\n Let them not read my ditty, it will be\n To their dull ears so musicless and thin\n That they will have no joy of it, but ye\n To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,\n Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.\n\n A little space he let his greedy eyes\n Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight\n Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,\n And then his lips in hungering delight\n Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck\n He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.\n\n Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,\n For all night long he murmured honeyed word,\n And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed\n Her pale and argent body undisturbed,\n And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed\n His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.\n\n It was as if Numidian javelins\n Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,\n And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins\n In exquisite pulsation, and the pain\n Was such sweet anguish that he never drew\n His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.\n\n They who have never seen the daylight peer\n Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,\n And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear\n And worshipped body risen, they for certain\n Will never know of what I try to sing,\n How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.\n\n The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,\n The sign which shipmen say is ominous\n Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,\n And the low lightening east was tremulous\n With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,\n Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.\n\n Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast\n Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,\n And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,\n And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran\n Like a young fawn unto an olive wood\n Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;\n\n And sought a little stream, which well he knew,\n For oftentimes with boyish careless shout\n The green and crested grebe he would pursue,\n Or snare in woven net the silver trout,\n And down amid the startled reeds he lay\n Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.\n\n On the green bank he lay, and let one hand\n Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,\n And soon the breath of morning came and fanned\n His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly\n The tangled curls from off his forehead, while\n He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.\n\n And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak\n With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,\n And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke\n Curled through the air across the ripening oats,\n And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed\n As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.\n\n And when the light-foot mower went afield\n Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,\n And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,\n And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,\n Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream\n And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,\n\n Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,\n ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway\n Who with a Naiad now would make his bed\n Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay,\n It is Narcissus, his own paramour,\n Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’\n\n And when they nearer came a third one cried,\n ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid\n His spear and fawnskin by the river side\n Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,\n And wise indeed were we away to fly:\n They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’\n\n So turned they back, and feared to look behind,\n And told the timid swain how they had seen\n Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,\n And no man dared to cross the open green,\n And on that day no olive-tree was slain,\n Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,\n\n Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail\n Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound\n Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,\n Hoping that he some comrade new had found,\n And gat no answer, and then half afraid\n Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade\n\n A little girl ran laughing from the farm,\n Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,\n And when she saw the white and gleaming arm\n And all his manlihood, with longing eyes\n Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity\n Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.\n\n Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,\n And now and then the shriller laughter where\n The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys\n Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,\n And now and then a little tinkling bell\n As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.\n\n Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,\n The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,\n In sleek and oily coat the water-rat\n Breasting the little ripples manfully\n Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough\n Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.\n\n On the faint wind floated the silky seeds\n As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,\n The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds\n And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass,\n Which scarce had caught again its imagery\n Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.\n\n But little care had he for any thing\n Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,\n And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing\n To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;\n Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen\n The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.\n\n But when the herdsman called his straggling goats\n With whistling pipe across the rocky road,\n And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes\n Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode\n Of coming storm, and the belated crane\n Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain\n\n Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,\n And from the gloomy forest went his way\n Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,\n And came at last unto a little quay,\n And called his mates aboard, and took his seat\n On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,\n\n And steered across the bay, and when nine suns\n Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,\n And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons\n To the chaste stars their confessors, or told\n Their dearest secret to the downy moth\n That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth\n\n Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes\n And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked\n As though the lading of three argosies\n Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,\n And darkness straightway stole across the deep,\n Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,\n\n And the moon hid behind a tawny mask\n Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge\n Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,\n The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!\n And clad in bright and burnished panoply\n Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!\n\n To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looks\n Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet\n Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,\n And, marking how the rising waters beat\n Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried\n To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side\n\n But he, the overbold adulterer,\n A dear profaner of great mysteries,\n An ardent amorous idolater,\n When he beheld those grand relentless eyes\n Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’\n Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.\n\n Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,\n One dancer left the circling galaxy,\n And back to Athens on her clattering car\n In all the pride of venged divinity\n Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,\n And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.\n\n And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew\n With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,\n And the old pilot bade the trembling crew\n Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen\n Close to the stern a dim and giant form,\n And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.\n\n And no man dared to speak of Charmides\n Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,\n And when they reached the strait Symplegades\n They beached their galley on the shore, and sought\n The toll-gate of the city hastily,\n And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.\n\n II.\n\n BUT some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare\n The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,\n And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair\n And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;\n Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,\n And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.\n\n And when he neared his old Athenian home,\n A mighty billow rose up suddenly\n Upon whose oily back the clotted foam\n Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,\n And clasping him unto its glassy breast\n Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!\n\n Now where Colonos leans unto the sea\n There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;\n The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee\n For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun\n Is not afraid, for never through the day\n Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.\n\n But often from the thorny labyrinth\n And tangled branches of the circling wood\n The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth\n Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood\n Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,\n Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day\n\n The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball\n Along the reedy shore, and circumvent\n Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal\n For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,\n And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,\n Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.\n\n On this side and on that a rocky cave,\n Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands\n Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave\n Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,\n As though it feared to be too soon forgot\n By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot\n\n So small, that the inconstant butterfly\n Could steal the hoarded money from each flower\n Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy\n Its over-greedy love,—within an hour\n A sailor boy, were he but rude enow\n To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,\n\n Would almost leave the little meadow bare,\n For it knows nothing of great pageantry,\n Only a few narcissi here and there\n Stand separate in sweet austerity,\n Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,\n And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.\n\n Hither the billow brought him, and was glad\n Of such dear servitude, and where the land\n Was virgin of all waters laid the lad\n Upon the golden margent of the strand,\n And like a lingering lover oft returned\n To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,\n\n Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,\n That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,\n Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost\n Had withered up those lilies white and red\n Which, while the boy would through the forest range,\n Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.\n\n And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,\n Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied\n The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,\n And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,\n And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade\n Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.\n\n Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be\n So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms\n Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,\n And longed to listen to those subtle charms\n Insidious lovers weave when they would win\n Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin\n\n To yield her treasure unto one so fair,\n And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,\n Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,\n And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth\n Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid\n Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,\n\n Returned to fresh assault, and all day long\n Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,\n And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,\n Then frowned to see how froward was the boy\n Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,\n Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;\n\n Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,\n But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,\n He will awake at evening when the sun\n Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;\n This sleep is but a cruel treachery\n To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea\n\n Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line\n Already a huge Triton blows his horn,\n And weaves a garland from the crystalline\n And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn\n The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,\n For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd head,\n\n We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,\n And a blue wave will be our canopy,\n And at our feet the water-snakes will curl\n In all their amethystine panoply\n Of diamonded mail, and we will mark\n The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,\n\n Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold\n Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep\n His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,\n And we will see the painted dolphins sleep\n Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks\n Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.\n\n And tremulous opal-hued anemones\n Will wave their purple fringes where we tread\n Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies\n Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread\n The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,\n And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’\n\n But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun\n With gaudy pennon flying passed away\n Into his brazen House, and one by one\n The little yellow stars began to stray\n Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed\n She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,\n\n And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon\n Washes the trees with silver, and the wave\n Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,\n The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave\n The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,\n And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.\n\n Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,\n For in yon stream there is a little reed\n That often whispers how a lovely boy\n Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,\n Who when his cruel pleasure he had done\n Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.\n\n Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still\n With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir\n Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill\n Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher\n Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen\n The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.\n\n Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,\n And every morn a young and ruddy swain\n Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,\n And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain\n By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;\n But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove\n\n With little crimson feet, which with its store\n Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad\n Had stolen from the lofty sycamore\n At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had\n Flown off in search of berried juniper\n Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager\n\n Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency\n So constant as this simple shepherd-boy\n For my poor lips, his joyous purity\n And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy\n A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;\n For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;\n\n His argent forehead, like a rising moon\n Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,\n Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon\n Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse\n For Cytheræa, the first silky down\n Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;\n\n And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds\n Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,\n And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds\n Is in his homestead for the thievish fly\n To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead\n Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.\n\n And yet I love him not; it was for thee\n I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come\n To rid me of this pallid chastity,\n Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam\n Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star\n Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!\n\n I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first\n The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring\n Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst\n To myriad multitudinous blossoming\n Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons\n That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes\n\n Startled the squirrel from its granary,\n And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,\n Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy\n Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein\n Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,\n And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.\n\n The trooping fawns at evening came and laid\n Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,\n And on my topmost branch the blackbird made\n A little nest of grasses for his spouse,\n And now and then a twittering wren would light\n On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.\n\n I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,\n Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,\n And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase\n The timorous girl, till tired out with play\n She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,\n And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.\n\n Then come away unto my ambuscade\n Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy\n For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade\n Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify\n The dearest rites of love; there in the cool\n And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,\n\n The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,\n For round its rim great creamy lilies float\n Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,\n Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat\n Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid\n To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made\n\n For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,\n One arm around her boyish paramour,\n Strays often there at eve, and I have seen\n The moon strip off her misty vestiture\n For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,\n The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.\n\n Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,\n Back to the boisterous billow let us go,\n And walk all day beneath the hyaline\n Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,\n And watch the purple monsters of the deep\n Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.\n\n For if my mistress find me lying here\n She will not ruth or gentle pity show,\n But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere\n Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,\n And draw the feathered notch against her breast,\n And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest\n\n I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,\n Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least\n Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake\n My parchèd being with the nectarous feast\n Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come,\n Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’\n\n Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees\n Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air\n Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas\n Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare\n Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,\n And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.\n\n And where the little flowers of her breast\n Just brake into their milky blossoming,\n This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,\n Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,\n And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,\n And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.\n\n Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry\n On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,\n Sobbing for incomplete virginity,\n And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,\n And all the pain of things unsatisfied,\n And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.\n\n Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,\n And very pitiful to see her die\n Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known\n The joy of passion, that dread mystery\n Which not to know is not to live at all,\n And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.\n\n But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,\n Who with Adonis all night long had lain\n Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,\n On team of silver doves and gilded wain\n Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar\n From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,\n\n And when low down she spied the hapless pair,\n And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,\n Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air\n As though it were a viol, hastily\n She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,\n And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous\n doom.\n\n For as a gardener turning back his head\n To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows\n With careless scythe too near some flower bed,\n And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,\n And with the flower’s loosened loneliness\n Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness\n\n Driving his little flock along the mead\n Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide\n Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede\n And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,\n Treads down their brimming golden chalices\n Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;\n\n Or as a schoolboy tired of his book\n Flings himself down upon the reedy grass\n And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,\n And for a time forgets the hour glass,\n Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,\n And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.\n\n And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis\n Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,\n Or else that mightier maid whose care it is\n To guard her strong and stainless majesty\n Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!\n That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’\n\n So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl\n In the great golden waggon tenderly\n (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl\n Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry\n Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast\n Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)\n\n And then each pigeon spread its milky van,\n The bright car soared into the dawning sky,\n And like a cloud the aerial caravan\n Passed over the Ægean silently,\n Till the faint air was troubled with the song\n From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.\n\n But when the doves had reached their wonted goal\n Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips\n Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul\n Just shook the trembling petals of her lips\n And passed into the void, and Venus knew\n That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,\n\n And bade her servants carve a cedar chest\n With all the wonder of this history,\n Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest\n Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky\n On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun\n Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.\n\n Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere\n The morning bee had stung the daffodil\n With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair\n The waking stag had leapt across the rill\n And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept\n Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.\n\n And when day brake, within that silver shrine\n Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,\n Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine\n That she whose beauty made Death amorous\n Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,\n And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.\n\n III\n\n IN melancholy moonless Acheron,\n Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day\n Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun\n Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May\n Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,\n Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,\n\n There by a dim and dark Lethæan well\n Young Charmides was lying; wearily\n He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,\n And with its little rifled treasury\n Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,\n And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,\n\n When as he gazed into the watery glass\n And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned\n His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass\n Across the mirror, and a little hand\n Stole into his, and warm lips timidly\n Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.\n\n Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,\n And ever nigher still their faces came,\n And nigher ever did their young mouths draw\n Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,\n And longing arms around her neck he cast,\n And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,\n\n And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,\n And all her maidenhood was his to slay,\n And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss\n Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay\n To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!\n Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.\n\n Too venturous poesy, O why essay\n To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings\n O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay\n Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings\n Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,\n Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!\n\n Enough, enough that he whose life had been\n A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,\n Could in the loveless land of Hades glean\n One scorching harvest from those fields of flame\n Where passion walks with naked unshod feet\n And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet\n\n In that wild throb when all existences\n Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy\n Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress\n Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone\n Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne\n Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.\n\n\n\nFLOWERS OF GOLD\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS\n\nI\nLES SILHOUETTES\n\n\n THE sea is flecked with bars of grey,\n The dull dead wind is out of tune,\n And like a withered leaf the moon\n Is blown across the stormy bay.\n\n Etched clear upon the pallid sand\n Lies the black boat: a sailor boy\n Clambers aboard in careless joy\n With laughing face and gleaming hand.\n\n And overhead the curlews cry,\n Where through the dusky upland grass\n The young brown-throated reapers pass,\n Like silhouettes against the sky.\n\n\nII\nLA FUITE DE LA LUNE\n\n\n TO outer senses there is peace,\n A dreamy peace on either hand\n Deep silence in the shadowy land,\n Deep silence where the shadows cease.\n\n Save for a cry that echoes shrill\n From some lone bird disconsolate;\n A corncrake calling to its mate;\n The answer from the misty hill.\n\n And suddenly the moon withdraws\n Her sickle from the lightening skies,\n And to her sombre cavern flies,\n Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.\n\n\nTHE GRAVE OF KEATS\n\n\n RID of the world’s injustice, and his pain,\n He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:\n Taken from life when life and love were new\n The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,\n Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.\n No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,\n But gentle violets weeping with the dew\n Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.\n O proudest heart that broke for misery!\n O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!\n O poet-painter of our English Land!\n Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:\n And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,\n As Isabella did her Basil-tree.\n\nROME.\n\n\nTHEOCRITUS\n\n\n A VILLANELLE\n\n O SINGER of Persephone!\n In the dim meadows desolate\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Still through the ivy flits the bee\n Where Amaryllis lies in state;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n\n Simætha calls on Hecate\n And hears the wild dogs at the gate;\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Still by the light and laughing sea\n Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n\n And still in boyish rivalry\n Young Daphnis challenges his mate;\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,\n For thee the jocund shepherds wait;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n\nIN THE GOLD ROOM\n\n\n A HARMONY\n\n HER ivory hands on the ivory keys\n Strayed in a fitful fantasy,\n Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees\n Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,\n Or the drifting foam of a restless sea\n When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.\n\n Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold\n Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun\n On the burnished disk of the marigold,\n Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun\n When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,\n And the spear of the lily is aureoled.\n\n And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine\n Burned like the ruby fire set\n In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,\n Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,\n Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet\n With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.\n\n\nBALLADE DE MARGUERITE\n\n\n (NORMANDE)\n\n I AM weary of lying within the chase\n When the knights are meeting in market-place.\n\n Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town\n Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.\n\n But I would not go where the Squires ride,\n I would only walk by my Lady’s side.\n\n Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,\n A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.\n\n Will she love me the less that my Father is seen\n Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?\n\n Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,\n Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.\n\n Ah, if she is working the arras bright\n I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.\n\n Perchance she is hunting of the deer,\n How could you follow o’er hill and mere?\n\n Ah, if she is riding with the court,\n I might run beside her and wind the morte.\n\n Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,\n (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)\n\n Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,\n I might swing the censer and ring the bell.\n\n Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,\n The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.\n\n But who are these knights in bright array?\n Is it a pageant the rich folks play?\n\n ’T is the King of England from over sea,\n Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.\n\n But why does the curfew toll sae low?\n And why do the mourners walk a-row?\n\n O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son\n Who is lying stark, for his day is done.\n\n Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,\n It is no strong man who lies on the bier.\n\n O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,\n I knew she would die at the autumn fall.\n\n Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,\n Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.\n\n O ’t is none of our kith and none of our kin,\n (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)\n\n But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,\n ‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’\n\n Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,\n And let the dead folk bury their dead.\n\n O mother, you know I loved her true:\n O mother, hath one grave room for two?\n\n\nTHE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER\n\n\n (BRETON)\n\n SEVEN stars in the still water,\n And seven in the sky;\n Seven sins on the King’s daughter,\n Deep in her soul to lie.\n\n Red roses are at her feet,\n (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)\n And O where her bosom and girdle meet\n Red roses are hidden there.\n\n Fair is the knight who lieth slain\n Amid the rush and reed,\n See the lean fishes that are fain\n Upon dead men to feed.\n\n Sweet is the page that lieth there,\n (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)\n See the black ravens in the air,\n Black, O black as the night are they.\n\n What do they there so stark and dead?\n (There is blood upon her hand)\n Why are the lilies flecked with red?\n (There is blood on the river sand.)\n\n There are two that ride from the south and east,\n And two from the north and west,\n For the black raven a goodly feast,\n For the King’s daughter rest.\n\n There is one man who loves her true,\n (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)\n He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,\n (One grave will do for four.)\n\n No moon in the still heaven,\n In the black water none,\n The sins on her soul are seven,\n The sin upon his is one.\n\n\nAMOR INTELLECTUALIS\n\n\n OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly\n And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown\n From antique reeds to common folk unknown:\n And often launched our bark upon that sea\n Which the nine Muses hold in empery,\n And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,\n Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home\n Till we had freighted well our argosy.\n Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,\n Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line\n Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine\n Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,\n The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,\n And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.\n\n\nSANTA DECCA\n\n\n THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring\n To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!\n Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,\n And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,\n For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning\n By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:\n Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;\n Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.\n\n And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,\n Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,\n Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.\n Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well\n For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,\n The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.\n\nCORFU.\n\n\nA VISION\n\n\n TWO crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone\n With no green weight of laurels round his head,\n But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,\n And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan\n For sins no bleating victim can atone,\n And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.\n Girt was he in a garment black and red,\n And at his feet I marked a broken stone\n Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.\n Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,\n I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’\n And she made answer, knowing well each name,\n ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,\n And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’\n\n\nIMPRESSION DE VOYAGE\n\n\n THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky\n Burned like a heated opal through the air;\n We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair\n For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.\n From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye\n Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,\n Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,\n And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.\n The flapping of the sail against the mast,\n The ripple of the water on the side,\n The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,\n The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,\n And a red sun upon the seas to ride,\n I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!\n\nKATAKOLO.\n\n\nTHE GRAVE OF SHELLEY\n\n\n LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed\n Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;\n Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,\n And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.\n And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,\n In the still chamber of yon pyramid\n Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,\n Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.\n\n Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb\n Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,\n But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb\n In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,\n Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom\n Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.\n\nROME.\n\n\nBY THE ARNO\n\n\n THE oleander on the wall\n Grows crimson in the dawning light,\n Though the grey shadows of the night\n Lie yet on Florence like a pall.\n\n The dew is bright upon the hill,\n And bright the blossoms overhead,\n But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,\n The little Attic song is still.\n\n Only the leaves are gently stirred\n By the soft breathing of the gale,\n And in the almond-scented vale\n The lonely nightingale is heard.\n\n The day will make thee silent soon,\n O nightingale sing on for love!\n While yet upon the shadowy grove\n Splinter the arrows of the moon.\n\n Before across the silent lawn\n In sea-green vest the morning steals,\n And to love’s frightened eyes reveals\n The long white fingers of the dawn\n\n Fast climbing up the eastern sky\n To grasp and slay the shuddering night,\n All careless of my heart’s delight,\n Or if the nightingale should die.\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE\n\n\nFABIEN DEI FRANCHI\n\n\n TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING\n\n THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,\n The dead that travel fast, the opening door,\n The murdered brother rising through the floor,\n The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,\n And then the lonely duel in the glade,\n The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,\n Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—\n These things are well enough,—but thou wert made\n For more august creation! frenzied Lear\n Should at thy bidding wander on the heath\n With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo\n For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear\n Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—\n Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!\n\n\nPHÈDRE\n\n\n TO SARAH BERNHARDT\n\n HOW vain and dull this common world must seem\n To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked\n At Florence with Mirandola, or walked\n Through the cool olives of the Academe:\n Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream\n For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played\n With the white girls in that Phæacian glade\n Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.\n\n Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay\n Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again\n Back to this common world so dull and vain,\n For thou wert weary of the sunless day,\n The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,\n The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.\n\n\nWRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE\n\nI\nPORTIA\n\n\n TO ELLEN TERRY\n\n I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold\n To peril all he had upon the lead,\n Or that proud Aragon bent low his head\n Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:\n For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold\n Which is more golden than the golden sun\n No woman Veronesé looked upon\n Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.\n Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield\n The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,\n And would not let the laws of Venice yield\n Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew—\n O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:\n I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.\n\n\nII\nQUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA\n\n\n TO ELLEN TERRY\n\n IN the lone tent, waiting for victory,\n She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,\n Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:\n The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,\n War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry\n To her proud soul no common fear can bring:\n Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,\n Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.\n O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face\n Made for the luring and the love of man!\n With thee I do forget the toil and stress,\n The loveless road that knows no resting place,\n Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s dread weariness,\n My freedom, and my life republican!\n\n\nIII\nCAMMA\n\n\n TO ELLEN TERRY\n\n AS one who poring on a Grecian urn\n Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,\n God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,\n And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn\n And face the obvious day, must I not yearn\n For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,\n When in midmost shrine of Artemis\n I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?\n\n And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play\n That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery\n Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake\n Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,\n I am grown sick of unreal passions, make\n The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!\n\n\n\nPANTHEA\n\n\n NAY, let us walk from fire unto fire,\n From passionate pain to deadlier delight,—\n I am too young to live without desire,\n Too young art thou to waste this summer night\n Asking those idle questions which of old\n Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.\n\n For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,\n And wisdom is a childless heritage,\n One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery glow,—\n Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:\n Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,\n Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see!\n\n Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale,\n Like water bubbling from a silver jar,\n So soft she sings the envious moon is pale,\n That high in heaven she is hung so far\n She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,—\n Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring\n moon.\n\n White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream,\n The fallen snow of petals where the breeze\n Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam\n Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these\n Enough for thee, dost thou desire more?\n Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal store.\n\n For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown\n Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour\n For wasted days of youth to make atone\n By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,\n Hearken they now to either good or ill,\n But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.\n\n They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease,\n Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine,\n They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees\n Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine,\n Mourning the old glad days before they knew\n What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.\n\n And far beneath the brazen floor they see\n Like swarming flies the crowd of little men,\n The bustle of small lives, then wearily\n Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again\n Kissing each others’ mouths, and mix more deep\n The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep.\n\n There all day long the golden-vestured sun,\n Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze,\n And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun\n By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze\n Fresh from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon,\n And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.\n\n There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead,\n Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust\n Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede\n Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must,\n His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare\n The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air.\n\n There in the green heart of some garden close\n Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side,\n Her warm soft body like the briar rose\n Which would be white yet blushes at its pride,\n Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis\n Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely bliss.\n\n There never does that dreary north-wind blow\n Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare,\n Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow,\n Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare\n To wake them in the silver-fretted night\n When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight.\n\n Alas! they know the far Lethæan spring,\n The violet-hidden waters well they know,\n Where one whose feet with tired wandering\n Are faint and broken may take heart and go,\n And from those dark depths cool and crystalline\n Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and anodyne.\n\n But we oppress our natures, God or Fate\n Is our enemy, we starve and feed\n On vain repentance—O we are born too late!\n What balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed\n Who crowd into one finite pulse of time\n The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite crime.\n\n O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,\n Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair,\n Wearied of every temple we have built,\n Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,\n For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:\n One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die.\n\n Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole\n Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand,\n No little coin of bronze can bring the soul\n Over Death’s river to the sunless land,\n Victim and wine and vow are all in vain,\n The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not again.\n\n We are resolved into the supreme air,\n We are made one with what we touch and see,\n With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair,\n With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree\n Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range\n The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.\n\n With beat of systole and of diastole\n One grand great life throbs through earth’s giant heart,\n And mighty waves of single Being roll\n From nerveless germ to man, for we are part\n Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,\n One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill.\n\n From lower cells of waking life we pass\n To full perfection; thus the world grows old:\n We who are godlike now were once a mass\n Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,\n Unsentient or of joy or misery,\n And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept sea.\n\n This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn\n Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil,\n Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn\n To water-lilies; the brown fields men till\n Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,\n Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s despite.\n\n The boy’s first kiss, the hyacinth’s first bell,\n The man’s last passion, and the last red spear\n That from the lily leaps, the asphodel\n Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear\n Of too much beauty, and the timid shame\n Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these with the same\n\n One sacrament are consecrate, the earth\n Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,\n The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth\n At daybreak know a pleasure not less real\n Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,\n We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good.\n\n So when men bury us beneath the yew\n Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be,\n And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,\n And when the white narcissus wantonly\n Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy\n Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.\n\n And thus without life’s conscious torturing pain\n In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,\n And from the linnet’s throat will sing again,\n And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run\n Over our graves, or as two tigers creep\n Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep\n\n And give them battle! How my heart leaps up\n To think of that grand living after death\n In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,\n Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath,\n And with the pale leaves of some autumn day\n The soul earth’s earliest conqueror becomes earth’s last great prey.\n\n O think of it! We shall inform ourselves\n Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun,\n The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves\n That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn\n Upon the meadows, shall not be more near\n Than you and I to nature’s mysteries, for we shall hear\n\n The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies grow,\n And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun\n On sunless days in winter, we shall know\n By whom the silver gossamer is spun,\n Who paints the diapered fritillaries,\n On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle flies.\n\n Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows\n If yonder daffodil had lured the bee\n Into its gilded womb, or any rose\n Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree!\n Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring,\n But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.\n\n Is the light vanished from our golden sun,\n Or is this dædal-fashioned earth less fair,\n That we are nature’s heritors, and one\n With every pulse of life that beats the air?\n Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,\n New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.\n\n And we two lovers shall not sit afar,\n Critics of nature, but the joyous sea\n Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star\n Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be\n Part of the mighty universal whole,\n And through all æons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!\n\n We shall be notes in that great Symphony\n Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,\n And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be\n One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years\n Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,\n The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.\n\n\n\nTHE FOURTH MOVEMENT\n\n\nIMPRESSION\n\n\n LE RÉVEILLON\n\n THE sky is laced with fitful red,\n The circling mists and shadows flee,\n The dawn is rising from the sea,\n Like a white lady from her bed.\n\n And jagged brazen arrows fall\n Athwart the feathers of the night,\n And a long wave of yellow light\n Breaks silently on tower and hall,\n\n And spreading wide across the wold\n Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,\n And all the chestnut tops are stirred,\n And all the branches streaked with gold.\n\n\nAT VERONA\n\n\n HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are\n For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,\n And O how salt and bitter is the bread\n Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far\n That I had died in the red ways of war,\n Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,\n Than to live thus, by all things comraded\n Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.\n\n ‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?\n He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss\n Of his gold city, and eternal day’—\n Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars\n I do possess what none can take away\n My love, and all the glory of the stars.\n\n\nAPOLOGIA\n\n\n IS it thy will that I should wax and wane,\n Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,\n And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain\n Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?\n\n Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—\n That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot\n Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell\n The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?\n\n Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,\n And sell ambition at the common mart,\n And let dull failure be my vestiture,\n And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.\n\n Perchance it may be better so—at least\n I have not made my heart a heart of stone,\n Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,\n Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.\n\n Many a man hath done so; sought to fence\n In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,\n Trodden the dusty road of common sense,\n While all the forest sang of liberty,\n\n Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight\n Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,\n To where some steep untrodden mountain height\n Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.\n\n Or how the little flower he trod upon,\n The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,\n Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun\n Content if once its leaves were aureoled.\n\n But surely it is something to have been\n The best belovèd for a little while,\n To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen\n His purple wings flit once across thy smile.\n\n Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed\n On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,\n Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed\n The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!\n\n\nQUIA MULTUM AMAVI\n\n\n DEAR Heart, I think the young impassioned priest\n When first he takes from out the hidden shrine\n His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,\n And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,\n\n Feels not such awful wonder as I felt\n When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,\n And all night long before thy feet I knelt\n Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.\n\n Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,\n Through all those summer days of joy and rain,\n I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,\n Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.\n\n Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,\n Tread on my heels with all his retinue,\n I am most glad I loved thee—think of all\n The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!\n\n\nSILENTIUM AMORIS\n\n\n AS often-times the too resplendent sun\n Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon\n Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won\n A single ballad from the nightingale,\n So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,\n And all my sweetest singing out of tune.\n\n And as at dawn across the level mead\n On wings impetuous some wind will come,\n And with its too harsh kisses break the reed\n Which was its only instrument of song,\n So my too stormy passions work me wrong,\n And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.\n\n But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show\n Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;\n Else it were better we should part, and go,\n Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,\n And I to nurse the barren memory\n Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.\n\n\nHER VOICE\n\n\n THE wild bee reels from bough to bough\n With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,\n Now in a lily-cup, and now\n Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,\n In his wandering;\n Sit closer love: it was here I trow\n I made that vow,\n\n Swore that two lives should be like one\n As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,\n As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—\n It shall be, I said, for eternity\n ’Twixt you and me!\n Dear friend, those times are over and done;\n Love’s web is spun.\n\n Look upward where the poplar trees\n Sway and sway in the summer air,\n Here in the valley never a breeze\n Scatters the thistledown, but there\n Great winds blow fair\n From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,\n And the wave-lashed leas.\n\n Look upward where the white gull screams,\n What does it see that we do not see?\n Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams\n On some outward voyaging argosy,—\n Ah! can it be\n We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!\n How sad it seems.\n\n Sweet, there is nothing left to say\n But this, that love is never lost,\n Keen winter stabs the breasts of May\n Whose crimson roses burst his frost,\n Ships tempest-tossed\n Will find a harbour in some bay,\n And so we may.\n\n And there is nothing left to do\n But to kiss once again, and part,\n Nay, there is nothing we should rue,\n I have my beauty,—you your Art,\n Nay, do not start,\n One world was not enough for two\n Like me and you.\n\n\nMY VOICE\n\n\n WITHIN this restless, hurried, modern world\n We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I,\n And now the white sails of our ship are furled,\n And spent the lading of our argosy.\n\n Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,\n For very weeping is my gladness fled,\n Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,\n And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.\n\n But all this crowded life has been to thee\n No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell\n Of viols, or the music of the sea\n That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.\n\n\nTÆDIUM VITÆ\n\n\n TO stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear\n This paltry age’s gaudy livery,\n To let each base hand filch my treasury,\n To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,\n And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,—I swear\n I love it not! these things are less to me\n Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,\n Less than the thistledown of summer air\n Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof\n Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life\n Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof\n Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,\n Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife\n Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.\n\n\n\nHUMANITAD\n\n\n IT is full winter now: the trees are bare,\n Save where the cattle huddle from the cold\n Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear\n The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold\n Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true\n To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew\n\n From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay\n Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain\n Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day\n From the low meadows up the narrow lane;\n Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep\n Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep\n\n From the shut stable to the frozen stream\n And back again disconsolate, and miss\n The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;\n And overhead in circling listlessness\n The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,\n Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack\n\n Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds\n And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,\n And hoots to see the moon; across the meads\n Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;\n And a stray seamew with its fretful cry\n Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.\n\n Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings\n His load of faggots from the chilly byre,\n And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings\n The sappy billets on the waning fire,\n And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare\n His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;\n\n Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,\n And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again\n With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,\n For with the first warm kisses of the rain\n The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,\n And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers\n\n From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,\n And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs\n Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly\n Across our path at evening, and the suns\n Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see\n Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery\n\n Dance through the hedges till the early rose,\n (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)\n Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose\n The little quivering disk of golden fire\n Which the bees know so well, for with it come\n Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.\n\n Then up and down the field the sower goes,\n While close behind the laughing younker scares\n With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,\n And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,\n And on the grass the creamy blossom falls\n In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals\n\n Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons\n Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,\n That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons\n With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine\n In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed\n And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed\n\n Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,\n And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,\n Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy\n Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,\n And violets getting overbold withdraw\n From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.\n\n O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!\n Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock\n And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,\n Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock\n Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon\n Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.\n\n Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,\n The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns\n Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture\n Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations\n With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,\n And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.\n\n Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,\n That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,\n And to the kid its little horns, and bring\n The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,\n Where is that old nepenthe which of yore\n Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!\n\n There was a time when any common bird\n Could make me sing in unison, a time\n When all the strings of boyish life were stirred\n To quick response or more melodious rhyme\n By every forest idyll;—do I change?\n Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?\n\n Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seek\n To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,\n And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek\n Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;\n Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare\n To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!\n\n Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soul\n Takes discontent to be its paramour,\n And gives its kingdom to the rude control\n Of what should be its servitor,—for sure\n Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea\n Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’\n\n To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect\n In natural honour, not to bend the knee\n In profitless prostrations whose effect\n Is by itself condemned, what alchemy\n Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed\n Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?\n\n The minor chord which ends the harmony,\n And for its answering brother waits in vain\n Sobbing for incompleted melody,\n Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,\n A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,\n Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.\n\n The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,\n The little dust stored in the narrow urn,\n The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic tomb,—\n Were not these better far than to return\n To my old fitful restless malady,\n Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?\n\n Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god\n Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed\n Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod\n Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,\n Death is too rude, too obvious a key\n To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.\n\n And Love! that noble madness, whose august\n And inextinguishable might can slay\n The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must\n From such sweet ruin play the runaway,\n Although too constant memory never can\n Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian\n\n Which for a little season made my youth\n So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence\n That all the chiding of more prudent Truth\n Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence\n Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!\n Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.\n\n My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—\n Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow\n Back to the troubled waters of this shore\n Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now\n The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,\n Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.\n\n More barren—ay, those arms will never lean\n Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul\n In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;\n Some other head must wear that aureole,\n For I am hers who loves not any man\n Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.\n\n Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,\n And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,\n With net and spear and hunting equipage\n Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,\n But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell\n Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.\n\n Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy\n Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud\n Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy\n And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed\n In wonder at her feet, not for the sake\n Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.\n\n Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!\n And, if my lips be musicless, inspire\n At least my life: was not thy glory hymned\n By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre\n Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,\n And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!\n\n And yet I cannot tread the Portico\n And live without desire, fear and pain,\n Or nurture that wise calm which long ago\n The grave Athenian master taught to men,\n Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,\n To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.\n\n Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,\n Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,\n Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse\n Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne\n Is childless; in the night which she had made\n For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.\n\n Nor much with Science do I care to climb,\n Although by strange and subtle witchery\n She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time\n Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry\n To no less eager eyes; often indeed\n In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read\n\n How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war\n Against a little town, and panoplied\n In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,\n White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede\n Between the waving poplars and the sea\n Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ\n\n Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,\n And on the nearer side a little brood\n Of careless lions holding festival!\n And stood amazèd at such hardihood,\n And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,\n And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er\n\n Some unfrequented height, and coming down\n The autumn forests treacherously slew\n What Sparta held most dear and was the crown\n Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew\n How God had staked an evil net for him\n In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,\n\n Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel\n With such a goodly time too out of tune\n To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel\n That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon\n Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes\n Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.\n\n O for one grand unselfish simple life\n To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills\n Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife\n Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,\n Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly\n Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!\n\n Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he\n Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul\n Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty\n Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal\n Where love and duty mingle! Him at least\n The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;\n\n But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote\n The clarion watchword of each Grecian school\n And follow none, the flawless sword which smote\n The pagan Hydra is an effete tool\n Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now\n Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?\n\n One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!\n Gone is that last dear son of Italy,\n Who being man died for the sake of God,\n And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,\n O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,\n Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour\n\n Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or\n The Arno with its tawny troubled gold\n O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror\n Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old\n When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty\n Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery\n\n Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell\n With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,\n Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell\n With which oblivion buries dynasties\n Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,\n As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.\n\n He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,\n He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,\n And now lies dead by that empyreal dome\n Which overtops Valdarno hung in air\n By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene\n Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!\n\n Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies\n That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine\n Forget awhile their discreet emperies,\n Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine\n Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,\n And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!\n\n O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!\n Let some young Florentine each eventide\n Bring coronals of that enchanted flower\n Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,\n And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies\n Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;\n\n Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,\n Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim\n Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings\n Of the eternal chanting Cherubim\n Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away\n Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,\n\n He is not dead, the immemorial Fates\n Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.\n Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!\n Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain\n For the vile thing he hated lurks within\n Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.\n\n Still what avails it that she sought her cave\n That murderous mother of red harlotries?\n At Munich on the marble architrave\n The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas\n Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness\n Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless\n\n For lack of our ideals, if one star\n Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust\n Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war\n Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust\n Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe\n For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,\n\n What Easter Day shall make her children rise,\n Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet\n Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes\n Shall see them bodily? O it were meet\n To roll the stone from off the sepulchre\n And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,\n\n Our Italy! our mother visible!\n Most blessed among nations and most sad,\n For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell\n That day at Aspromonte and was glad\n That in an age when God was bought and sold\n One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,\n\n See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves\n Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty\n Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives\n Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,\n And no word said:—O we are wretched men\n Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen\n\n Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword\n Which slew its master righteously? the years\n Have lost their ancient leader, and no word\n Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:\n While as a ruined mother in some spasm\n Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm\n\n Genders unlawful children, Anarchy\n Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal\n Licence who steals the gold of Liberty\n And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real\n One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp\n That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp\n\n Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed\n For whose dull appetite men waste away\n Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed\n Of things which slay their sower, these each day\n Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet\n Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.\n\n What even Cromwell spared is desecrated\n By weed and worm, left to the stormy play\n Of wind and beating snow, or renovated\n By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay\n Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,\n But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.\n\n Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing\n Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air\n Seems from such marble harmonies to ring\n With sweeter song than common lips can dare\n To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now\n The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow\n\n For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One\n Who loved the lilies of the field with all\n Our dearest English flowers? the same sun\n Rises for us: the seasons natural\n Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:\n The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away.\n\n And yet perchance it may be better so,\n For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,\n Murder her brother is her bedfellow,\n And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene\n And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;\n Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!\n\n For gentle brotherhood, the harmony\n Of living in the healthful air, the swift\n Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free\n And women chaste, these are the things which lift\n Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s\n Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,\n\n Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair\n White as her own sweet lily and as tall,\n Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—\n Ah! somehow life is bigger after all\n Than any painted angel, could we see\n The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity\n\n Which curbs the passion of that level line\n Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes\n And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine\n And mirror her divine economies,\n And balanced symmetry of what in man\n Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span\n\n Between our mother’s kisses and the grave\n Might so inform our lives, that we could win\n Such mighty empires that from her cave\n Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin\n Would walk ashamed of his adulteries,\n And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes.\n\n To make the body and the spirit one\n With all right things, till no thing live in vain\n From morn to noon, but in sweet unison\n With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain\n The soul in flawless essence high enthroned,\n Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,\n\n Mark with serene impartiality\n The strife of things, and yet be comforted,\n Knowing that by the chain causality\n All separate existences are wed\n Into one supreme whole, whose utterance\n Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance\n\n Of Life in most august omnipresence,\n Through which the rational intellect would find\n In passion its expression, and mere sense,\n Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,\n And being joined with it in harmony\n More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,\n\n Strike from their several tones one octave chord\n Whose cadence being measureless would fly\n Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord\n Return refreshed with its new empery\n And more exultant power,—this indeed\n Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed.\n\n Ah! it was easy when the world was young\n To keep one’s life free and inviolate,\n From our sad lips another song is rung,\n By our own hands our heads are desecrate,\n Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed\n Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.\n\n Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,\n And of all men we are most wretched who\n Must live each other’s lives and not our own\n For very pity’s sake and then undo\n All that we lived for—it was otherwise\n When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.\n\n But we have left those gentle haunts to pass\n With weary feet to the new Calvary,\n Where we behold, as one who in a glass\n Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,\n And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze\n Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.\n\n O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn!\n O chalice of all common miseries!\n Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne\n An agony of endless centuries,\n And we were vain and ignorant nor knew\n That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew.\n\n Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,\n The night that covers and the lights that fade,\n The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds,\n The lips betraying and the life betrayed;\n The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we\n Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.\n\n Is this the end of all that primal force\n Which, in its changes being still the same,\n From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,\n Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,\n Till the suns met in heaven and began\n Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man!\n\n Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though\n The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain\n Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know,\n Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole again,\n No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,\n That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God.\n\n\n\nFLOWER OF LOVE\n\n\nΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ\n\n\n SWEET, I blame you not, for mine the fault\n was, had I not been made of common clay\n I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed\n yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.\n\n From the wildness of my wasted passion I had\n struck a better, clearer song,\n Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled\n with some Hydra-headed wrong.\n\n Had my lips been smitten into music by the\n kisses that but made them bleed,\n You had walked with Bice and the angels on\n that verdant and enamelled mead.\n\n I had trod the road which Dante treading saw\n the suns of seven circles shine,\n Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,\n as they opened to the Florentine.\n\n And the mighty nations would have crowned\n me, who am crownless now and without name,\n And some orient dawn had found me kneeling\n on the threshold of the House of Fame.\n\n I had sat within that marble circle where the\n oldest bard is as the young,\n And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the\n lyre’s strings are ever strung.\n\n Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out\n the poppy-seeded wine,\n With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,\n clasped the hand of noble love in mine.\n\n And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush\n the burnished bosom of the dove,\n Two young lovers lying in an orchard would\n have read the story of our love.\n\n Would have read the legend of my passion,\n known the bitter secret of my heart,\n Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as\n we two are fated now to part.\n\n For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by\n the cankerworm of truth,\n And no hand can gather up the fallen withered\n petals of the rose of youth.\n\n Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what\n else had I a boy to do,—\n For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the\n silent-footed years pursue.\n\n Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and\n when once the storm of youth is past,\n Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death\n the silent pilot comes at last.\n\n And within the grave there is no pleasure, for\n the blindworm battens on the root,\n And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of\n Passion bears no fruit.\n\n Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s\n own mother was less dear to me,\n And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an\n argent lily from the sea.\n\n I have made my choice, have lived my poems,\n and, though youth is gone in wasted days,\n I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better\n than the poet’s crown of bays.\n\n\n\n\nUNCOLLECTED POEMS\n\n\nFROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER\n\n\n (FOR MUSIC)\n\n IN the glad springtime when leaves were green,\n O merrily the throstle sings!\n I sought, amid the tangled sheen,\n Love whom mine eyes had never seen,\n O the glad dove has golden wings!\n\n Between the blossoms red and white,\n O merrily the throstle sings!\n My love first came into my sight,\n O perfect vision of delight,\n O the glad dove has golden wings!\n\n The yellow apples glowed like fire,\n O merrily the throstle sings!\n O Love too great for lip or lyre,\n Blown rose of love and of desire,\n O the glad dove has golden wings!\n\n But now with snow the tree is grey,\n Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!\n My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,\n See at her silent feet I lay\n A dove with broken wings!\n Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain—\n Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!\n\n\n\nTRISTITÆ\n\n\n _Αἴλινον_, _αἴλινον εἰπέ_, _τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω_\n\n O WELL for him who lives at ease\n With garnered gold in wide domain,\n Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,\n The crashing down of forest trees.\n\n O well for him who ne’er hath known\n The travail of the hungry years,\n A father grey with grief and tears,\n A mother weeping all alone.\n\n But well for him whose foot hath trod\n The weary road of toil and strife,\n Yet from the sorrows of his life.\n Builds ladders to be nearer God.\n\n\n\nTHE TRUE KNOWLEDGE\n\n\n . . . _ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει_\n _Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν_,\n _καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή_.\n\n THOU knowest all; I seek in vain\n What lands to till or sow with seed—\n The land is black with briar and weed,\n Nor cares for falling tears or rain.\n\n Thou knowest all; I sit and wait\n With blinded eyes and hands that fail,\n Till the last lifting of the veil\n And the first opening of the gate.\n\n Thou knowest all; I cannot see.\n I trust I shall not live in vain,\n I know that we shall meet again\n In some divine eternity.\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS\n\n\nI\nLE JARDIN\n\n\n THE lily’s withered chalice falls\n Around its rod of dusty gold,\n And from the beech-trees on the wold\n The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.\n\n The gaudy leonine sunflower\n Hangs black and barren on its stalk,\n And down the windy garden walk\n The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.\n\n Pale privet-petals white as milk\n Are blown into a snowy mass:\n The roses lie upon the grass\n Like little shreds of crimson silk.\n\n\nII\nLA MER\n\n\n A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds,\n A wild moon in this wintry sky\n Gleams like an angry lion’s eye\n Out of a mane of tawny clouds.\n\n The muffled steersman at the wheel\n Is but a shadow in the gloom;—\n And in the throbbing engine-room\n Leap the long rods of polished steel.\n\n The shattered storm has left its trace\n Upon this huge and heaving dome,\n For the thin threads of yellow foam\n Float on the waves like ravelled lace.\n\n\n\nUNDER THE BALCONY\n\n\n O BEAUTIFUL star with the crimson mouth!\n O moon with the brows of gold!\n Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!\n And light for my love her way,\n Lest her little feet should stray\n On the windy hill and the wold!\n O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!\n O moon with the brows of gold!\n\n O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!\n O ship with the wet, white sail!\n Put in, put in, to the port to me!\n For my love and I would go\n To the land where the daffodils blow\n In the heart of a violet dale!\n O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!\n O ship with the wet, white sail!\n\n O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!\n O bird that sits on the spray!\n Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!\n And my love in her little bed\n Will listen, and lift her head\n From the pillow, and come my way!\n O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!\n O bird that sits on the spray!\n\n O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!\n O blossom with lips of snow!\n Come down, come down, for my love to wear!\n You will die on her head in a crown,\n You will die in a fold of her gown,\n To her little light heart you will go!\n O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!\n O blossom with lips of snow!\n\n\n\nTHE HARLOT’S HOUSE\n\n\n WE caught the tread of dancing feet,\n We loitered down the moonlit street,\n And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.\n\n Inside, above the din and fray,\n We heard the loud musicians play\n The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.\n\n Like strange mechanical grotesques,\n Making fantastic arabesques,\n The shadows raced across the blind.\n\n We watched the ghostly dancers spin\n To sound of horn and violin,\n Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.\n\n Like wire-pulled automatons,\n Slim silhouetted skeletons\n Went sidling through the slow quadrille,\n\n Then took each other by the hand,\n And danced a stately saraband;\n Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.\n\n Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed\n A phantom lover to her breast,\n Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.\n\n Sometimes a horrible marionette\n Came out, and smoked its cigarette\n Upon the steps like a live thing.\n\n Then, turning to my love, I said,\n ‘The dead are dancing with the dead,\n The dust is whirling with the dust.’\n\n But she—she heard the violin,\n And left my side, and entered in:\n Love passed into the house of lust.\n\n Then suddenly the tune went false,\n The dancers wearied of the waltz,\n The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.\n\n And down the long and silent street,\n The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,\n Crept like a frightened girl.\n\n\n\nLE JARDIN DES TUILERIES\n\n\n THIS winter air is keen and cold,\n And keen and cold this winter sun,\n But round my chair the children run\n Like little things of dancing gold.\n\n Sometimes about the painted kiosk\n The mimic soldiers strut and stride,\n Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide\n In the bleak tangles of the bosk.\n\n And sometimes, while the old nurse cons\n Her book, they steal across the square,\n And launch their paper navies where\n Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.\n\n And now in mimic flight they flee,\n And now they rush, a boisterous band—\n And, tiny hand on tiny hand,\n Climb up the black and leafless tree.\n\n Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,\n And children climbed me, for their sake\n Though it be winter I would break\n Into spring blossoms white and blue!\n\n\n\nON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS\n\n\n THESE are the letters which Endymion wrote\n To one he loved in secret, and apart.\n And now the brawlers of the auction mart\n Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,\n Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote\n The merchant’s price. I think they love not art\n Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart\n That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.\n\n Is it not said that many years ago,\n In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran\n With torches through the midnight, and began\n To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw\n Dice for the garments of a wretched man,\n Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?\n\n\n\nTHE NEW REMORSE\n\n\n THE sin was mine; I did not understand.\n So now is music prisoned in her cave,\n Save where some ebbing desultory wave\n Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.\n And in the withered hollow of this land\n Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,\n That hardly can the leaden willow crave\n One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.\n\n But who is this who cometh by the shore?\n (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this\n Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?\n It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss\n The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,\n And I shall weep and worship, as before.\n\n\n\nFANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES\n\n\nI\nLE PANNEAU\n\n\n UNDER the rose-tree’s dancing shade\n There stands a little ivory girl,\n Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl\n With pale green nails of polished jade.\n\n The red leaves fall upon the mould,\n The white leaves flutter, one by one,\n Down to a blue bowl where the sun,\n Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.\n\n The white leaves float upon the air,\n The red leaves flutter idly down,\n Some fall upon her yellow gown,\n And some upon her raven hair.\n\n She takes an amber lute and sings,\n And as she sings a silver crane\n Begins his scarlet neck to strain,\n And flap his burnished metal wings.\n\n She takes a lute of amber bright,\n And from the thicket where he lies\n Her lover, with his almond eyes,\n Watches her movements in delight.\n\n And now she gives a cry of fear,\n And tiny tears begin to start:\n A thorn has wounded with its dart\n The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.\n\n And now she laughs a merry note:\n There has fallen a petal of the rose\n Just where the yellow satin shows\n The blue-veined flower of her throat.\n\n With pale green nails of polished jade,\n Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,\n There stands a little ivory girl\n Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.\n\n\nII\nLES BALLONS\n\n\n AGAINST these turbid turquoise skies\n The light and luminous balloons\n Dip and drift like satin moons,\n Drift like silken butterflies;\n\n Reel with every windy gust,\n Rise and reel like dancing girls,\n Float like strange transparent pearls,\n Fall and float like silver dust.\n\n Now to the low leaves they cling,\n Each with coy fantastic pose,\n Each a petal of a rose\n Straining at a gossamer string.\n\n Then to the tall trees they climb,\n Like thin globes of amethyst,\n Wandering opals keeping tryst\n With the rubies of the lime.\n\n\n\nCANZONET\n\n\n I HAVE no store\n Of gryphon-guarded gold;\n Now, as before,\n Bare is the shepherd’s fold.\n Rubies nor pearls\n Have I to gem thy throat;\n Yet woodland girls\n Have loved the shepherd’s note.\n\n Then pluck a reed\n And bid me sing to thee,\n For I would feed\n Thine ears with melody,\n Who art more fair\n Than fairest fleur-de-lys,\n More sweet and rare\n Than sweetest ambergris.\n\n What dost thou fear?\n Young Hyacinth is slain,\n Pan is not here,\n And will not come again.\n No hornèd Faun\n Treads down the yellow leas,\n No God at dawn\n Steals through the olive trees.\n\n Hylas is dead,\n Nor will he e’er divine\n Those little red\n Rose-petalled lips of thine.\n On the high hill\n No ivory dryads play,\n Silver and still\n Sinks the sad autumn day.\n\n\n\nSYMPHONY IN YELLOW\n\n\n AN omnibus across the bridge\n Crawls like a yellow butterfly,\n And, here and there, a passer-by\n Shows like a little restless midge.\n\n Big barges full of yellow hay\n Are moored against the shadowy wharf,\n And, like a yellow silken scarf,\n The thick fog hangs along the quay.\n\n The yellow leaves begin to fade\n And flutter from the Temple elms,\n And at my feet the pale green Thames\n Lies like a rod of rippled jade.\n\n\n\nIN THE FOREST\n\n\n OUT of the mid-wood’s twilight\n Into the meadow’s dawn,\n Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,\n Flashes my Faun!\n\n He skips through the copses singing,\n And his shadow dances along,\n And I know not which I should follow,\n Shadow or song!\n\n O Hunter, snare me his shadow!\n O Nightingale, catch me his strain!\n Else moonstruck with music and madness\n I track him in vain!\n\n\n\nTO MY WIFE\n\n\n WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS\n\n I CAN write no stately proem\n As a prelude to my lay;\n From a poet to a poem\n I would dare to say.\n\n For if of these fallen petals\n One to you seem fair,\n Love will waft it till it settles\n On your hair.\n\n And when wind and winter harden\n All the loveless land,\n It will whisper of the garden,\n You will understand.\n\n\n\nWITH A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’\n\n\n GO, little book,\n To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,\n Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:\n And bid him look\n Into thy pages: it may hap that he\n May find that golden maidens dance through thee.\n\n\n\nROSES AND RUE\n\n\n (To L. L.)\n\n COULD we dig up this long-buried treasure,\n Were it worth the pleasure,\n We never could learn love’s song,\n We are parted too long.\n\n Could the passionate past that is fled\n Call back its dead,\n Could we live it all over again,\n Were it worth the pain!\n\n I remember we used to meet\n By an ivied seat,\n And you warbled each pretty word\n With the air of a bird;\n\n And your voice had a quaver in it,\n Just like a linnet,\n And shook, as the blackbird’s throat\n With its last big note;\n\n And your eyes, they were green and grey\n Like an April day,\n But lit into amethyst\n When I stooped and kissed;\n\n And your mouth, it would never smile\n For a long, long while,\n Then it rippled all over with laughter\n Five minutes after.\n\n You were always afraid of a shower,\n Just like a flower:\n I remember you started and ran\n When the rain began.\n\n I remember I never could catch you,\n For no one could match you,\n You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,\n Little wings to your feet.\n\n I remember your hair—did I tie it?\n For it always ran riot—\n Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:\n These things are old.\n\n I remember so well the room,\n And the lilac bloom\n That beat at the dripping pane\n In the warm June rain;\n\n And the colour of your gown,\n It was amber-brown,\n And two yellow satin bows\n From your shoulders rose.\n\n And the handkerchief of French lace\n Which you held to your face—\n Had a small tear left a stain?\n Or was it the rain?\n\n On your hand as it waved adieu\n There were veins of blue;\n In your voice as it said good-bye\n Was a petulant cry,\n\n ‘You have only wasted your life.’\n (Ah, that was the knife!)\n When I rushed through the garden gate\n It was all too late.\n\n Could we live it over again,\n Were it worth the pain,\n Could the passionate past that is fled\n Call back its dead!\n\n Well, if my heart must break,\n Dear love, for your sake,\n It will break in music, I know,\n Poets’ hearts break so.\n\n But strange that I was not told\n That the brain can hold\n In a tiny ivory cell\n God’s heaven and hell.\n\n\n\nDÉSESPOIR\n\n\n THE seasons send their ruin as they go,\n For in the spring the narciss shows its head\n Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,\n And in the autumn purple violets blow,\n And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;\n Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again\n And this grey land grow green with summer rain\n And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.\n\n But what of life whose bitter hungry sea\n Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night\n Covers the days which never more return?\n Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn\n We lose too soon, and only find delight\n In withered husks of some dead memory.\n\n\n\nPAN\n\n\n DOUBLE VILLANELLE\n\n I\n\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n This modern world is grey and old,\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n No more the shepherd lads in glee\n Throw apples at thy wattled fold,\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n\n Nor through the laurels can one see\n Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n And dull and dead our Thames would be,\n For here the winds are chill and cold,\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n\n Then keep the tomb of Helice,\n Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n Though many an unsung elegy\n Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n Ah, what remains to us of thee?\n\n II\n\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,\n Thy satyrs and their wanton play,\n This modern world hath need of thee.\n\n No nymph or Faun indeed have we,\n For Faun and nymph are old and grey,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n\n This is the land where liberty\n Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n A land of ancient chivalry\n Where gentle Sidney saw the day,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n\n This fierce sea-lion of the sea,\n This England lacks some stronger lay,\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n Then blow some trumpet loud and free,\n And give thine oaten pipe away,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPHINX\n\n\n TO\n MARCEL SCHWOB\n IN FRIENDSHIP\n AND\n IN ADMIRATION\n\n\n\nTHE SPHINX\n\n\n IN a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks\n A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting\n gloom.\n\n Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir\n For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that\n reel.\n\n Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow\n But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there.\n\n Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all the while this curious\n cat\n Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with gold.\n\n Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the tawny throat of her\n Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed ears.\n\n Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so statuesque!\n Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half animal!\n\n Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put your head upon my\n knee!\n And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the Lynx!\n\n And let me touch those curving claws of yellow ivory and grasp\n The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet paws!\n\n * * * * *\n\n A THOUSAND weary centuries are thine while I have hardly seen\n Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.\n\n But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the great sandstone obelisks,\n And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have looked on\n Hippogriffs.\n\n O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to Osiris knelt?\n And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union for Antony\n\n And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend her head in mimic awe\n To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny from the brine?\n\n And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon on his catafalque?\n And did you follow Amenalk, the God of Heliopolis?\n\n And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear the moon-horned Io weep?\n And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped Pyramid?\n\n * * * * *\n\n LIFT up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one\n sinks!\n Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!\n\n Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered with the Holy Child,\n And how you led them through the wild, and how they slept beneath your\n shade.\n\n Sing to me of that odorous green eve when crouching by the marge\n You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the laughter of Antinous\n\n And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and watched with hot and\n hungry stare\n The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate mouth!\n\n Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-formed bull was stalled!\n Sing to me of the night you crawled across the temple’s granite plinth\n\n When through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet Ibis flew\n In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning Mandragores,\n\n And the great torpid crocodile within the tank shed slimy tears,\n And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered back into the Nile,\n\n And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as in your claws you\n seized their snake\n And crept away with it to slake your passion by the shuddering palms.\n\n * * * * *\n\n WHO were your lovers? who were they who wrestled for you in the dust?\n Which was the vessel of your Lust? What Leman had you, every day?\n\n Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you on the reedy banks?\n Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled\n couch?\n\n Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward you in the mist?\n Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you passed\n them by?\n\n And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what horrible Chimera came\n With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed new wonders from your\n womb?\n\n * * * * *\n\n OR had you shameful secret quests and did you harry to your home\n Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal breasts?\n\n Or did you treading through the froth call to the brown Sidonian\n For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Behemoth?\n\n Or did you when the sun was set climb up the cactus-covered slope\n To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was of polished jet?\n\n Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped down the grey Nilotic\n flats\n At twilight and the flickering bats flew round the temple’s triple\n glyphs\n\n Steal to the border of the bar and swim across the silent lake\n And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid your lúpanar\n\n Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted swathèd dead?\n Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned Tragelaphos?\n\n Or did you love the god of flies who plagued the Hebrews and was\n splashed\n With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had green beryls for her eyes?\n\n Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more amorous than the dove\n Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the Assyrian\n\n Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose high above his\n hawk-faced head,\n Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with rods of Oreichalch?\n\n Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and lay before your feet\n Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured nenuphar?\n\n * * * * *\n\n HOW subtle-secret is your smile! Did you love none then? Nay, I know\n Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with you beside the Nile!\n\n The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when they saw him come\n Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with\n thyme.\n\n He came along the river bank like some tall galley argent-sailed,\n He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters sank.\n\n He strode across the desert sand: he reached the valley where you lay:\n He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts with\n his hand.\n\n You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god\n your own:\n You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name.\n\n You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his ears:\n With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous\n miracles.\n\n White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your chamber was the steaming Nile!\n And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come and\n go.\n\n * * * * *\n\n WITH Syrian oils his brows were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at\n noon\n His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger light.\n\n His long hair was nine cubits’ span and coloured like that yellow gem\n Which hidden in their garment’s hem the merchants bring from\n Kurdistan.\n\n His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of new-made wine:\n The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his eyes.\n\n His thick soft throat was white as milk and threaded with thin veins\n of blue:\n And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing silk.\n\n * * * * *\n\n ON pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was too bright to look upon:\n For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous ocean-emerald,\n\n That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of the Colchian caves\n Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the Colchian\n witch.\n\n Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed corybants,\n And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his chariot,\n\n And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter as he rode\n Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding peacock-fans.\n\n The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon in their painted ships:\n The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a chrysolite.\n\n The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel bound with\n cords:\n His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to be his\n guests.\n\n Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon’s altar day and night,\n Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon’s carven\n house—and now\n\n Foul snake and speckled adder with their young ones crawl from stone\n to stone\n For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble monolith!\n\n Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches in the mouldering gates:\n Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted drums.\n\n And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced ape of Horus sits\n And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the peristyle\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE god is scattered here and there: deep hidden in the windy sand\n I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent despair.\n\n And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes silken-shawled,\n Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can\n span.\n\n And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his yellow-striped burnous\n To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin.\n\n * * * * *\n\n GO, seek his fragments on the moor and wash them in the evening dew,\n And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour!\n\n Go, seek them where they lie alone and from their broken pieces make\n Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions in the senseless stone!\n\n Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved your body! oh, be kind,\n Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round his\n limbs!\n\n Wind round his head the figured coins! stain with red fruits those\n pallid lips!\n Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren loins!\n\n * * * * *\n\n AWAY to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one God has ever died.\n Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s spear.\n\n But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the hundred-cubit gate\n Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy head.\n\n Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon strains his lidless eyes\n Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto thee.\n\n And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black and oozy bed\n And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering corn.\n\n Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will rise up and hear your\n voice\n And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your mouth! And\n so,\n\n Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to your ebon car!\n Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of dead divinities\n\n Follow some roving lion’s spoor across the copper-coloured plain,\n Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your paramour!\n\n Couch by his side upon the grass and set your white teeth in his\n throat\n And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of polished\n brass\n\n And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber sides are flecked with\n black,\n And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban gate,\n\n And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he turns, and snarls, and\n gnaws,\n O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your agate\n breasts!\n\n * * * * *\n\n WHY are you tarrying? Get hence! I weary of your sullen ways,\n I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence.\n\n Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp,\n And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and death.\n\n Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake,\n Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic tunes,\n\n Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your black throat is like the\n hole\n Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries.\n\n Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying through the Western\n gate!\n Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver cars!\n\n See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled towers, and the rain\n Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish day.\n\n What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with uncouth gestures and\n unclean,\n Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a student’s cell?\n\n * * * * *\n\n WHAT songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of\n the night,\n And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter in?\n\n Are there not others more accursed, whiter with leprosies than I?\n Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your thirst?\n\n Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous animal, get hence!\n You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not be.\n\n You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul dreams of sensual life,\n And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing I am.\n\n False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his\n oar,\n Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix,\n\n Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with wearied\n eyes,\n And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in vain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL\n\n\n IN MEMORIAM\n C. T. W.\n SOMETIME TROOPER OF THE ROYAL HORSE GUARDS\n OBIIT H.M. PRISON, READING, BERKSHIRE\n JULY 7, 1896\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL\n\n\n I\n\n HE did not wear his scarlet coat,\n For blood and wine are red,\n And blood and wine were on his hands\n When they found him with the dead,\n The poor dead woman whom he loved,\n And murdered in her bed.\n\n He walked amongst the Trial Men\n In a suit of shabby grey;\n A cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay;\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every drifting cloud that went\n With sails of silver by.\n\n I walked, with other souls in pain,\n Within another ring,\n And was wondering if the man had done\n A great or little thing,\n When a voice behind me whispered low,\n ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’\n\n Dear Christ! the very prison walls\n Suddenly seemed to reel,\n And the sky above my head became\n Like a casque of scorching steel;\n And, though I was a soul in pain,\n My pain I could not feel.\n\n I only knew what hunted thought\n Quickened his step, and why\n He looked upon the garish day\n With such a wistful eye;\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n Yet each man kills the thing he loves,\n By each let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n Some kill their love when they are young,\n And some when they are old;\n Some strangle with the hands of Lust,\n Some with the hands of Gold:\n The kindest use a knife, because\n The dead so soon grow cold.\n\n Some love too little, some too long,\n Some sell, and others buy;\n Some do the deed with many tears,\n And some without a sigh:\n For each man kills the thing he loves,\n Yet each man does not die.\n\n He does not die a death of shame\n On a day of dark disgrace,\n Nor have a noose about his neck,\n Nor a cloth upon his face,\n Nor drop feet foremost through the floor\n Into an empty space.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n He does not sit with silent men\n Who watch him night and day;\n Who watch him when he tries to weep,\n And when he tries to pray;\n Who watch him lest himself should rob\n The prison of its prey.\n\n He does not wake at dawn to see\n Dread figures throng his room,\n The shivering Chaplain robed in white,\n The Sheriff stern with gloom,\n And the Governor all in shiny black,\n With the yellow face of Doom.\n\n He does not rise in piteous haste\n To put on convict-clothes,\n While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes\n Each new and nerve-twitched pose,\n Fingering a watch whose little ticks\n Are like horrible hammer-blows.\n\n He does not know that sickening thirst\n That sands one’s throat, before\n The hangman with his gardener’s gloves\n Slips through the padded door,\n And binds one with three leathern thongs,\n That the throat may thirst no more.\n\n He does not bend his head to hear\n The Burial Office read,\n Nor, while the terror of his soul\n Tells him he is not dead,\n Cross his own coffin, as he moves\n Into the hideous shed.\n\n He does not stare upon the air\n Through a little roof of glass:\n He does not pray with lips of clay\n For his agony to pass;\n Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek\n The kiss of Caiaphas.\n\n II\n\n SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard,\n In the suit of shabby grey:\n His cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay,\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every wandering cloud that trailed\n Its ravelled fleeces by.\n\n He did not wring his hands, as do\n Those witless men who dare\n To try to rear the changeling Hope\n In the cave of black Despair:\n He only looked upon the sun,\n And drank the morning air.\n\n He did not wring his hands nor weep,\n Nor did he peek or pine,\n But he drank the air as though it held\n Some healthful anodyne;\n With open mouth he drank the sun\n As though it had been wine!\n\n And I and all the souls in pain,\n Who tramped the other ring,\n Forgot if we ourselves had done\n A great or little thing,\n And watched with gaze of dull amaze\n The man who had to swing.\n\n And strange it was to see him pass\n With a step so light and gay,\n And strange it was to see him look\n So wistfully at the day,\n And strange it was to think that he\n Had such a debt to pay.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n For oak and elm have pleasant leaves\n That in the springtime shoot:\n But grim to see is the gallows-tree,\n With its adder-bitten root,\n And, green or dry, a man must die\n Before it bears its fruit!\n\n The loftiest place is that seat of grace\n For which all worldlings try:\n But who would stand in hempen band\n Upon a scaffold high,\n And through a murderer’s collar take\n His last look at the sky?\n\n It is sweet to dance to violins\n When Love and Life are fair:\n To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes\n Is delicate and rare:\n But it is not sweet with nimble feet\n To dance upon the air!\n\n So with curious eyes and sick surmise\n We watched him day by day,\n And wondered if each one of us\n Would end the self-same way,\n For none can tell to what red Hell\n His sightless soul may stray.\n\n At last the dead man walked no more\n Amongst the Trial Men,\n And I knew that he was standing up\n In the black dock’s dreadful pen,\n And that never would I see his face\n In God’s sweet world again.\n\n Like two doomed ships that pass in storm\n We had crossed each other’s way:\n But we made no sign, we said no word,\n We had no word to say;\n For we did not meet in the holy night,\n But in the shameful day.\n\n A prison wall was round us both,\n Two outcast men we were:\n The world had thrust us from its heart,\n And God from out His care:\n And the iron gin that waits for Sin\n Had caught us in its snare.\n\n III\n\n IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,\n And the dripping wall is high,\n So it was there he took the air\n Beneath the leaden sky,\n And by each side a Warder walked,\n For fear the man might die.\n\n Or else he sat with those who watched\n His anguish night and day;\n Who watched him when he rose to weep,\n And when he crouched to pray;\n Who watched him lest himself should rob\n Their scaffold of its prey.\n\n The Governor was strong upon\n The Regulations Act:\n The Doctor said that Death was but\n A scientific fact:\n And twice a day the Chaplain called,\n And left a little tract.\n\n And twice a day he smoked his pipe,\n And drank his quart of beer:\n His soul was resolute, and held\n No hiding-place for fear;\n He often said that he was glad\n The hangman’s hands were near.\n\n But why he said so strange a thing\n No Warder dared to ask:\n For he to whom a watcher’s doom\n Is given as his task,\n Must set a lock upon his lips,\n And make his face a mask.\n\n Or else he might be moved, and try\n To comfort or console:\n And what should Human Pity do\n Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?\n What word of grace in such a place\n Could help a brother’s soul?\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n With slouch and swing around the ring\n We trod the Fools’ Parade!\n We did not care: we knew we were\n The Devil’s Own Brigade:\n And shaven head and feet of lead\n Make a merry masquerade.\n\n We tore the tarry rope to shreds\n With blunt and bleeding nails;\n We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,\n And cleaned the shining rails:\n And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,\n And clattered with the pails.\n\n We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,\n We turned the dusty drill:\n We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,\n And sweated on the mill:\n But in the heart of every man\n Terror was lying still.\n\n So still it lay that every day\n Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:\n And we forgot the bitter lot\n That waits for fool and knave,\n Till once, as we tramped in from work,\n We passed an open grave.\n\n With yawning mouth the yellow hole\n Gaped for a living thing;\n The very mud cried out for blood\n To the thirsty asphalte ring:\n And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair\n Some prisoner had to swing.\n\n Right in we went, with soul intent\n On Death and Dread and Doom:\n The hangman, with his little bag,\n Went shuffling through the gloom:\n And each man trembled as he crept\n Into his numbered tomb.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n That night the empty corridors\n Were full of forms of Fear,\n And up and down the iron town\n Stole feet we could not hear,\n And through the bars that hide the stars\n White faces seemed to peer.\n\n He lay as one who lies and dreams\n In a pleasant meadow-land,\n The watchers watched him as he slept,\n And could not understand\n How one could sleep so sweet a sleep\n With a hangman close at hand.\n\n But there is no sleep when men must weep\n Who never yet have wept:\n So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—\n That endless vigil kept,\n And through each brain on hands of pain\n Another’s terror crept.\n\n Alas! it is a fearful thing\n To feel another’s guilt!\n For, right within, the sword of Sin\n Pierced to its poisoned hilt,\n And as molten lead were the tears we shed\n For the blood we had not spilt.\n\n The Warders with their shoes of felt\n Crept by each padlocked door,\n And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,\n Grey figures on the floor,\n And wondered why men knelt to pray\n Who never prayed before.\n\n All through the night we knelt and prayed,\n Mad mourners of a corse!\n The troubled plumes of midnight were\n The plumes upon a hearse:\n And bitter wine upon a sponge\n Was the savour of Remorse.\n\n * * * * *\n\n The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,\n But never came the day:\n And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,\n In the corners where we lay:\n And each evil sprite that walks by night\n Before us seemed to play.\n\n They glided past, they glided fast,\n Like travellers through a mist:\n They mocked the moon in a rigadoon\n Of delicate turn and twist,\n And with formal pace and loathsome grace\n The phantoms kept their tryst.\n\n With mop and mow, we saw them go,\n Slim shadows hand in hand:\n About, about, in ghostly rout\n They trod a saraband:\n And the damned grotesques made arabesques,\n Like the wind upon the sand!\n\n With the pirouettes of marionettes,\n They tripped on pointed tread:\n But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,\n As their grisly masque they led,\n And loud they sang, and long they sang,\n For they sang to wake the dead.\n\n ‘_Oho_!’ _they cried_, ‘_The world is wide_,\n _But fettered limbs go lame_!\n _And once_, _or twice_, _to throw the dice_\n _Is a gentlemanly game_,\n _But he does not win who plays with Sin_\n _In the secret House of Shame_.’\n\n No things of air these antics were,\n That frolicked with such glee:\n To men whose lives were held in gyves,\n And whose feet might not go free,\n Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,\n Most terrible to see.\n\n Around, around, they waltzed and wound;\n Some wheeled in smirking pairs;\n With the mincing step of a demirep\n Some sidled up the stairs:\n And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,\n Each helped us at our prayers.\n\n The morning wind began to moan,\n But still the night went on:\n Through its giant loom the web of gloom\n Crept till each thread was spun:\n And, as we prayed, we grew afraid\n Of the Justice of the Sun.\n\n The moaning wind went wandering round\n The weeping prison-wall:\n Till like a wheel of turning steel\n We felt the minutes crawl:\n O moaning wind! what had we done\n To have such a seneschal?\n\n At last I saw the shadowed bars,\n Like a lattice wrought in lead,\n Move right across the whitewashed wall\n That faced my three-plank bed,\n And I knew that somewhere in the world\n God’s dreadful dawn was red.\n\n At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,\n At seven all was still,\n But the sough and swing of a mighty wing\n The prison seemed to fill,\n For the Lord of Death with icy breath\n Had entered in to kill.\n\n He did not pass in purple pomp,\n Nor ride a moon-white steed.\n Three yards of cord and a sliding board\n Are all the gallows’ need:\n So with rope of shame the Herald came\n To do the secret deed.\n\n We were as men who through a fen\n Of filthy darkness grope:\n We did not dare to breathe a prayer,\n Or to give our anguish scope:\n Something was dead in each of us,\n And what was dead was Hope.\n\n For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,\n And will not swerve aside:\n It slays the weak, it slays the strong,\n It has a deadly stride:\n With iron heel it slays the strong,\n The monstrous parricide!\n\n We waited for the stroke of eight:\n Each tongue was thick with thirst:\n For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate\n That makes a man accursed,\n And Fate will use a running noose\n For the best man and the worst.\n\n We had no other thing to do,\n Save to wait for the sign to come:\n So, like things of stone in a valley lone,\n Quiet we sat and dumb:\n But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,\n Like a madman on a drum!\n\n With sudden shock the prison-clock\n Smote on the shivering air,\n And from all the gaol rose up a wail\n Of impotent despair,\n Like the sound that frightened marshes hear\n From some leper in his lair.\n\n And as one sees most fearful things\n In the crystal of a dream,\n We saw the greasy hempen rope\n Hooked to the blackened beam,\n And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare\n Strangled into a scream.\n\n And all the woe that moved him so\n That he gave that bitter cry,\n And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,\n None knew so well as I:\n For he who lives more lives than one\n More deaths than one must die.\n\n IV\n\n THERE is no chapel on the day\n On which they hang a man:\n The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,\n Or his face is far too wan,\n Or there is that written in his eyes\n Which none should look upon.\n\n So they kept us close till nigh on noon,\n And then they rang the bell,\n And the Warders with their jingling keys\n Opened each listening cell,\n And down the iron stair we tramped,\n Each from his separate Hell.\n\n Out into God’s sweet air we went,\n But not in wonted way,\n For this man’s face was white with fear,\n And that man’s face was grey,\n And I never saw sad men who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw sad men who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n We prisoners called the sky,\n And at every careless cloud that passed\n In happy freedom by.\n\n But there were those amongst us all\n Who walked with downcast head,\n And knew that, had each got his due,\n They should have died instead:\n He had but killed a thing that lived,\n Whilst they had killed the dead.\n\n For he who sins a second time\n Wakes a dead soul to pain,\n And draws it from its spotted shroud,\n And makes it bleed again,\n And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\n And makes it bleed in vain!\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb\n With crooked arrows starred,\n Silently we went round and round\n The slippery asphalte yard;\n Silently we went round and round,\n And no man spoke a word.\n\n Silently we went round and round,\n And through each hollow mind\n The Memory of dreadful things\n Rushed like a dreadful wind,\n And Horror stalked before each man,\n And Terror crept behind.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n The Warders strutted up and down,\n And kept their herd of brutes,\n Their uniforms were spick and span,\n And they wore their Sunday suits,\n But we knew the work they had been at,\n By the quicklime on their boots.\n\n For where a grave had opened wide,\n There was no grave at all:\n Only a stretch of mud and sand\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n And a little heap of burning lime,\n That the man should have his pall.\n\n For he has a pall, this wretched man,\n Such as few men can claim:\n Deep down below a prison-yard,\n Naked for greater shame,\n He lies, with fetters on each foot,\n Wrapt in a sheet of flame!\n\n And all the while the burning lime\n Eats flesh and bone away,\n It eats the brittle bone by night,\n And the soft flesh by day,\n It eats the flesh and bone by turns,\n But it eats the heart alway.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n For three long years they will not sow\n Or root or seedling there:\n For three long years the unblessed spot\n Will sterile be and bare,\n And look upon the wondering sky\n With unreproachful stare.\n\n They think a murderer’s heart would taint\n Each simple seed they sow.\n It is not true! God’s kindly earth\n Is kindlier than men know,\n And the red rose would but blow more red,\n The white rose whiter blow.\n\n Out of his mouth a red, red rose!\n Out of his heart a white!\n For who can say by what strange way,\n Christ brings His will to light,\n Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore\n Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?\n\n But neither milk-white rose nor red\n May bloom in prison-air;\n The shard, the pebble, and the flint,\n Are what they give us there:\n For flowers have been known to heal\n A common man’s despair.\n\n So never will wine-red rose or white,\n Petal by petal, fall\n On that stretch of mud and sand that lies\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n To tell the men who tramp the yard\n That God’s Son died for all.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n Yet though the hideous prison-wall\n Still hems him round and round,\n And a spirit may not walk by night\n That is with fetters bound,\n And a spirit may but weep that lies\n In such unholy ground,\n\n He is at peace—this wretched man—\n At peace, or will be soon:\n There is no thing to make him mad,\n Nor does Terror walk at noon,\n For the lampless Earth in which he lies\n Has neither Sun nor Moon.\n\n They hanged him as a beast is hanged:\n They did not even toll\n A requiem that might have brought\n Rest to his startled soul,\n But hurriedly they took him out,\n And hid him in a hole.\n\n They stripped him of his canvas clothes,\n And gave him to the flies:\n They mocked the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes:\n And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud\n In which their convict lies.\n\n The Chaplain would not kneel to pray\n By his dishonoured grave:\n Nor mark it with that blessed Cross\n That Christ for sinners gave,\n Because the man was one of those\n Whom Christ came down to save.\n\n Yet all is well; he has but passed\n To Life’s appointed bourne:\n And alien tears will fill for him\n Pity’s long-broken urn,\n For his mourners will be outcast men,\n And outcasts always mourn\n\n V\n\n I KNOW not whether Laws be right,\n Or whether Laws be wrong;\n All that we know who lie in gaol\n Is that the wall is strong;\n And that each day is like a year,\n A year whose days are long.\n\n But this I know, that every Law\n That men have made for Man,\n Since first Man took his brother’s life,\n And the sad world began,\n But straws the wheat and saves the chaff\n With a most evil fan.\n\n This too I know—and wise it were\n If each could know the same—\n That every prison that men build\n Is built with bricks of shame,\n And bound with bars lest Christ should see\n How men their brothers maim.\n\n With bars they blur the gracious moon,\n And blind the goodly sun:\n And they do well to hide their Hell,\n For in it things are done\n That Son of God nor son of Man\n Ever should look upon!\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n The vilest deeds like poison weeds,\n Bloom well in prison-air;\n It is only what is good in Man\n That wastes and withers there:\n Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,\n And the Warder is Despair.\n\n For they starve the little frightened child\n Till it weeps both night and day:\n And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,\n And gibe the old and grey,\n And some grow mad, and all grow bad,\n And none a word may say.\n\n Each narrow cell in which we dwell\n Is a foul and dark latrine,\n And the fetid breath of living Death\n Chokes up each grated screen,\n And all, but Lust, is turned to dust\n In Humanity’s machine.\n\n The brackish water that we drink\n Creeps with a loathsome slime,\n And the bitter bread they weigh in scales\n Is full of chalk and lime,\n And Sleep will not lie down, but walks\n Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n But though lean Hunger and green Thirst\n Like asp with adder fight,\n We have little care of prison fare,\n For what chills and kills outright\n Is that every stone one lifts by day\n Becomes one’s heart by night.\n\n With midnight always in one’s heart,\n And twilight in one’s cell,\n We turn the crank, or tear the rope,\n Each in his separate Hell,\n And the silence is more awful far\n Than the sound of a brazen bell.\n\n And never a human voice comes near\n To speak a gentle word:\n And the eye that watches through the door\n Is pitiless and hard:\n And by all forgot, we rot and rot,\n With soul and body marred.\n\n And thus we rust Life’s iron chain\n Degraded and alone:\n And some men curse, and some men weep,\n And some men make no moan:\n But God’s eternal Laws are kind\n And break the heart of stone.\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n And every human heart that breaks,\n In prison-cell or yard,\n Is as that broken box that gave\n Its treasure to the Lord,\n And filled the unclean leper’s house\n With the scent of costliest nard.\n\n Ah! happy they whose hearts can break\n And peace of pardon win!\n How else may man make straight his plan\n And cleanse his soul from Sin?\n How else but through a broken heart\n May Lord Christ enter in?\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n And he of the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes,\n Waits for the holy hands that took\n The Thief to Paradise;\n And a broken and a contrite heart\n The Lord will not despise.\n\n The man in red who reads the Law\n Gave him three weeks of life,\n Three little weeks in which to heal\n His soul of his soul’s strife,\n And cleanse from every blot of blood\n The hand that held the knife.\n\n And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,\n The hand that held the steel:\n For only blood can wipe out blood,\n And only tears can heal:\n And the crimson stain that was of Cain\n Became Christ’s snow-white seal.\n\n VI\n\n IN Reading gaol by Reading town\n There is a pit of shame,\n And in it lies a wretched man\n Eaten by teeth of flame,\n In a burning winding-sheet he lies,\n And his grave has got no name.\n\n And there, till Christ call forth the dead,\n In silence let him lie:\n No need to waste the foolish tear,\n Or heave the windy sigh:\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n And all men kill the thing they love,\n By all let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n\n\n\nRAVENNA\n\n\n _Newdigate Prize Poem_\n Recited in the Sheldonian Theatre\n Oxford\n June 26th, 1878\n\n * * * * *\n\n TO MY FRIEND\n GEORGE FLEMING\n AUTHOR OF\n ‘THE NILE NOVEL’ AND ‘MIRAGE’\n\n _Ravenna_, _March_ 1877\n _Oxford_, _March_ 1878\n\n\n\nRAVENNA\n\n\n I.\n\n A YEAR ago I breathed the Italian air,—\n And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,—\n These fields made golden with the flower of March,\n The throstle singing on the feathered larch,\n The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,\n The little clouds that race across the sky;\n And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head,\n The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,\n The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,\n The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire\n Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);\n And all the flowers of our English Spring,\n Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.\n Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,\n And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;\n And down the river, like a flame of blue,\n Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,\n While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.\n A year ago!—it seems a little time\n Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,\n Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,\n And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.\n Full Spring it was—and by rich flowering vines,\n Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,\n I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,\n The white road rang beneath my horse’s feet,\n And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name,\n I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,\n The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.\n\n O how my heart with boyish passion burned,\n When far away across the sedge and mere\n I saw that Holy City rising clear,\n Crowned with her crown of towers!—On and on\n I galloped, racing with the setting sun,\n And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,\n I stood within Ravenna’s walls at last!\n\n II.\n\n How strangely still! no sound of life or joy\n Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy\n Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day\n Comes the glad sound of children at their play:\n O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here\n A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,\n Watching the tide of seasons as they flow\n From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow,\n And have no thought of sorrow;—here, indeed,\n Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed\n Which makes a man forget his fatherland.\n\n Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand,\n Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,\n Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.\n For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased,\n Thy noble dead are with thee!—they at least\n Are faithful to thine honour:—guard them well,\n O childless city! for a mighty spell,\n To wake men’s hearts to dreams of things sublime,\n Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.\n\n III.\n\n Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,\n Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain,—\n The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war,\n Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star\n Led him against thy city, and he fell,\n As falls some forest-lion fighting well.\n Taken from life while life and love were new,\n He lies beneath God’s seamless veil of blue;\n Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o’er his head,\n And oleanders bloom to deeper red,\n Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.\n\n Look farther north unto that broken mound,—\n There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb\n Raised by a daughter’s hand, in lonely gloom,\n Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,\n Sleeps after all his weary conquering.\n Time hath not spared his ruin,—wind and rain\n Have broken down his stronghold; and again\n We see that Death is mighty lord of all,\n And king and clown to ashen dust must fall\n\n Mighty indeed _their_ glory! yet to me\n Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry,\n Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain,\n Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.\n His gilded shrine lies open to the air;\n And cunning sculptor’s hands have carven there\n The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,\n The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn,\n The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell,\n The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,\n The weary face of Dante;—to this day,\n Here in his place of resting, far away\n From Arno’s yellow waters, rushing down\n Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,\n Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise\n A marble lily under sapphire skies!\n\n Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain\n Of meaner lives,—the exile’s galling chain,\n How steep the stairs within kings’ houses are,\n And all the petty miseries which mar\n Man’s nobler nature with the sense of wrong.\n Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;\n Our nations do thee homage,—even she,\n That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,\n Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow,\n Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,\n And begs in vain the ashes of her son.\n\n O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done:\n Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;\n Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.\n\n IV.\n\n How lone this palace is; how grey the walls!\n No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.\n The broken chain lies rusting on the door,\n And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:\n Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run\n By the stone lions blinking in the sun.\n Byron dwelt here in love and revelry\n For two long years—a second Anthony,\n Who of the world another Actium made!\n Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade,\n Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen,\n ’Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.\n For from the East there came a mighty cry,\n And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty,\n And called him from Ravenna: never knight\n Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!\n None fell more bravely on ensanguined field,\n Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield!\n O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride,\n Thy day of might, remember him who died\n To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain:\n O Salamis! O lone Platæan plain!\n O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea!\n O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylæ!\n He loved you well—ay, not alone in word,\n Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword,\n Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon:\n\n And England, too, shall glory in her son,\n Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight.\n No longer now shall Slander’s venomed spite\n Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,\n Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.\n\n For as the olive-garland of the race,\n Which lights with joy each eager runner’s face,\n As the red cross which saveth men in war,\n As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far\n By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,—\n Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!\n\n Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green:\n Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene\n Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee,\n In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;\n The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine,\n And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.\n\n V.\n\n The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze\n With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas,\n And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;—\n I wandered through the wood in wild delight,\n Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet,\n Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet,\n Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay,\n And small birds sang on every twining spray.\n O waving trees, O forest liberty!\n Within your haunts at least a man is free,\n And half forgets the weary world of strife:\n The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life\n Wakes i’ the quickening veins, while once again\n The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.\n Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see\n Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy\n Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid\n In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade,\n The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face\n Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase,\n White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride,\n And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side!\n Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.\n\n O idle heart! O fond Hellenic dream!\n Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell,\n The evening chimes, the convent’s vesper bell,\n Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.\n Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours\n Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea,\n And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.\n\n VI.\n\n O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told\n Of thy great glories in the days of old:\n Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see\n Cæsar ride forth to royal victory.\n Mighty thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew\n From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue;\n And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,\n Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.\n Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea,\n Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!\n No longer now upon thy swelling tide,\n Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride!\n For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float,\n The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;\n And the white sheep are free to come and go\n Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.\n\n O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted!\n In ruined loveliness thou liest dead,\n Alone of all thy sisters; for at last\n Italia’s royal warrior hath passed\n Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown\n In the high temples of the Eternal Town!\n The Palatine hath welcomed back her king,\n And with his name the seven mountains ring!\n\n And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain,\n And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again,\n New risen from the waters! and the cry\n Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,\n Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where\n The marble spires of Milan wound the air,\n Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,\n And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more.\n\n But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all,\n Thy ruined palaces are but a pall\n That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name\n Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame\n Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun\n Of new Italia! for the night is done,\n The night of dark oppression, and the day\n Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away\n The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land,\n Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand\n Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy,\n From the far West unto the Eastern sea.\n\n I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died\n In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side\n Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,—\n Nor have thy children died for thee in vain:\n And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine\n From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,\n Thou hast not followed that immortal Star\n Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.\n Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,\n As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,\n Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,\n Mourning some day of glory, for the sun\n Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,\n And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.\n\n Yet wake not from thy slumbers,—rest thee well,\n Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel,\n Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there,\n To mock all human greatness: who would dare\n To vent the paltry sorrows of his life\n Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife\n Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride\n Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride\n Of the wild Lord of Adria’s stormy sea!\n The Queen of double Empires! and to thee\n Were not the nations given as thy prey!\n And now—thy gates lie open night and day,\n The grass grows green on every tower and hall,\n The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;\n And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest\n The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.\n O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,\n O city trammelled in the toils of Fate,\n Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,\n But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!\n\n Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears,\n From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;\n Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring,\n Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?\n Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose\n To crimson splendour from its grave of snows;\n As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold\n From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold;\n As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!\n\n O much-loved city! I have wandered far\n From the wave-circled islands of my home;\n Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome\n Rise slowly from the drear Campagna’s way,\n Clothed in the royal purple of the day:\n I from the city of the violet crown\n Have watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down,\n And marked the ‘myriad laughter’ of the sea\n From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady;\n Yet back to thee returns my perfect love,\n As to its forest-nest the evening dove.\n\n O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen\n Some twenty summers cast their doublets green\n For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain\n To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,\n Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed\n Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed,\n Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky,\n And flame across the heavens! and to try\n Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know\n That never felt my heart a nobler glow\n Than when I woke the silence of thy street\n With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet,\n And saw the city which now I try to sing,\n After long days of weary travelling.\n\n VII.\n\n Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago,\n I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow\n From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:\n The sky was as a shield that caught the stain\n Of blood and battle from the dying sun,\n And in the west the circling clouds had spun\n A royal robe, which some great God might wear,\n While into ocean-seas of purple air\n Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.\n\n Yet here the gentle stillness of the night\n Brings back the swelling tide of memory,\n And wakes again my passionate love for thee:\n Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come\n On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom;\n And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow,\n And send up lilies for some boy to mow.\n Then before long the Summer’s conqueror,\n Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer,\n Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,\n And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;\n And after that the Winter cold and drear.\n So runs the perfect cycle of the year.\n And so from youth to manhood do we go,\n And fall to weary days and locks of snow.\n Love only knows no winter; never dies:\n Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies\n And mine for thee shall never pass away,\n Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.\n\n Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star,\n The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar,\n And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.\n Perchance before our inland seas of gold\n Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves,\n Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,\n I may behold thy city; and lay down\n Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown.\n\n Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon,\n Which turns our midnight into perfect noon,\n Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well\n Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Printed by T. and A. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde, by Oscar\nWilde, Edited by Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde\n including The Ballad of Reading Gaol\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: Robert Ross\n\nRelease Date: September 27, 2014 [eBook #1141]\n[This file was first posted on November 21, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS OF OSCAR WILDE***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1911 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n SELECTED POEMS\n OF OSCAR WILDE\n\n\n INCLUDING\n\n THE BALLAD OF\n READING GAOL\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n * * * * *\n\n_This Volume was First _August 17th_, _1911_\nPublished_\n_Second Edition_ _August_ _1911_\n_Third Edition_ _September_ _1911_\n\n * * * * *\n\n‘_The Ballad of Reading Goal_’ _was first published by Leonard Smithers_,\n_February 13th_, _1898_. _Second Edition_, _February_, _1898_. _Third\nEdition_, _March 1898_. _Fourth Edition_, _March 1898_. _Fifth\nEdition_, _March 1898_. _Sixth Edition_, _1898_. _Seventh Edition_,\n_1899_. _Eighth and Cheaper Edition_ (_1s. net_). _Methuen & Co._,\n_Ltd._, _August 1910_. _Ninth Edition_, _September 1910_. ‘_The Ballad\nof Reading Goal_’ _was published anonymously under the signature of C. 3.\n3_. _The author’s name first appeared on the title-page of the Seventh\nEdition_. _It was included in the Collected Edition of the author’s\nPoems published by Messrs. Methuen in 1908 and 1909_.\n\n * * * * *\n\n_Wilde’s Poems were first published in volume form in 1881_, _and were\nreprinted four times before the end of 1882_. _A new edition with\nadditional poems_, _including Ravenna_, _The Sphinx_, _and The Ballad of\nReading Gaol_, _was first published_ (_limited issues on hand-made paper\nand Japanese vellum_) _by Methuen & Co. in March 1908_. _A further\nedition_ (_making the seventh_) _with some omissions from the issue of\n1908_, _but including two new poems_, _was published in September 1909_.\n_Eighth Edition_, _November 1909_. _Ninth Edition_, _December 1909_.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nIT is thought that a selection from Oscar Wilde’s early verses may be of\ninterest to a large public at present familiar only with the always\npopular _Ballad of Reading Gaol_, also included in this volume. The\npoems were first collected by their author when he was twenty-sex years\nold, and though never, until recently, well received by the critics, have\nsurvived the test of NINE editions. Readers will be able to make for\nthemselves the obvious and striking contrasts between these first and\nlast phases of Oscar Wilde’s literary activity. The intervening period\nwas devoted almost entirely to dramas, prose, fiction, essays, and\ncriticism.\n\n ROBERT ROSS\n\nREFORM CLUB,\n _April_ 5, 1911.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nPREFACE v\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (_Complete Version_) 1\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (_Shorter Version_) 61\nAVE IMPERATRIX 89\nTO MY WIFE (WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS) 100\nMAGDALEN WALKS 102\nTHEOCRITUS—A VILLANELLE 106\nSONNETS—\n GREECE 108\n PORTIA (TO ELLEN TERRY) 110\n FABIEN DEI FRANCHI (TO HENRY IRVING) 112\n PHÈDRE (TO SARAH BERNHARDT) 114\n ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE 116\n SISTINE CHAPEL\n AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA 118\n LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES 120\n ROSES AND RUE 122\n FROM ‘THE GARDEN OF EROS’ 128\n THE HARLOT’S HOUSE 140\n FROM ‘THE BURDEN OF ITYS’ 144\n FLOWER OF LOVE 158\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nAT the end of the complete text will be found a shorter version based on\nthe original draft of the poem. This is included for the benefit of\nreciters and their audiences who have found the entire poem too long for\ndeclamation. I have tried to obviate a difficulty, without officiously\nexercising the ungrateful prerogatives of a literary executor, by falling\nback on a text which represents the author’s first scheme for a\npoem—never intended of course for recitation.\n\n ROBERT ROSS\n\n * * * * *\n\n IN MEMORIAM\n C. T. W.\n Sometimes trooper of\n The Royal Horse Guards\n Obiit H.M. Prison\n Reading, Berkshire\n July 7th, 1896\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL\n\n\n I\n\n HE did not wear his scarlet coat,\n For blood and wine are red,\n And blood and wine were on his hands\n When they found him with the dead,\n The poor dead woman whom he loved,\n And murdered in her bed.\n\n He walked amongst the Trial Men\n In a suit of shabby grey;\n A cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay;\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every drifting cloud that went\n With sails of silver by.\n\n I walked, with other souls in pain,\n Within another ring,\n And was wondering if the man had done\n A great or little thing,\n When a voice behind me whispered low,\n ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’\n\n Dear Christ! the very prison walls\n Suddenly seemed to reel,\n And the sky above my head became\n Like a casque of scorching steel;\n And, though I was a soul in pain,\n My pain I could not feel.\n\n I only knew what hunted thought\n Quickened his step, and why\n He looked upon the garish day\n With such a wistful eye;\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n Yet each man kills the thing he loves,\n By each let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n Some kill their love when they are young,\n And some when they are old;\n Some strangle with the hands of Lust,\n Some with the hands of Gold:\n The kindest use a knife, because\n The dead so soon grow cold.\n\n Some love too little, some too long,\n Some sell, and others buy;\n Some do the deed with many tears,\n And some without a sigh:\n For each man kills the thing he loves,\n Yet each man does not die.\n\n He does not die a death of shame\n On a day of dark disgrace,\n Nor have a noose about his neck,\n Nor a cloth upon his face,\n Nor drop feet foremost through the floor\n Into an empty space.\n\n He does not sit with silent men\n Who watch him night and day;\n Who watch him when he tries to weep,\n And when he tries to pray;\n Who watch him lest himself should rob\n The prison of its prey.\n\n He does not wake at dawn to see\n Dread figures throng his room,\n The shivering Chaplain robed in white,\n The Sheriff stern with gloom,\n And the Governor all in shiny black,\n With the yellow face of Doom.\n\n He does not rise in piteous haste\n To put on convict-clothes,\n While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes\n Each new and nerve-twitched pose,\n Fingering a watch whose little ticks\n Are like horrible hammer-blows.\n\n He does not know that sickening thirst\n That sands one’s throat, before\n The hangman with his gardener’s gloves\n Slips through the padded door,\n And binds one with three leathern thongs,\n That the throat may thirst no more.\n\n He does not bend his head to hear\n The Burial Office read,\n Nor, while the terror of his soul\n Tells him he is not dead,\n Cross his own coffin, as he moves\n Into the hideous shed.\n\n He does not stare upon the air\n Through a little roof of glass:\n He does not pray with lips of clay\n For his agony to pass;\n Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek\n The kiss of Caiaphas.\n\n II\n\n SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard,\n In the suit of shabby grey:\n His cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay,\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every wandering cloud that trailed\n Its ravelled fleeces by.\n\n He did not wring his hands, as do\n Those witless men who dare\n To try to rear the changeling Hope\n In the cave of black Despair:\n He only looked upon the sun,\n And drank the morning air.\n\n He did not wring his hands nor weep,\n Nor did he peek or pine,\n But he drank the air as though it held\n Some healthful anodyne;\n With open mouth he drank the sun\n As though it had been wine!\n\n And I and all the souls in pain,\n Who tramped the other ring,\n Forgot if we ourselves had done\n A great or little thing,\n And watched with gaze of dull amaze\n The man who had to swing.\n\n And strange it was to see him pass\n With a step so light and gay,\n And strange it was to see him look\n So wistfully at the day,\n And strange it was to think that he\n Had such a debt to pay.\n\n For oak and elm have pleasant leaves\n That in the springtime shoot:\n But grim to see is the gallows-tree,\n With its adder-bitten root,\n And, green or dry, a man must die\n Before it bears its fruit!\n\n The loftiest place is that seat of grace\n For which all worldlings try:\n But who would stand in hempen band\n Upon a scaffold high,\n And through a murderer’s collar take\n His last look at the sky?\n\n It is sweet to dance to violins\n When Love and Life are fair:\n To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes\n Is delicate and rare:\n But it is not sweet with nimble feet\n To dance upon the air!\n\n So with curious eyes and sick surmise\n We watched him day by day,\n And wondered if each one of us\n Would end the self-same way,\n For none can tell to what red Hell\n His sightless soul may stray.\n\n At last the dead man walked no more\n Amongst the Trial Men,\n And I knew that he was standing up\n In the black dock’s dreadful pen,\n And that never would I see his face\n In God’s sweet world again.\n\n Like two doomed ships that pass in storm\n We had crossed each other’s way:\n But we made no sign, we said no word,\n We had no word to say;\n For we did not meet in the holy night,\n But in the shameful day.\n\n A prison wall was round us both,\n Two outcast men we were:\n The world had thrust us from its heart,\n And God from out His care:\n And the iron gin that waits for Sin\n Had caught us in its snare.\n\n III\n\n IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,\n And the dripping wall is high,\n So it was there he took the air\n Beneath the leaden sky,\n And by each side a Warder walked,\n For fear the man might die.\n\n Or else he sat with those who watched\n His anguish night and day;\n Who watched him when he rose to weep,\n And when he crouched to pray;\n Who watched him lest himself should rob\n Their scaffold of its prey.\n\n The Governor was strong upon\n The Regulations Act:\n The Doctor said that Death was but\n A scientific fact:\n And twice a day the Chaplain called,\n And left a little tract.\n\n And twice a day he smoked his pipe,\n And drank his quart of beer:\n His soul was resolute, and held\n No hiding-place for fear;\n He often said that he was glad\n The hangman’s hands were near.\n\n But why he said so strange a thing\n No Warder dared to ask:\n For he to whom a watcher’s doom\n Is given as his task,\n Must set a lock upon his lips,\n And make his face a mask.\n\n Or else he might be moved, and try\n To comfort or console:\n And what should Human Pity do\n Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?\n What word of grace in such a place\n Could help a brother’s soul?\n\n With slouch and swing around the ring\n We trod the Fools’ Parade!\n We did not care: we knew we were\n The Devil’s Own Brigade:\n And shaven head and feet of lead\n Make a merry masquerade.\n\n We tore the tarry rope to shreds\n With blunt and bleeding nails;\n We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,\n And cleaned the shining rails:\n And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,\n And clattered with the pails.\n\n We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,\n We turned the dusty drill:\n We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,\n And sweated on the mill:\n But in the heart of every man\n Terror was lying still.\n\n So still it lay that every day\n Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:\n And we forgot the bitter lot\n That waits for fool and knave,\n Till once, as we tramped in from work,\n We passed an open grave.\n\n With yawning mouth the yellow hole\n Gaped for a living thing;\n The very mud cried out for blood\n To the thirsty asphalte ring:\n And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair\n Some prisoner had to swing.\n\n Right in we went, with soul intent\n On Death and Dread and Doom:\n The hangman, with his little bag,\n Went shuffling through the gloom:\n And each man trembled as he crept\n Into his numbered tomb.\n\n That night the empty corridors\n Were full of forms of Fear,\n And up and down the iron town\n Stole feet we could not hear,\n And through the bars that hide the stars\n White faces seemed to peer.\n\n He lay as one who lies and dreams\n In a pleasant meadow-land,\n The watchers watched him as he slept,\n And could not understand\n How one could sleep so sweet a sleep\n With a hangman close at hand.\n\n But there is no sleep when men must weep\n Who never yet have wept:\n So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—\n That endless vigil kept,\n And through each brain on hands of pain\n Another’s terror crept.\n\n Alas! it is a fearful thing\n To feel another’s guilt!\n For, right within, the sword of Sin\n Pierced to its poisoned hilt,\n And as molten lead were the tears we shed\n For the blood we had not spilt.\n\n The Warders with their shoes of felt\n Crept by each padlocked door,\n And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,\n Grey figures on the floor,\n And wondered why men knelt to pray\n Who never prayed before.\n\n All through the night we knelt and prayed,\n Mad mourners of a corse!\n The troubled plumes of midnight were\n The plumes upon a hearse:\n And bitter wine upon a sponge\n Was the savour of Remorse.\n\n The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,\n But never came the day:\n And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,\n In the corners where we lay:\n And each evil sprite that walks by night\n Before us seemed to play.\n\n They glided past, they glided fast,\n Like travellers through a mist:\n They mocked the moon in a rigadoon\n Of delicate turn and twist,\n And with formal pace and loathsome grace\n The phantoms kept their tryst.\n\n With mop and mow, we saw them go,\n Slim shadows hand in hand:\n About, about, in ghostly rout\n They trod a saraband:\n And the damned grotesques made arabesques,\n Like the wind upon the sand!\n\n With the pirouettes of marionettes,\n They tripped on pointed tread:\n But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,\n As their grisly masque they led,\n And loud they sang, and long they sang,\n For they sang to wake the dead.\n\n ‘Oho!’ they cried, ‘The world is wide,\n But fettered limbs go lame!\n And once, or twice, to throw the dice\n Is a gentlemanly game,\n But he does not win who plays with Sin\n In the secret House of Shame.’\n\n No things of air these antics were,\n That frolicked with such glee:\n To men whose lives were held in gyves,\n And whose feet might not go free,\n Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,\n Most terrible to see.\n\n Around, around, they waltzed and wound;\n Some wheeled in smirking pairs;\n With the mincing step of a demirep\n Some sidled up the stairs:\n And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,\n Each helped us at our prayers.\n\n The morning wind began to moan,\n But still the night went on:\n Through its giant loom the web of gloom\n Crept till each thread was spun:\n And, as we prayed, we grew afraid\n Of the Justice of the Sun.\n\n The moaning wind went wandering round\n The weeping prison-wall:\n Till like a wheel of turning steel\n We felt the minutes crawl:\n O moaning wind! what had we done\n To have such a seneschal?\n\n At last I saw the shadowed bars,\n Like a lattice wrought in lead,\n Move right across the whitewashed wall\n That faced my three-plank bed,\n And I knew that somewhere in the world\n God’s dreadful dawn was red.\n\n At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,\n At seven all was still,\n But the sough and swing of a mighty wing\n The prison seemed to fill,\n For the Lord of Death with icy breath\n Had entered in to kill.\n\n He did not pass in purple pomp,\n Nor ride a moon-white steed.\n Three yards of cord and a sliding board\n Are all the gallows’ need:\n So with rope of shame the Herald came\n To do the secret deed.\n\n We were as men who through a fen\n Of filthy darkness grope:\n We did not dare to breathe a prayer,\n Or to give our anguish scope:\n Something was dead in each of us,\n And what was dead was Hope.\n\n For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,\n And will not swerve aside:\n It slays the weak, it slays the strong,\n It has a deadly stride:\n With iron heel it slays the strong,\n The monstrous parricide!\n\n We waited for the stroke of eight:\n Each tongue was thick with thirst:\n For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate\n That makes a man accursed,\n And Fate will use a running noose\n For the best man and the worst.\n\n We had no other thing to do,\n Save to wait for the sign to come:\n So, like things of stone in a valley lone,\n Quiet we sat and dumb:\n But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,\n Like a madman on a drum!\n\n With sudden shock the prison-clock\n Smote on the shivering air,\n And from all the gaol rose up a wail\n Of impotent despair,\n Like the sound that frightened marshes hear\n From some leper in his lair.\n\n And as one sees most fearful things\n In the crystal of a dream,\n We saw the greasy hempen rope\n Hooked to the blackened beam,\n And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare\n Strangled into a scream.\n\n And all the woe that moved him so\n That he gave that bitter cry,\n And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,\n None knew so well as I:\n For he who lives more lives than one\n More deaths than one must die.\n\n IV\n\n THERE is no chapel on the day\n On which they hang a man:\n The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,\n Or his face is far too wan,\n Or there is that written in his eyes\n Which none should look upon.\n\n So they kept us close till nigh on noon,\n And then they rang the bell,\n And the Warders with their jingling keys\n Opened each listening cell,\n And down the iron stair we tramped,\n Each from his separate Hell.\n\n Out into God’s sweet air we went,\n But not in wonted way,\n For this man’s face was white with fear,\n And that man’s face was grey,\n And I never saw sad men who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw sad men who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n We prisoners called the sky,\n And at every careless cloud that passed\n In happy freedom by.\n\n But there were those amongst us all\n Who walked with downcast head,\n And knew that, had each got his due,\n They should have died instead:\n He had but killed a thing that lived,\n Whilst they had killed the dead.\n\n For he who sins a second time\n Wakes a dead soul to pain,\n And draws it from its spotted shroud,\n And makes it bleed again,\n And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\n And makes it bleed in vain!\n\n Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb\n With crooked arrows starred,\n Silently we went round and round\n The slippery asphalte yard;\n Silently we went round and round,\n And no man spoke a word.\n\n Silently we went round and round,\n And through each hollow mind\n The Memory of dreadful things\n Rushed like a dreadful wind,\n And Horror stalked before each man,\n And Terror crept behind.\n\n The Warders strutted up and down,\n And kept their herd of brutes,\n Their uniforms were spick and span,\n And they wore their Sunday suits,\n But we knew the work they had been at,\n By the quicklime on their boots.\n\n For where a grave had opened wide,\n There was no grave at all:\n Only a stretch of mud and sand\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n And a little heap of burning lime,\n That the man should have his pall.\n\n For he has a pall, this wretched man,\n Such as few men can claim:\n Deep down below a prison-yard,\n Naked for greater shame,\n He lies, with fetters on each foot,\n Wrapt in a sheet of flame!\n\n And all the while the burning lime\n Eats flesh and bone away,\n It eats the brittle bone by night,\n And the soft flesh by day,\n It eats the flesh and bone by turns,\n But it eats the heart alway.\n\n For three long years they will not sow\n Or root or seedling there:\n For three long years the unblessed spot\n Will sterile be and bare,\n And look upon the wondering sky\n With unreproachful stare.\n\n They think a murderer’s heart would taint\n Each simple seed they sow.\n It is not true! God’s kindly earth\n Is kindlier than men know,\n And the red rose would but blow more red,\n The white rose whiter blow.\n\n Out of his mouth a red, red rose!\n Out of his heart a white!\n For who can say by what strange way,\n Christ brings His will to light,\n Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore\n Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?\n\n But neither milk-white rose nor red\n May bloom in prison-air;\n The shard, the pebble, and the flint,\n Are what they give us there:\n For flowers have been known to heal\n A common man’s despair.\n\n So never will wine-red rose or white,\n Petal by petal, fall\n On that stretch of mud and sand that lies\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n To tell the men who tramp the yard\n That God’s Son died for all.\n\n Yet though the hideous prison-wall\n Still hems him round and round,\n And a spirit may not walk by night\n That is with fetters bound,\n And a spirit may but weep that lies\n In such unholy ground,\n\n He is at peace—this wretched man—\n At peace, or will be soon:\n There is no thing to make him mad,\n Nor does Terror walk at noon,\n For the lampless Earth in which he lies\n Has neither Sun nor Moon.\n\n They hanged him as a beast is hanged:\n They did not even toll\n A requiem that might have brought\n Rest to his startled soul,\n But hurriedly they took him out,\n And hid him in a hole.\n\n They stripped him of his canvas clothes,\n And gave him to the flies:\n They mocked the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes:\n And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud\n In which their convict lies.\n\n The Chaplain would not kneel to pray\n By his dishonoured grave:\n Nor mark it with that blessed Cross\n That Christ for sinners gave,\n Because the man was one of those\n Whom Christ came down to save.\n\n Yet all is well; he has but passed\n To Life’s appointed bourne:\n And alien tears will fill for him\n Pity’s long-broken urn,\n For his mourners will be outcast men,\n And outcasts always mourn\n\n V\n\n I KNOW not whether Laws be right,\n Or whether Laws be wrong;\n All that we know who lie in gaol\n Is that the wall is strong;\n And that each day is like a year,\n A year whose days are long.\n\n But this I know, that every Law\n That men have made for Man,\n Since first Man took his brother’s life,\n And the sad world began,\n But straws the wheat and saves the chaff\n With a most evil fan.\n\n This too I know—and wise it were\n If each could know the same—\n That every prison that men build\n Is built with bricks of shame,\n And bound with bars lest Christ should see\n How men their brothers maim.\n\n With bars they blur the gracious moon,\n And blind the goodly sun:\n And they do well to hide their Hell,\n For in it things are done\n That Son of God nor son of Man\n Ever should look upon!\n\n The vilest deeds like poison weeds,\n Bloom well in prison-air;\n It is only what is good in Man\n That wastes and withers there:\n Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,\n And the Warder is Despair.\n\n For they starve the little frightened child\n Till it weeps both night and day:\n And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,\n And gibe the old and grey,\n And some grow mad, and all grow bad,\n And none a word may say.\n\n Each narrow cell in which we dwell\n Is a foul and dark latrine,\n And the fetid breath of living Death\n Chokes up each grated screen,\n And all, but Lust, is turned to dust\n In Humanity’s machine.\n\n The brackish water that we drink\n Creeps with a loathsome slime,\n And the bitter bread they weigh in scales\n Is full of chalk and lime,\n And Sleep will not lie down, but walks\n Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.\n\n But though lean Hunger and green Thirst\n Like asp with adder fight,\n We have little care of prison fare,\n For what chills and kills outright\n Is that every stone one lifts by day\n Becomes one’s heart by night.\n\n With midnight always in one’s heart,\n And twilight in one’s cell,\n We turn the crank, or tear the rope,\n Each in his separate Hell,\n And the silence is more awful far\n Than the sound of a brazen bell.\n\n And never a human voice comes near\n To speak a gentle word:\n And the eye that watches through the door\n Is pitiless and hard:\n And by all forgot, we rot and rot,\n With soul and body marred.\n\n And thus we rust Life’s iron chain\n Degraded and alone:\n And some men curse, and some men weep,\n And some men make no moan:\n But God’s eternal Laws are kind\n And break the heart of stone.\n\n And every human heart that breaks,\n In prison-cell or yard,\n Is as that broken box that gave\n Its treasure to the Lord,\n And filled the unclean leper’s house\n With the scent of costliest nard.\n\n Ah! happy they whose hearts can break\n And peace of pardon win!\n How else may man make straight his plan\n And cleanse his soul from Sin?\n How else but through a broken heart\n May Lord Christ enter in?\n\n And he of the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes,\n Waits for the holy hands that took\n The Thief to Paradise;\n And a broken and a contrite heart\n The Lord will not despise.\n\n The man in red who reads the Law\n Gave him three weeks of life,\n Three little weeks in which to heal\n His soul of his soul’s strife,\n And cleanse from every blot of blood\n The hand that held the knife.\n\n And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,\n The hand that held the steel:\n For only blood can wipe out blood,\n And only tears can heal:\n And the crimson stain that was of Cain\n Became Christ’s snow-white seal.\n\n VI\n\n IN Reading gaol by Reading town\n There is a pit of shame,\n And in it lies a wretched man\n Eaten by teeth of flame,\n In a burning winding-sheet he lies,\n And his grave has got no name.\n\n And there, till Christ call forth the dead,\n In silence let him lie:\n No need to waste the foolish tear,\n Or heave the windy sigh:\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n And all men kill the thing they love,\n By all let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL\n\n\n A VERSION BASED ON THE ORIGINAL DRAFT OF THE POEM\n\n I\n\n HE did not wear his scarlet coat,\n For blood and wine are red,\n And blood and wine were on his hands\n When they found him with the dead,\n The poor dead woman whom he loved,\n And murdered in her bed.\n\n He walked amongst the Trial Men\n In a suit of shabby grey;\n A cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay;\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every drifting cloud that went\n With sails of silver by.\n\n I walked, with other souls in pain,\n Within another ring,\n And was wondering if the man had done\n A great or little thing,\n When a voice behind me whispered low,\n ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’\n\n Dear Christ! the very prison walls\n Suddenly seemed to reel,\n And the sky above my head became\n Like a casque of scorching steel;\n And, though I was a soul in pain,\n My pain I could not feel.\n\n I only knew what hunted thought\n Quickened his step, and why\n He looked upon the garish day\n With such a wistful eye;\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n Yet each man kills the thing he loves,\n By each let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n Some kill their love when they are young,\n And some when they are old;\n Some strangle with the hands of Lust,\n Some with the hands of Gold:\n The kindest use a knife, because\n The dead so soon grow cold.\n\n Some love too little, some too long,\n Some sell, and others buy;\n Some do the deed with many tears,\n And some without a sigh:\n For each man kills the thing he loves,\n Yet each man does not die.\n\n He does not die a death of shame\n On a day of dark disgrace,\n Nor have a noose about his neck,\n Nor a cloth upon his face,\n Nor drop feet foremost through the floor\n Into an empty space.\n\n He does not wake at dawn to see\n Dread figures throng his room,\n The shivering Chaplain robed in white,\n The Sheriff stern with gloom,\n And the Governor all in shiny black,\n With the yellow face of Doom.\n\n He does not rise in piteous haste\n To put on convict-clothes,\n While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes\n Each new and nerve-twitched pose,\n Fingering a watch whose little ticks\n Are like horrible hammer-blows.\n\n He does not know that sickening thirst\n That sands one’s throat, before\n The hangman with his gardener’s gloves\n Slips through the padded door,\n And binds one with three leathern thongs,\n That the throat may thirst no more.\n\n He does not bend his head to hear\n The Burial Office read,\n Nor, while the terror of his soul\n Tells him he is not dead,\n Cross his own coffin, as he moves\n Into the hideous shed.\n\n He does not stare upon the air\n Through a little roof of glass:\n He does not pray with lips of clay\n For his agony to pass;\n Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek\n The kiss of Caiaphas.\n\n II\n\n SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard,\n In the suit of shabby grey:\n His cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay,\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n He did not wring his hands nor weep,\n Nor did he peek or pine,\n But he drank the air as though it held\n Some healthful anodyne;\n With open mouth he drank the sun\n As though it had been wine!\n\n And I and all the souls in pain,\n Who tramped the other ring,\n Forgot if we ourselves had done\n A great or little thing,\n And watched with gaze of dull amaze\n The man who had to swing.\n\n So with curious eyes and sick surmise\n We watched him day by day,\n And wondered if each one of us\n Would end the self-same way,\n For none can tell to what red Hell\n His sightless soul may stray.\n\n At last the dead man walked no more\n Amongst the Trial Men,\n And I knew that he was standing up\n In the black dock’s dreadful pen,\n And that never would I see his face\n In God’s sweet world again.\n\n Like two doomed ships that pass in storm\n We had crossed each other’s way:\n But we made no sign, we said no word,\n We had no word to say;\n For we did not meet in the holy night,\n But in the shameful day.\n\n A prison wall was round us both,\n Two outcast men we were:\n The world had thrust us from its heart,\n And God from out His care:\n And the iron gin that waits for Sin\n Had caught us in its snare.\n\n III\n\n IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,\n And the dripping wall is high,\n So it was there he took the air\n Beneath the leaden sky,\n And by each side a Warder walked,\n For fear the man might die.\n\n Or else he sat with those who watched\n His anguish night and day;\n Who watched him when he rose to weep,\n And when he crouched to pray;\n Who watched him lest himself should rob\n Their scaffold of its prey.\n\n And twice a day he smoked his pipe,\n And drank his quart of beer:\n His soul was resolute, and held\n No hiding-place for fear;\n He often said that he was glad\n The hangman’s hands were near.\n\n But why he said so strange a thing\n No Warder dared to ask:\n For he to whom a watcher’s doom\n Is given as his task,\n Must set a lock upon his lips,\n And make his face a mask.\n\n With slouch and swing around the ring\n We trod the Fools’ Parade!\n We did not care: we knew we were\n The Devil’s Own Brigade:\n And shaven head and feet of lead\n Make a merry masquerade.\n\n We tore the tarry rope to shreds\n With blunt and bleeding nails;\n We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,\n And cleaned the shining rails:\n And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,\n And clattered with the pails.\n\n We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,\n We turned the dusty drill:\n We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,\n And sweated on the mill:\n But in the heart of every man\n Terror was lying still.\n\n So still it lay that every day\n Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:\n And we forgot the bitter lot\n That waits for fool and knave,\n Till once, as we tramped in from work,\n We passed an open grave.\n\n Right in we went, with soul intent\n On Death and Dread and Doom:\n The hangman, with his little bag,\n Went shuffling through the gloom:\n And each man trembled as he crept\n Into his numbered tomb.\n\n That night the empty corridors\n Were full of forms of Fear,\n And up and down the iron town\n Stole feet we could not hear,\n And through the bars that hide the stars\n White faces seemed to peer.\n\n But there is no sleep when men must weep\n Who never yet have wept:\n So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—\n That endless vigil kept,\n And through each brain on hands of pain\n Another’s terror crept.\n\n Alas! it is a fearful thing\n To feel another’s guilt!\n For, right within, the sword of Sin\n Pierced to its poisoned hilt,\n And as molten lead were the tears we shed\n For the blood we had not spilt.\n\n The Warders with their shoes of felt\n Crept by each padlocked door,\n And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,\n Grey figures on the floor,\n And wondered why men knelt to pray\n Who never prayed before.\n\n The morning wind began to moan,\n But still the night went on:\n Through its giant loom the web of gloom\n Crept till each thread was spun:\n And, as we prayed, we grew afraid\n Of the Justice of the Sun.\n\n At last I saw the shadowed bars,\n Like a lattice wrought in lead,\n Move right across the whitewashed wall\n That faced my three-plank bed,\n And I knew that somewhere in the world\n God’s dreadful dawn was red.\n\n At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,\n At seven all was still,\n But the sough and swing of a mighty wing\n The prison seemed to fill,\n For the Lord of Death with icy breath\n Had entered in to kill.\n\n He did not pass in purple pomp,\n Nor ride a moon-white steed.\n Three yards of cord and a sliding board\n Are all the gallows’ need:\n So with rope of shame the Herald came\n To do the secret deed.\n\n We waited for the stroke of eight:\n Each tongue was thick with thirst:\n For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate\n That makes a man accursed,\n And Fate will use a running noose\n For the best man and the worst.\n\n We had no other thing to do,\n Save to wait for the sign to come:\n So, like things of stone in a valley lone,\n Quiet we sat and dumb:\n But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,\n Like a madman on a drum!\n\n With sudden shock the prison-clock\n Smote on the shivering air,\n And from all the gaol rose up a wail\n Of impotent despair,\n Like the sound that frightened marshes hear\n From some leper in his lair.\n\n And as one sees most fearful things\n In the crystal of a dream,\n We saw the greasy hempen rope\n Hooked to the blackened beam,\n And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare\n Strangled into a scream.\n\n And all the woe that moved him so\n That he gave that bitter cry,\n And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,\n None knew so well as I:\n For he who lives more lives than one\n More deaths than one must die.\n\n IV\n\n THERE is no chapel on the day\n On which they hang a man:\n The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,\n Or his face is far too wan,\n Or there is that written in his eyes\n Which none should look upon.\n\n So they kept us close till nigh on noon,\n And then they rang the bell,\n And the Warders with their jingling keys\n Opened each listening cell,\n And down the iron stair we tramped,\n Each from his separate Hell.\n\n Out into God’s sweet air we went,\n But not in wonted way,\n For this man’s face was white with fear,\n And that man’s face was grey,\n And I never saw sad men who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw sad men who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n We prisoners called the sky,\n And at every careless cloud that passed\n In happy freedom by.\n\n But there were those amongst us all\n Who walked with downcast head,\n And knew that, had each got his due,\n They should have died instead:\n He had but killed a thing that lived,\n Whilst they had killed the dead.\n\n For he who sins a second time\n Wakes a dead soul to pain,\n And draws it from its spotted shroud,\n And makes it bleed again,\n And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\n And makes it bleed in vain!\n\n Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb\n With crooked arrows starred,\n Silently we went round and round\n The slippery asphalte yard;\n Silently we went round and round,\n And no man spoke a word.\n\n Silently we went round and round,\n And through each hollow mind\n The Memory of dreadful things\n Rushed like a dreadful wind,\n And Horror stalked before each man,\n And Terror crept behind.\n\n The Warders strutted up and down,\n And kept their herd of brutes,\n Their uniforms were spick and span,\n And they wore their Sunday suits,\n But we knew the work they had been at,\n By the quicklime on their boots.\n\n For where a grave had opened wide,\n There was no grave at all:\n Only a stretch of mud and sand\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n And a little heap of burning lime,\n That the man should have his pall.\n\n For he has a pall, this wretched man,\n Such as few men can claim:\n Deep down below a prison-yard,\n Naked for greater shame,\n He lies, with fetters on each foot,\n Wrapt in a sheet of flame!\n\n For three long years they will not sow\n Or root or seedling there:\n For three long years the unblessed spot\n Will sterile be and bare,\n And look upon the wondering sky\n With unreproachful stare.\n\n They think a murderer’s heart would taint\n Each simple seed they sow.\n It is not true! God’s kindly earth\n Is kindlier than men know,\n And the red rose would but blow more red,\n The white rose whiter blow.\n\n Out of his mouth a red, red rose!\n Out of his heart a white!\n For who can say by what strange way,\n Christ brings His will to light,\n Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore\n Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?\n\n But neither milk-white rose nor red\n May bloom in prison-air;\n The shard, the pebble, and the flint,\n Are what they give us there:\n For flowers have been known to heal\n A common man’s despair.\n\n So never will wine-red rose or white,\n Petal by petal, fall\n On that stretch of mud and sand that lies\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n To tell the men who tramp the yard\n That God’s Son died for all.\n\n He is at peace—this wretched man—\n At peace, or will be soon:\n There is no thing to make him mad,\n Nor does Terror walk at noon,\n For the lampless Earth in which he lies\n Has neither Sun nor Moon.\n\n The Chaplain would not kneel to pray\n By his dishonoured grave:\n Nor mark it with that blessed Cross\n That Christ for sinners gave,\n Because the man was one of those\n Whom Christ came down to save.\n\n Yet all is well; he has but passed\n To Life’s appointed bourne:\n And alien tears will fill for him\n Pity’s long-broken urn,\n For his mourners will be outcast men,\n And outcasts always mourn.\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS\nAVE IMPERATRIX\n\n\n SET in this stormy Northern sea,\n Queen of these restless fields of tide,\n England! what shall men say of thee,\n Before whose feet the worlds divide?\n\n The earth, a brittle globe of glass,\n Lies in the hollow of thy hand,\n And through its heart of crystal pass,\n Like shadows through a twilight land,\n\n The spears of crimson-suited war,\n The long white-crested waves of fight,\n And all the deadly fires which are\n The torches of the lords of Night.\n\n The yellow leopards, strained and lean,\n The treacherous Russian knows so well,\n With gaping blackened jaws are seen\n Leap through the hail of screaming shell.\n\n The strong sea-lion of England’s wars\n Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,\n To battle with the storm that mars\n The stars of England’s chivalry.\n\n The brazen-throated clarion blows\n Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,\n And the high steeps of Indian snows\n Shake to the tread of armèd men.\n\n And many an Afghan chief, who lies\n Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,\n Clutches his sword in fierce surmise\n When on the mountain-side he sees\n\n The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes\n To tell how he hath heard afar\n The measured roll of English drums\n Beat at the gates of Kandahar.\n\n For southern wind and east wind meet\n Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,\n England with bare and bloody feet\n Climbs the steep road of wide empire.\n\n O lonely Himalayan height,\n Grey pillar of the Indian sky,\n Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight\n Our wingèd dogs of Victory?\n\n The almond-groves of Samarcand,\n Bokhara, where red lilies blow,\n And Oxus, by whose yellow sand\n The grave white-turbaned merchants go:\n\n And on from thence to Ispahan,\n The gilded garden of the sun,\n Whence the long dusty caravan\n Brings cedar wood and vermilion;\n\n And that dread city of Cabool\n Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,\n Whose marble tanks are ever full\n With water for the noonday heat:\n\n Where through the narrow straight Bazaar\n A little maid Circassian\n Is led, a present from the Czar\n Unto some old and bearded Khan,—\n\n Here have our wild war-eagles flown,\n And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;\n But the sad dove, that sits alone\n In England—she hath no delight.\n\n In vain the laughing girl will lean\n To greet her love with love-lit eyes:\n Down in some treacherous black ravine,\n Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.\n\n And many a moon and sun will see\n The lingering wistful children wait\n To climb upon their father’s knee;\n And in each house made desolate\n\n Pale women who have lost their lord\n Will kiss the relics of the slain—\n Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—\n Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.\n\n For not in quiet English fields\n Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,\n Where we might deck their broken shields\n With all the flowers the dead love best.\n\n For some are by the Delhi walls,\n And many in the Afghan land,\n And many where the Ganges falls\n Through seven mouths of shifting sand.\n\n And some in Russian waters lie,\n And others in the seas which are\n The portals to the East, or by\n The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.\n\n O wandering graves! O restless sleep!\n O silence of the sunless day!\n O still ravine! O stormy deep!\n Give up your prey! Give up your prey!\n\n And thou whose wounds are never healed,\n Whose weary race is never won,\n O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield\n For every inch of ground a son?\n\n Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,\n Change thy glad song to song of pain;\n Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,\n And will not yield them back again.\n\n Wave and wild wind and foreign shore\n Possess the flower of English land—\n Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,\n Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.\n\n What profit now that we have bound\n The whole round world with nets of gold,\n If hidden in our heart is found\n The care that groweth never old?\n\n What profit that our galleys ride,\n Pine-forest-like, on every main?\n Ruin and wreck are at our side,\n Grim warders of the House of Pain.\n\n Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?\n Where is our English chivalry?\n Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,\n And sobbing waves their threnody.\n\n O loved ones lying far away,\n What word of love can dead lips send!\n O wasted dust! O senseless clay!\n Is this the end! is this the end!\n\n Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead\n To vex their solemn slumber so;\n Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,\n Up the steep road must England go,\n\n Yet when this fiery web is spun,\n Her watchmen shall descry from far\n The young Republic like a sun\n Rise from these crimson seas of war.\n\n\n\n\nTO MY WIFE\nWITH A COPY OF MY POEMS\n\n\n I CAN write no stately proem\n As a prelude to my lay;\n From a poet to a poem\n I would dare to say.\n\n For if of these fallen petals\n One to you seem fair,\n Love will waft it till it settles\n On your hair.\n\n And when wind and winter harden\n All the loveless land,\n It will whisper of the garden,\n You will understand.\n\n\n\n\nMAGDALEN WALKS\n\n\n[_After gaining the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek at Trinity College_,\n_Dublin_, _in 1874_, _Oscar Wilde proceeded to Oxford_, _where he\nobtained a demyship at Magdalen College_. _He is the only real poet on\nthe books of that institution_.]\n\n THE little white clouds are racing over the sky,\n And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,\n The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch\n Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.\n\n A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,\n The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,\n The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,\n Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.\n\n And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,\n And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,\n And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire\n Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.\n\n And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love\n Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,\n And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen\n Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.\n\n See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,\n Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,\n And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!\n The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.\n\n\n\n\nTHEOCRITUS\nA VILLANELLE\n\n\n O SINGER of Persephone!\n In the dim meadows desolate\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Still through the ivy flits the bee\n Where Amaryllis lies in state;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n\n Simætha calls on Hecate\n And hears the wild dogs at the gate;\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Still by the light and laughing sea\n Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n\n And still in boyish rivalry\n Young Daphnis challenges his mate;\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,\n For thee the jocund shepherds wait;\n O Singer of Persephone!\n Dost thou remember Sicily?\n\n\n\n\nGREECE\n\n\n THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky\n Burned like a heated opal through the air;\n We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair\n For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.\n From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye\n Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,\n Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,\n And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.\n The flapping of the sail against the mast,\n The ripple of the water on the side,\n The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,\n The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,\n And a red sun upon the seas to ride,\n I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!\n\nKATAKOLO.\n\n\n\n\nPORTIA\nTO ELLEN TERRY\n\n\n (_Written at the Lyceum Theatre_)\n\n I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold\n To peril all he had upon the lead,\n Or that proud Aragon bent low his head\n Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:\n For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold\n Which is more golden than the golden sun\n No woman Veronesé looked upon\n Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.\n Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield\n The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,\n And would not let the laws of Venice yield\n Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew—\n O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:\n I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.\n\n\n\n\nFABIEN DEI FRANCHI\nTO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING\n\n\n THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,\n The dead that travel fast, the opening door,\n The murdered brother rising through the floor,\n The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,\n And then the lonely duel in the glade,\n The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,\n Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—\n These things are well enough,—but thou wert made\n For more august creation! frenzied Lear\n Should at thy bidding wander on the heath\n With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo\n For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear\n Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—\n Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!\n\n\n\n\nPHÈDRE\nTO SARAH BERNHARDT\n\n\n HOW vain and dull this common world must seem\n To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked\n At Florence with Mirandola, or walked\n Through the cool olives of the Academe:\n Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream\n For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played\n With the white girls in that Phæacian glade\n Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.\n\n Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay\n Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again\n Back to this common world so dull and vain,\n For thou wert weary of the sunless day,\n The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,\n The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.\n\n\n\n\nSONNET\n\n\n ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL\n\n NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,\n Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,\n Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love\n Than terrors of red flame and thundering.\n The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:\n A bird at evening flying to its nest\n Tells me of One who had no place of rest:\n I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.\n Come rather on some autumn afternoon,\n When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,\n And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,\n Come when the splendid fulness of the moon\n Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,\n And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.\n\n\n\n\nAVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA\n\n\n WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see\n A scene of wondrous glory, as was told\n Of some great God who in a rain of gold\n Broke open bars and fell on Danae:\n Or a dread vision as when Semele\n Sickening for love and unappeased desire\n Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire\n Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:\n With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,\n And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand\n Before this supreme mystery of Love:\n Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,\n An angel with a lily in his hand,\n And over both the white wings of a Dove.\n\nFLORENCE.\n\n\n\n\nLIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES\n\n\n ALBEIT nurtured in democracy,\n And liking best that state republican\n Where every man is Kinglike and no man\n Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,\n Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,\n Better the rule of One, whom all obey,\n Than to let clamorous demagogues betray\n Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.\n Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane\n Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street\n For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign\n Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,\n Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,\n Or Murder with his silent bloody feet.\n\n\n\n\nROSES AND RUE\n\n\n (To L. L.)\n\n COULD we dig up this long-buried treasure,\n Were it worth the pleasure,\n We never could learn love’s song,\n We are parted too long.\n\n Could the passionate past that is fled\n Call back its dead,\n Could we live it all over again,\n Were it worth the pain!\n\n I remember we used to meet\n By an ivied seat,\n And you warbled each pretty word\n With the air of a bird;\n\n And your voice had a quaver in it,\n Just like a linnet,\n And shook, as the blackbird’s throat\n With its last big note;\n\n And your eyes, they were green and grey\n Like an April day,\n But lit into amethyst\n When I stooped and kissed;\n\n And your mouth, it would never smile\n For a long, long while,\n Then it rippled all over with laughter\n Five minutes after.\n\n You were always afraid of a shower,\n Just like a flower:\n I remember you started and ran\n When the rain began.\n\n I remember I never could catch you,\n For no one could match you,\n You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,\n Little wings to your feet.\n\n I remember your hair—did I tie it?\n For it always ran riot—\n Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:\n These things are old.\n\n I remember so well the room,\n And the lilac bloom\n That beat at the dripping pane\n In the warm June rain;\n\n And the colour of your gown,\n It was amber-brown,\n And two yellow satin bows\n From your shoulders rose.\n\n And the handkerchief of French lace\n Which you held to your face—\n Had a small tear left a stain?\n Or was it the rain?\n\n On your hand as it waved adieu\n There were veins of blue;\n In your voice as it said good-bye\n Was a petulant cry,\n\n ‘You have only wasted your life.’\n (Ah, that was the knife!)\n When I rushed through the garden gate\n It was all too late.\n\n Could we live it over again,\n Were it worth the pain,\n Could the passionate past that is fled\n Call back its dead!\n\n Well, if my heart must break,\n Dear love, for your sake,\n It will break in music, I know,\n Poets’ hearts break so.\n\n But strange that I was not told\n That the brain can hold\n In a tiny ivory cell\n God’s heaven and hell.\n\n\n\n\nFROM ‘THE GARDEN OF EROS’\n\n\n[_In this poem the author laments the growth of materialism in the\nnineteenth century_. _He hails Keats and Shelley and some of the poets\nand artists who were his contemporaries_, _although his seniors_, _as the\ntorch-bearers of the intellectual life_. _Among these are Swinburne_,\n_William Morris_, _Rossetti_, _and Brune-Jones_.]\n\n NAY, when Keats died the Muses still had left\n One silver voice to sing his threnody, {128}\n But ah! too soon of it we were bereft\n When on that riven night and stormy sea\n Panthea claimed her singer as her own,\n And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,\n\n Save for that fiery heart, that morning star {129}\n Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye\n Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war\n The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy\n Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring\n The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,\n\n And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,\n And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot\n In passionless and fierce virginity\n Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute\n Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,\n And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.\n\n And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,\n And sung the Galilæan’s requiem,\n That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine\n He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him\n Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,\n And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.\n\n Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,\n It is not quenched the torch of poesy,\n The star that shook above the Eastern hill\n Holds unassailed its argent armoury\n From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—\n O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,\n\n Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,\n Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,\n With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled\n The weary soul of man in troublous need,\n And from the far and flowerless fields of ice\n Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.\n\n We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,\n Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,\n How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,\n And what enchantment held the king in thrall\n When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers\n That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,\n\n Long listless summer hours when the noon\n Being enamoured of a damask rose\n Forgets to journey westward, till the moon\n The pale usurper of its tribute grows\n From a thin sickle to a silver shield\n And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field\n\n Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,\n At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come\n Almost before the blackbird finds a mate\n And overstay the swallow, and the hum\n Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,\n Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,\n\n And through their unreal woes and mimic pain\n Wept for myself, and so was purified,\n And in their simple mirth grew glad again;\n For as I sailed upon that pictured tide\n The strength and splendour of the storm was mine\n Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;\n\n The little laugh of water falling down\n Is not so musical, the clammy gold\n Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town\n Has less of sweetness in it, and the old\n Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady\n Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.\n\n Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!\n Although the cheating merchants of the mart\n With iron roads profane our lovely isle,\n And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,\n Ay! though the crowded factories beget\n The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!\n\n For One at least there is,—He bears his name\n From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—{136}\n Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame\n To light thine altar; He {137} too loves thee well,\n Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,\n And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,\n\n Loves thee so well, that all the World for him\n A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,\n And Sorrow take a purple diadem,\n Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair\n Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be\n Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery\n\n Which Painters hold, and such the heritage\n This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,\n Being a better mirror of his age\n In all his pity, love, and weariness,\n Than those who can but copy common things,\n And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.\n\n But they are few, and all romance has flown,\n And men can prophesy about the sun,\n And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,\n Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,\n How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,\n And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HARLOT’S HOUSE\n\n\n WE caught the tread of dancing feet,\n We loitered down the moonlit street,\n And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.\n\n Inside, above the din and fray,\n We heard the loud musicians play\n The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.\n\n Like strange mechanical grotesques,\n Making fantastic arabesques,\n The shadows raced across the blind.\n\n We watched the ghostly dancers spin\n To sound of horn and violin,\n Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.\n\n Like wire-pulled automatons,\n Slim silhouetted skeletons\n Went sidling through the slow quadrille,\n\n Then took each other by the hand,\n And danced a stately saraband;\n Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.\n\n Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed\n A phantom lover to her breast,\n Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.\n\n Sometimes a horrible marionette\n Came out, and smoked its cigarette\n Upon the steps like a live thing.\n\n Then, turning to my love, I said,\n ‘The dead are dancing with the dead,\n The dust is whirling with the dust.’\n\n But she—she heard the violin,\n And left my side, and entered in:\n Love passed into the house of lust.\n\n Then suddenly the tune went false,\n The dancers wearied of the waltz,\n The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.\n\n And down the long and silent street,\n The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,\n Crept like a frightened girl.\n\n\n\n\nFROM ‘THE BURDEN OF ITYS’\n\n\n THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome,\n Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea\n Breaking across the woodland, with the foam\n Of meadow-sweet and white anemone\n To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there\n Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!\n\n Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take\n Yon creamy lily for their pavilion\n Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake\n A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,\n His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old\n Bishop in _partibus_! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.\n\n The wind the restless prisoner of the trees\n Does well for Palæstrina, one would say\n The mighty master’s hands were on the keys\n Of the Maria organ, which they play\n When early on some sapphire Easter morn\n In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne\n\n From his dark House out to the Balcony\n Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,\n Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy\n To toss their silver lances in the air,\n And stretching out weak hands to East and West\n In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.\n\n Is not yon lingering orange after-glow\n That stays to vex the moon more fair than all\n Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago\n I knelt before some crimson Cardinal\n Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,\n And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.\n\n The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous\n With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring\n Through this cool evening than the odorous\n Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,\n When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,\n And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.\n\n Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the Mass\n Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird\n Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass\n I see that throbbing throat which once I heard\n On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,\n Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.\n\n Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves\n At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,\n And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves\n Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe\n To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait\n Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.\n\n And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,\n And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,\n And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees\n That round and round the linden blossoms play;\n And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,\n And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,\n\n And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring\n While the last violet loiters by the well,\n And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing\n The song of Linus through a sunny dell\n Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold\n And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.\n\n * * * * *\n\n It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,\n No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,\n The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,\n And from the copse left desolate and bare\n Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,\n Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody\n\n So sad, that one might think a human heart\n Brake in each separate note, a quality\n Which music sometimes has, being the Art\n Which is most nigh to tears and memory;\n Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?\n Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,\n\n Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,\n No woven web of bloody heraldries,\n But mossy dells for roving comrades made,\n Warm valleys where the tired student lies\n With half-shut book, and many a winding walk\n Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.\n\n The harmless rabbit gambols with its young\n Across the trampled towing-path, where late\n A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng\n Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;\n The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,\n Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds\n\n Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out\n Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock\n Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout\n Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,\n And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,\n And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.\n\n The heron passes homeward to the mere,\n The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,\n Gold world by world the silent stars appear,\n And like a blossom blown before the breeze\n A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,\n Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.\n\n She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,\n She knows Endymion is not far away;\n ’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed\n Which has no message of its own to play,\n So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,\n Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.\n\n Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill\n About the sombre woodland seems to cling\n Dying in music, else the air is still,\n So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing\n Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell\n Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.\n\n And far away across the lengthening wold,\n Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,\n Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold\n Marks the long High Street of the little town,\n And warns me to return; I must not wait,\n Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.\n\n\n\n\nFLOWER OF LOVE\n\n\n SWEET, I blame you not, for mine the fault\n was, had I not been made of common clay\n I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed\n yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.\n\n From the wildness of my wasted passion I had\n struck a better, clearer song,\n Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled\n with some Hydra-headed wrong.\n\n Had my lips been smitten into music by the\n kisses that but made them bleed,\n You had walked with Bice and the angels on\n that verdant and enamelled mead.\n\n I had trod the road which Dante treading saw\n the suns of seven circles shine,\n Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,\n as they opened to the Florentine.\n\n And the mighty nations would have crowned\n me, who am crownless now and without name,\n And some orient dawn had found me kneeling\n on the threshold of the House of Fame.\n\n I had sat within that marble circle where the\n oldest bard is as the young,\n And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the\n lyre’s strings are ever strung.\n\n Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out\n the poppy-seeded wine,\n With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,\n clasped the hand of noble love in mine.\n\n And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms\n brush the burnished bosom of the dove,\n Two young lovers lying in an orchard would\n have read the story of our love;\n\n Would have read the legend of my passion,\n known the bitter secret of my heart,\n Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as\n we two are fated now to part.\n\n For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by\n the cankerworm of truth,\n And no hand can gather up the fallen withered\n petals of the rose of youth.\n\n Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah!\n what else had I a boy to do,—\n For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the\n silent-footed years pursue.\n\n Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and\n when once the storm of youth is past,\n Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death\n the silent pilot comes at last.\n\n And within the grave there is no pleasure,\n for the blindworm battens on the root,\n And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree\n of Passion bears no fruit.\n\n Ah! what else had I to do but love you?\n God’s own mother was less dear to me,\n And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an\n argent lily from the sea.\n\n I have made my choice, have lived my\n poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,\n I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better\n than the poet’s crown of bays.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n{128} Shelley.\n\n{129} Swinburne.\n\n{136} Rossetti.\n\n{137} Burne-Jones.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS OF OSCAR WILDE***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 1141-0.txt or 1141-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/1/4/1141\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Charmides and Other Poems, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Charmides and Other Poems\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: September 19, 2014 [eBook #1031]\n[This file was first posted on 17 July 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARMIDES AND OTHER POEMS***\n\n\nTranscribed from 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n CHARMIDES\n AND OTHER POEMS\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n * * * * *\n\n _This volume was first published in 1913_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_Wilde’s Poems_, _a selection of which is given in this volume_, _were\nfirst published in volume form in_ 1881, _and were reprinted four times\nbefore the end of_ 1882. _A new Edition with additional poems_,\n_including Ravenna_, _The Sphinx_, _and The Ballad of Reading Goal_, _was\nfirst published_ (_limited issues on hand-made paper and Japanese\nvellum_) _by Methuen & Co. in March_ 1908. _A further Edition_ (_making\nthe seventh_) _with some omissions from the issue of_ 1908, _but\nincluding two new poems_, _was published in September_, 1909. _Eighth\nEdition_, _November_ 1909. _Ninth Edition_, _December_ 1909. _Tenth\nEdition_, _December_ 1910. _Eleventh Edition_, _December_, 1911.\n_Twelfth Edition_, _May_, 1913.\n\n_A further selection of the poems_, _including The Ballad of Reading\nGaol_, _is published uniform with this volume_.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nCHARMIDES 9\nREQUIESCAT 67\nSAN MINIATO 69\nROME UNVISITED 71\nHUMANITAD 77\nLOUIS NAPOLEON 114\nENDYMION 116\nLE JARDIN 119\nLA MER 120\nLE PANNEAU 121\nLES BALLONS 124\nCANZONET 126\nLE JARDIN DES TUILERIES 129\nPAN: DOUBLE VILLANELLE 131\nIN THE FOREST 135\nSYMPHONY IN YELLOW 136\n SONNETS\nHÉLAS! 139\nTO MILTON 140\nON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA 141\nHOLY WEEK AT GENOA 142\nURBS SACRA ÆTERNA 143\nE TENEBRIS 144\nAT VERONA 145\nON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS 146\nTHE NEW REMORSE 147\n\n\n\n\nCHARMIDES\n\n\n I.\n\n HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home\n With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily\n Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam\n Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,\n And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite\n Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.\n\n Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear\n Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,\n And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,\n And bade the pilot head her lustily\n Against the nor’west gale, and all day long\n Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.\n\n And when the faint Corinthian hills were red\n Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,\n And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,\n And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,\n And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold\n Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,\n\n And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice\n Which of some swarthy trader he had bought\n Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,\n And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,\n And by the questioning merchants made his way\n Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day\n\n Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,\n Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet\n Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd\n Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat\n Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring\n The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling\n\n The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang\n His studded crook against the temple wall\n To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang\n Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;\n And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,\n And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,\n\n A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,\n A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery\n Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb\n Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee\n Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil\n Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil\n\n Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid\n To please Athena, and the dappled hide\n Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade\n Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,\n And from the pillared precinct one by one\n Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had\n done.\n\n And the old priest put out the waning fires\n Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed\n For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres\n Came fainter on the wind, as down the road\n In joyous dance these country folk did pass,\n And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.\n\n Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,\n And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,\n And the rose-petals falling from the wreath\n As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,\n And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon\n Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon\n\n Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,\n When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,\n And flinging wide the cedar-carven door\n Beheld an awful image saffron-clad\n And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared\n From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared\n\n Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled\n The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,\n And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,\n And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold\n In passion impotent, while with blind gaze\n The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.\n\n The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp\n Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast\n The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp\n Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast\n Divide the folded curtains of the night,\n And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.\n\n And guilty lovers in their venery\n Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,\n Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;\n And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats\n Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,\n Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.\n\n For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,\n And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,\n And the air quaked with dissonant alarums\n Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,\n And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,\n And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.\n\n Ready for death with parted lips he stood,\n And well content at such a price to see\n That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,\n The marvel of that pitiless chastity,\n Ah! well content indeed, for never wight\n Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.\n\n Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air\n Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,\n And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,\n And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;\n For whom would not such love make desperate?\n And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate\n\n Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,\n And bared the breasts of polished ivory,\n Till from the waist the peplos falling down\n Left visible the secret mystery\n Which to no lover will Athena show,\n The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.\n\n Those who have never known a lover’s sin\n Let them not read my ditty, it will be\n To their dull ears so musicless and thin\n That they will have no joy of it, but ye\n To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,\n Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.\n\n A little space he let his greedy eyes\n Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight\n Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,\n And then his lips in hungering delight\n Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck\n He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.\n\n Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,\n For all night long he murmured honeyed word,\n And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed\n Her pale and argent body undisturbed,\n And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed\n His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.\n\n It was as if Numidian javelins\n Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,\n And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins\n In exquisite pulsation, and the pain\n Was such sweet anguish that he never drew\n His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.\n\n They who have never seen the daylight peer\n Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,\n And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear\n And worshipped body risen, they for certain\n Will never know of what I try to sing,\n How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.\n\n The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,\n The sign which shipmen say is ominous\n Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,\n And the low lightening east was tremulous\n With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,\n Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.\n\n Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast\n Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,\n And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,\n And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran\n Like a young fawn unto an olive wood\n Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;\n\n And sought a little stream, which well he knew,\n For oftentimes with boyish careless shout\n The green and crested grebe he would pursue,\n Or snare in woven net the silver trout,\n And down amid the startled reeds he lay\n Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.\n\n On the green bank he lay, and let one hand\n Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,\n And soon the breath of morning came and fanned\n His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly\n The tangled curls from off his forehead, while\n He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.\n\n And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak\n With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,\n And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke\n Curled through the air across the ripening oats,\n And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed\n As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.\n\n And when the light-foot mower went afield\n Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,\n And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,\n And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,\n Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream\n And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,\n\n Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,\n ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway\n Who with a Naiad now would make his bed\n Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay,\n It is Narcissus, his own paramour,\n Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’\n\n And when they nearer came a third one cried,\n ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid\n His spear and fawnskin by the river side\n Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,\n And wise indeed were we away to fly:\n They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’\n\n So turned they back, and feared to look behind,\n And told the timid swain how they had seen\n Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,\n And no man dared to cross the open green,\n And on that day no olive-tree was slain,\n Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,\n\n Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail\n Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound\n Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,\n Hoping that he some comrade new had found,\n And gat no answer, and then half afraid\n Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade\n\n A little girl ran laughing from the farm,\n Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,\n And when she saw the white and gleaming arm\n And all his manlihood, with longing eyes\n Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity\n Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.\n\n Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,\n And now and then the shriller laughter where\n The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys\n Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,\n And now and then a little tinkling bell\n As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.\n\n Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,\n The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,\n In sleek and oily coat the water-rat\n Breasting the little ripples manfully\n Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough\n Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.\n\n On the faint wind floated the silky seeds\n As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,\n The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds\n And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass,\n Which scarce had caught again its imagery\n Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.\n\n But little care had he for any thing\n Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,\n And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing\n To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;\n Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen\n The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.\n\n But when the herdsman called his straggling goats\n With whistling pipe across the rocky road,\n And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes\n Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode\n Of coming storm, and the belated crane\n Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain\n\n Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,\n And from the gloomy forest went his way\n Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,\n And came at last unto a little quay,\n And called his mates aboard, and took his seat\n On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,\n\n And steered across the bay, and when nine suns\n Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,\n And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons\n To the chaste stars their confessors, or told\n Their dearest secret to the downy moth\n That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth\n\n Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes\n And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked\n As though the lading of three argosies\n Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,\n And darkness straightway stole across the deep,\n Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,\n\n And the moon hid behind a tawny mask\n Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge\n Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,\n The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!\n And clad in bright and burnished panoply\n Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!\n\n To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looks\n Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet\n Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,\n And, marking how the rising waters beat\n Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried\n To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side\n\n But he, the overbold adulterer,\n A dear profaner of great mysteries,\n An ardent amorous idolater,\n When he beheld those grand relentless eyes\n Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’\n Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.\n\n Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,\n One dancer left the circling galaxy,\n And back to Athens on her clattering car\n In all the pride of venged divinity\n Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,\n And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.\n\n And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew\n With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,\n And the old pilot bade the trembling crew\n Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen\n Close to the stern a dim and giant form,\n And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.\n\n And no man dared to speak of Charmides\n Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,\n And when they reached the strait Symplegades\n They beached their galley on the shore, and sought\n The toll-gate of the city hastily,\n And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.\n\n II.\n\n BUT some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare\n The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,\n And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair\n And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;\n Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,\n And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.\n\n And when he neared his old Athenian home,\n A mighty billow rose up suddenly\n Upon whose oily back the clotted foam\n Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,\n And clasping him unto its glassy breast\n Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!\n\n Now where Colonos leans unto the sea\n There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;\n The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee\n For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun\n Is not afraid, for never through the day\n Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.\n\n But often from the thorny labyrinth\n And tangled branches of the circling wood\n The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth\n Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood\n Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,\n Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day\n\n The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball\n Along the reedy shore, and circumvent\n Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal\n For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,\n And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,\n Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.\n\n On this side and on that a rocky cave,\n Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands\n Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave\n Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,\n As though it feared to be too soon forgot\n By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot\n\n So small, that the inconstant butterfly\n Could steal the hoarded money from each flower\n Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy\n Its over-greedy love,—within an hour\n A sailor boy, were he but rude enow\n To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,\n\n Would almost leave the little meadow bare,\n For it knows nothing of great pageantry,\n Only a few narcissi here and there\n Stand separate in sweet austerity,\n Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,\n And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.\n\n Hither the billow brought him, and was glad\n Of such dear servitude, and where the land\n Was virgin of all waters laid the lad\n Upon the golden margent of the strand,\n And like a lingering lover oft returned\n To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,\n\n Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,\n That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,\n Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost\n Had withered up those lilies white and red\n Which, while the boy would through the forest range,\n Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.\n\n And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,\n Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied\n The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,\n And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,\n And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade\n Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.\n\n Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be\n So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms\n Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,\n And longed to listen to those subtle charms\n Insidious lovers weave when they would win\n Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin\n\n To yield her treasure unto one so fair,\n And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,\n Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,\n And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth\n Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid\n Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,\n\n Returned to fresh assault, and all day long\n Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,\n And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,\n Then frowned to see how froward was the boy\n Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,\n Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;\n\n Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,\n But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,\n He will awake at evening when the sun\n Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;\n This sleep is but a cruel treachery\n To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea\n\n Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line\n Already a huge Triton blows his horn,\n And weaves a garland from the crystalline\n And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn\n The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,\n For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd head,\n\n We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,\n And a blue wave will be our canopy,\n And at our feet the water-snakes will curl\n In all their amethystine panoply\n Of diamonded mail, and we will mark\n The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,\n\n Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold\n Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep\n His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,\n And we will see the painted dolphins sleep\n Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks\n Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.\n\n And tremulous opal-hued anemones\n Will wave their purple fringes where we tread\n Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies\n Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread\n The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,\n And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’\n\n But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun\n With gaudy pennon flying passed away\n Into his brazen House, and one by one\n The little yellow stars began to stray\n Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed\n She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,\n\n And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon\n Washes the trees with silver, and the wave\n Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,\n The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave\n The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,\n And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.\n\n Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,\n For in yon stream there is a little reed\n That often whispers how a lovely boy\n Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,\n Who when his cruel pleasure he had done\n Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.\n\n Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still\n With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir\n Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill\n Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher\n Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen\n The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.\n\n Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,\n And every morn a young and ruddy swain\n Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,\n And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain\n By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;\n But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove\n\n With little crimson feet, which with its store\n Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad\n Had stolen from the lofty sycamore\n At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had\n Flown off in search of berried juniper\n Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager\n\n Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency\n So constant as this simple shepherd-boy\n For my poor lips, his joyous purity\n And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy\n A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;\n For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;\n\n His argent forehead, like a rising moon\n Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,\n Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon\n Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse\n For Cytheræa, the first silky down\n Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;\n\n And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds\n Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,\n And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds\n Is in his homestead for the thievish fly\n To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead\n Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.\n\n And yet I love him not; it was for thee\n I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come\n To rid me of this pallid chastity,\n Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam\n Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star\n Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!\n\n I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first\n The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring\n Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst\n To myriad multitudinous blossoming\n Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons\n That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes\n\n Startled the squirrel from its granary,\n And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,\n Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy\n Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein\n Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,\n And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.\n\n The trooping fawns at evening came and laid\n Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,\n And on my topmost branch the blackbird made\n A little nest of grasses for his spouse,\n And now and then a twittering wren would light\n On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.\n\n I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,\n Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,\n And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase\n The timorous girl, till tired out with play\n She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,\n And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.\n\n Then come away unto my ambuscade\n Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy\n For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade\n Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify\n The dearest rites of love; there in the cool\n And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,\n\n The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,\n For round its rim great creamy lilies float\n Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,\n Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat\n Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid\n To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made\n\n For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,\n One arm around her boyish paramour,\n Strays often there at eve, and I have seen\n The moon strip off her misty vestiture\n For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,\n The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.\n\n Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,\n Back to the boisterous billow let us go,\n And walk all day beneath the hyaline\n Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,\n And watch the purple monsters of the deep\n Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.\n\n For if my mistress find me lying here\n She will not ruth or gentle pity show,\n But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere\n Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,\n And draw the feathered notch against her breast,\n And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest\n\n I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,\n Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least\n Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake\n My parchèd being with the nectarous feast\n Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come,\n Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’\n\n Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees\n Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air\n Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas\n Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare\n Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,\n And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.\n\n And where the little flowers of her breast\n Just brake into their milky blossoming,\n This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,\n Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,\n And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,\n And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.\n\n Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry\n On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,\n Sobbing for incomplete virginity,\n And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,\n And all the pain of things unsatisfied,\n And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.\n\n Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,\n And very pitiful to see her die\n Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known\n The joy of passion, that dread mystery\n Which not to know is not to live at all,\n And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.\n\n But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,\n Who with Adonis all night long had lain\n Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,\n On team of silver doves and gilded wain\n Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar\n From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,\n\n And when low down she spied the hapless pair,\n And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,\n Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air\n As though it were a viol, hastily\n She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,\n And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous\n doom.\n\n For as a gardener turning back his head\n To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows\n With careless scythe too near some flower bed,\n And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,\n And with the flower’s loosened loneliness\n Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness\n\n Driving his little flock along the mead\n Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide\n Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede\n And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,\n Treads down their brimming golden chalices\n Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;\n\n Or as a schoolboy tired of his book\n Flings himself down upon the reedy grass\n And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,\n And for a time forgets the hour glass,\n Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,\n And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.\n\n And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis\n Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,\n Or else that mightier maid whose care it is\n To guard her strong and stainless majesty\n Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!\n That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’\n\n So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl\n In the great golden waggon tenderly\n (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl\n Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry\n Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast\n Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)\n\n And then each pigeon spread its milky van,\n The bright car soared into the dawning sky,\n And like a cloud the aerial caravan\n Passed over the Ægean silently,\n Till the faint air was troubled with the song\n From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.\n\n But when the doves had reached their wonted goal\n Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips\n Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul\n Just shook the trembling petals of her lips\n And passed into the void, and Venus knew\n That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,\n\n And bade her servants carve a cedar chest\n With all the wonder of this history,\n Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest\n Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky\n On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun\n Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.\n\n Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere\n The morning bee had stung the daffodil\n With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair\n The waking stag had leapt across the rill\n And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept\n Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.\n\n And when day brake, within that silver shrine\n Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,\n Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine\n That she whose beauty made Death amorous\n Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,\n And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.\n\n III\n\n IN melancholy moonless Acheron,\n Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day\n Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun\n Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May\n Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,\n Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,\n\n There by a dim and dark Lethæan well\n Young Charmides was lying; wearily\n He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,\n And with its little rifled treasury\n Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,\n And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,\n\n When as he gazed into the watery glass\n And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned\n His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass\n Across the mirror, and a little hand\n Stole into his, and warm lips timidly\n Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.\n\n Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,\n And ever nigher still their faces came,\n And nigher ever did their young mouths draw\n Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,\n And longing arms around her neck he cast,\n And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,\n\n And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,\n And all her maidenhood was his to slay,\n And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss\n Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay\n To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!\n Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.\n\n Too venturous poesy, O why essay\n To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings\n O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay\n Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings\n Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,\n Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!\n\n Enough, enough that he whose life had been\n A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,\n Could in the loveless land of Hades glean\n One scorching harvest from those fields of flame\n Where passion walks with naked unshod feet\n And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet\n\n In that wild throb when all existences\n Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy\n Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress\n Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone\n Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne\n Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS\n\n\nREQUIESCAT\n\n\n TREAD lightly, she is near\n Under the snow,\n Speak gently, she can hear\n The daisies grow.\n\n All her bright golden hair\n Tarnished with rust,\n She that was young and fair\n Fallen to dust.\n\n Lily-like, white as snow,\n She hardly knew\n She was a woman, so\n Sweetly she grew.\n\n Coffin-board, heavy stone,\n Lie on her breast,\n I vex my heart alone,\n She is at rest.\n\n Peace, Peace, she cannot hear\n Lyre or sonnet,\n All my life’s buried here,\n Heap earth upon it.\n\n AVIGNON\n\n\n\nSAN MINIATO\n\n\n SEE, I have climbed the mountain side\n Up to this holy house of God,\n Where once that Angel-Painter trod\n Who saw the heavens opened wide,\n\n And throned upon the crescent moon\n The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—\n Mary! could I but see thy face\n Death could not come at all too soon.\n\n O crowned by God with thorns and pain!\n Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!\n My heart is weary of this life\n And over-sad to sing again.\n\n O crowned by God with love and flame!\n O crowned by Christ the Holy One!\n O listen ere the searching sun\n Show to the world my sin and shame.\n\n\n\nROME UNVISITED\n\n\n I.\n\n THE corn has turned from grey to red,\n Since first my spirit wandered forth\n From the drear cities of the north,\n And to Italia’s mountains fled.\n\n And here I set my face towards home,\n For all my pilgrimage is done,\n Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun\n Marshals the way to Holy Rome.\n\n O Blessed Lady, who dost hold\n Upon the seven hills thy reign!\n O Mother without blot or stain,\n Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!\n\n O Roma, Roma, at thy feet\n I lay this barren gift of song!\n For, ah! the way is steep and long\n That leads unto thy sacred street.\n\n II.\n\n AND yet what joy it were for me\n To turn my feet unto the south,\n And journeying towards the Tiber mouth\n To kneel again at Fiesole!\n\n And wandering through the tangled pines\n That break the gold of Arno’s stream,\n To see the purple mist and gleam\n Of morning on the Apennines\n\n By many a vineyard-hidden home,\n Orchard and olive-garden grey,\n Till from the drear Campagna’s way\n The seven hills bear up the dome!\n\n III.\n\n A PILGRIM from the northern seas—\n What joy for me to seek alone\n The wondrous temple and the throne\n Of him who holds the awful keys!\n\n When, bright with purple and with gold\n Come priest and holy cardinal,\n And borne above the heads of all\n The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.\n\n O joy to see before I die\n The only God-anointed king,\n And hear the silver trumpets ring\n A triumph as he passes by!\n\n Or at the brazen-pillared shrine\n Holds high the mystic sacrifice,\n And shows his God to human eyes\n Beneath the veil of bread and wine.\n\n IV.\n\n FOR lo, what changes time can bring!\n The cycles of revolving years\n May free my heart from all its fears,\n And teach my lips a song to sing.\n\n Before yon field of trembling gold\n Is garnered into dusty sheaves,\n Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves\n Flutter as birds adown the wold,\n\n I may have run the glorious race,\n And caught the torch while yet aflame,\n And called upon the holy name\n Of Him who now doth hide His face.\n\n ARONA\n\n\n\nHUMANITAD\n\n\n IT is full winter now: the trees are bare,\n Save where the cattle huddle from the cold\n Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear\n The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold\n Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true\n To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew\n\n From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay\n Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain\n Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day\n From the low meadows up the narrow lane;\n Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep\n Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep\n\n From the shut stable to the frozen stream\n And back again disconsolate, and miss\n The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;\n And overhead in circling listlessness\n The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,\n Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack\n\n Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds\n And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,\n And hoots to see the moon; across the meads\n Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;\n And a stray seamew with its fretful cry\n Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.\n\n Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings\n His load of faggots from the chilly byre,\n And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings\n The sappy billets on the waning fire,\n And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare\n His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;\n\n Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,\n And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again\n With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,\n For with the first warm kisses of the rain\n The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,\n And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers\n\n From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,\n And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs\n Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly\n Across our path at evening, and the suns\n Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see\n Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery\n\n Dance through the hedges till the early rose,\n (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)\n Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose\n The little quivering disk of golden fire\n Which the bees know so well, for with it come\n Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.\n\n Then up and down the field the sower goes,\n While close behind the laughing younker scares\n With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,\n And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,\n And on the grass the creamy blossom falls\n In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals\n\n Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons\n Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,\n That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons\n With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine\n In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed\n And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed\n\n Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,\n And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,\n Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy\n Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,\n And violets getting overbold withdraw\n From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.\n\n O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!\n Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock\n And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,\n Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock\n Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon\n Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.\n\n Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,\n The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns\n Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture\n Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations\n With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,\n And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.\n\n Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,\n That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,\n And to the kid its little horns, and bring\n The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,\n Where is that old nepenthe which of yore\n Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!\n\n There was a time when any common bird\n Could make me sing in unison, a time\n When all the strings of boyish life were stirred\n To quick response or more melodious rhyme\n By every forest idyll;—do I change?\n Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?\n\n Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seek\n To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,\n And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek\n Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;\n Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare\n To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!\n\n Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soul\n Takes discontent to be its paramour,\n And gives its kingdom to the rude control\n Of what should be its servitor,—for sure\n Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea\n Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’\n\n To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect\n In natural honour, not to bend the knee\n In profitless prostrations whose effect\n Is by itself condemned, what alchemy\n Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed\n Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?\n\n The minor chord which ends the harmony,\n And for its answering brother waits in vain\n Sobbing for incompleted melody,\n Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,\n A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,\n Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.\n\n The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,\n The little dust stored in the narrow urn,\n The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic tomb,—\n Were not these better far than to return\n To my old fitful restless malady,\n Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?\n\n Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god\n Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed\n Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod\n Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,\n Death is too rude, too obvious a key\n To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.\n\n And Love! that noble madness, whose august\n And inextinguishable might can slay\n The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must\n From such sweet ruin play the runaway,\n Although too constant memory never can\n Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian\n\n Which for a little season made my youth\n So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence\n That all the chiding of more prudent Truth\n Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence\n Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!\n Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.\n\n My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—\n Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow\n Back to the troubled waters of this shore\n Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now\n The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,\n Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.\n\n More barren—ay, those arms will never lean\n Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul\n In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;\n Some other head must wear that aureole,\n For I am hers who loves not any man\n Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.\n\n Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,\n And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,\n With net and spear and hunting equipage\n Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,\n But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell\n Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.\n\n Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy\n Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud\n Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy\n And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed\n In wonder at her feet, not for the sake\n Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.\n\n Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!\n And, if my lips be musicless, inspire\n At least my life: was not thy glory hymned\n By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre\n Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,\n And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!\n\n And yet I cannot tread the Portico\n And live without desire, fear and pain,\n Or nurture that wise calm which long ago\n The grave Athenian master taught to men,\n Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,\n To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.\n\n Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,\n Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,\n Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse\n Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne\n Is childless; in the night which she had made\n For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.\n\n Nor much with Science do I care to climb,\n Although by strange and subtle witchery\n She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time\n Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry\n To no less eager eyes; often indeed\n In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read\n\n How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war\n Against a little town, and panoplied\n In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,\n White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede\n Between the waving poplars and the sea\n Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ\n\n Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,\n And on the nearer side a little brood\n Of careless lions holding festival!\n And stood amazèd at such hardihood,\n And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,\n And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er\n\n Some unfrequented height, and coming down\n The autumn forests treacherously slew\n What Sparta held most dear and was the crown\n Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew\n How God had staked an evil net for him\n In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,\n\n Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel\n With such a goodly time too out of tune\n To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel\n That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon\n Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes\n Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.\n\n O for one grand unselfish simple life\n To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills\n Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife\n Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,\n Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly\n Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!\n\n Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he\n Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul\n Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty\n Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal\n Where love and duty mingle! Him at least\n The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;\n\n But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote\n The clarion watchword of each Grecian school\n And follow none, the flawless sword which smote\n The pagan Hydra is an effete tool\n Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now\n Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?\n\n One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!\n Gone is that last dear son of Italy,\n Who being man died for the sake of God,\n And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,\n O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,\n Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour\n\n Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or\n The Arno with its tawny troubled gold\n O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror\n Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old\n When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty\n Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery\n\n Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell\n With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,\n Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell\n With which oblivion buries dynasties\n Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,\n As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.\n\n He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,\n He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,\n And now lies dead by that empyreal dome\n Which overtops Valdarno hung in air\n By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene\n Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!\n\n Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies\n That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine\n Forget awhile their discreet emperies,\n Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine\n Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,\n And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!\n\n O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!\n Let some young Florentine each eventide\n Bring coronals of that enchanted flower\n Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,\n And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies\n Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;\n\n Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,\n Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim\n Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings\n Of the eternal chanting Cherubim\n Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away\n Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,\n\n He is not dead, the immemorial Fates\n Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.\n Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!\n Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain\n For the vile thing he hated lurks within\n Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.\n\n Still what avails it that she sought her cave\n That murderous mother of red harlotries?\n At Munich on the marble architrave\n The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas\n Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness\n Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless\n\n For lack of our ideals, if one star\n Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust\n Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war\n Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust\n Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe\n For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,\n\n What Easter Day shall make her children rise,\n Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet\n Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes\n Shall see them bodily? O it were meet\n To roll the stone from off the sepulchre\n And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,\n\n Our Italy! our mother visible!\n Most blessed among nations and most sad,\n For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell\n That day at Aspromonte and was glad\n That in an age when God was bought and sold\n One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,\n\n See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves\n Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty\n Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives\n Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,\n And no word said:—O we are wretched men\n Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen\n\n Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword\n Which slew its master righteously? the years\n Have lost their ancient leader, and no word\n Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:\n While as a ruined mother in some spasm\n Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm\n\n Genders unlawful children, Anarchy\n Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal\n Licence who steals the gold of Liberty\n And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real\n One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp\n That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp\n\n Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed\n For whose dull appetite men waste away\n Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed\n Of things which slay their sower, these each day\n Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet\n Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.\n\n What even Cromwell spared is desecrated\n By weed and worm, left to the stormy play\n Of wind and beating snow, or renovated\n By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay\n Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,\n But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.\n\n Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing\n Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air\n Seems from such marble harmonies to ring\n With sweeter song than common lips can dare\n To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now\n The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow\n\n For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One\n Who loved the lilies of the field with all\n Our dearest English flowers? the same sun\n Rises for us: the seasons natural\n Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:\n The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away.\n\n And yet perchance it may be better so,\n For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,\n Murder her brother is her bedfellow,\n And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene\n And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;\n Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!\n\n For gentle brotherhood, the harmony\n Of living in the healthful air, the swift\n Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free\n And women chaste, these are the things which lift\n Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s\n Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,\n\n Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair\n White as her own sweet lily and as tall,\n Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—\n Ah! somehow life is bigger after all\n Than any painted angel, could we see\n The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity\n\n Which curbs the passion of that level line\n Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes\n And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine\n And mirror her divine economies,\n And balanced symmetry of what in man\n Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span\n\n Between our mother’s kisses and the grave\n Might so inform our lives, that we could win\n Such mighty empires that from her cave\n Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin\n Would walk ashamed of his adulteries,\n And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes.\n\n To make the body and the spirit one\n With all right things, till no thing live in vain\n From morn to noon, but in sweet unison\n With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain\n The soul in flawless essence high enthroned,\n Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,\n\n Mark with serene impartiality\n The strife of things, and yet be comforted,\n Knowing that by the chain causality\n All separate existences are wed\n Into one supreme whole, whose utterance\n Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance\n\n Of Life in most august omnipresence,\n Through which the rational intellect would find\n In passion its expression, and mere sense,\n Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,\n And being joined with it in harmony\n More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,\n\n Strike from their several tones one octave chord\n Whose cadence being measureless would fly\n Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord\n Return refreshed with its new empery\n And more exultant power,—this indeed\n Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed.\n\n Ah! it was easy when the world was young\n To keep one’s life free and inviolate,\n From our sad lips another song is rung,\n By our own hands our heads are desecrate,\n Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed\n Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.\n\n Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,\n And of all men we are most wretched who\n Must live each other’s lives and not our own\n For very pity’s sake and then undo\n All that we lived for—it was otherwise\n When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.\n\n But we have left those gentle haunts to pass\n With weary feet to the new Calvary,\n Where we behold, as one who in a glass\n Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,\n And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze\n Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.\n\n O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn!\n O chalice of all common miseries!\n Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne\n An agony of endless centuries,\n And we were vain and ignorant nor knew\n That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew.\n\n Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,\n The night that covers and the lights that fade,\n The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds,\n The lips betraying and the life betrayed;\n The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we\n Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.\n\n Is this the end of all that primal force\n Which, in its changes being still the same,\n From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,\n Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,\n Till the suns met in heaven and began\n Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man!\n\n Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though\n The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain\n Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know,\n Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole again,\n No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,\n That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God.\n\n\n\nLOUIS NAPOLEON\n\n\n EAGLE of Austerlitz! where were thy wings\n When far away upon a barbarous strand,\n In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,\n Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!\n\n Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,\n Or ride in state through Paris in the van\n Of thy returning legions, but instead\n Thy mother France, free and republican,\n\n Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place\n The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,\n That not dishonoured should thy soul go down\n To tell the mighty Sire of thy race\n\n That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,\n And found it sweeter than his honied bees,\n And that the giant wave Democracy\n Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.\n\n\n\nENDYMION\n(FOR MUSIC)\n\n\n THE apple trees are hung with gold,\n And birds are loud in Arcady,\n The sheep lie bleating in the fold,\n The wild goat runs across the wold,\n But yesterday his love he told,\n I know he will come back to me.\n O rising moon! O Lady moon!\n Be you my lover’s sentinel,\n You cannot choose but know him well,\n For he is shod with purple shoon,\n You cannot choose but know my love,\n For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,\n And he is soft as any dove,\n And brown and curly is his hair.\n\n The turtle now has ceased to call\n Upon her crimson-footed groom,\n The grey wolf prowls about the stall,\n The lily’s singing seneschal\n Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all\n The violet hills are lost in gloom.\n O risen moon! O holy moon!\n Stand on the top of Helice,\n And if my own true love you see,\n Ah! if you see the purple shoon,\n The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,\n The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,\n Tell him that I am waiting where\n The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.\n\n The falling dew is cold and chill,\n And no bird sings in Arcady,\n The little fauns have left the hill,\n Even the tired daffodil\n Has closed its gilded doors, and still\n My lover comes not back to me.\n False moon! False moon! O waning moon!\n Where is my own true lover gone,\n Where are the lips vermilion,\n The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?\n Why spread that silver pavilion,\n Why wear that veil of drifting mist?\n Ah! thou hast young Endymion\n Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!\n\n\n\nLE JARDIN\n\n\n THE lily’s withered chalice falls\n Around its rod of dusty gold,\n And from the beech-trees on the wold\n The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.\n\n The gaudy leonine sunflower\n Hangs black and barren on its stalk,\n And down the windy garden walk\n The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.\n\n Pale privet-petals white as milk\n Are blown into a snowy mass:\n The roses lie upon the grass\n Like little shreds of crimson silk.\n\n\n\nLA MER\n\n\n A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds,\n A wild moon in this wintry sky\n Gleams like an angry lion’s eye\n Out of a mane of tawny clouds.\n\n The muffled steersman at the wheel\n Is but a shadow in the gloom;—\n And in the throbbing engine-room\n Leap the long rods of polished steel.\n\n The shattered storm has left its trace\n Upon this huge and heaving dome,\n For the thin threads of yellow foam\n Float on the waves like ravelled lace.\n\n\n\nLE PANNEAU\n\n\n UNDER the rose-tree’s dancing shade\n There stands a little ivory girl,\n Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl\n With pale green nails of polished jade.\n\n The red leaves fall upon the mould,\n The white leaves flutter, one by one,\n Down to a blue bowl where the sun,\n Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.\n\n The white leaves float upon the air,\n The red leaves flutter idly down,\n Some fall upon her yellow gown,\n And some upon her raven hair.\n\n She takes an amber lute and sings,\n And as she sings a silver crane\n Begins his scarlet neck to strain,\n And flap his burnished metal wings.\n\n She takes a lute of amber bright,\n And from the thicket where he lies\n Her lover, with his almond eyes,\n Watches her movements in delight.\n\n And now she gives a cry of fear,\n And tiny tears begin to start:\n A thorn has wounded with its dart\n The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.\n\n And now she laughs a merry note:\n There has fallen a petal of the rose\n Just where the yellow satin shows\n The blue-veined flower of her throat.\n\n With pale green nails of polished jade,\n Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,\n There stands a little ivory girl\n Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.\n\n\n\nLES BALLONS\n\n\n AGAINST these turbid turquoise skies\n The light and luminous balloons\n Dip and drift like satin moons\n Drift like silken butterflies;\n\n Reel with every windy gust,\n Rise and reel like dancing girls,\n Float like strange transparent pearls,\n Fall and float like silver dust.\n\n Now to the low leaves they cling,\n Each with coy fantastic pose,\n Each a petal of a rose\n Straining at a gossamer string.\n\n Then to the tall trees they climb,\n Like thin globes of amethyst,\n Wandering opals keeping tryst\n With the rubies of the lime.\n\n\n\nCANZONET\n\n\n I HAVE no store\n Of gryphon-guarded gold;\n Now, as before,\n Bare is the shepherd’s fold.\n Rubies nor pearls\n Have I to gem thy throat;\n Yet woodland girls\n Have loved the shepherd’s note.\n\n Then pluck a reed\n And bid me sing to thee,\n For I would feed\n Thine ears with melody,\n Who art more fair\n Than fairest fleur-de-lys,\n More sweet and rare\n Than sweetest ambergris.\n\n What dost thou fear?\n Young Hyacinth is slain,\n Pan is not here,\n And will not come again.\n No horned Faun\n Treads down the yellow leas,\n No God at dawn\n Steals through the olive trees.\n\n Hylas is dead,\n Nor will he e’er divine\n Those little red\n Rose-petalled lips of thine.\n On the high hill\n No ivory dryads play,\n Silver and still\n Sinks the sad autumn day.\n\n\n\nLE JARDIN DES TUILERIES\n\n\n THIS winter air is keen and cold,\n And keen and cold this winter sun,\n But round my chair the children run\n Like little things of dancing gold.\n\n Sometimes about the painted kiosk\n The mimic soldiers strut and stride,\n Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide\n In the bleak tangles of the bosk.\n\n And sometimes, while the old nurse cons\n Her book, they steal across the square,\n And launch their paper navies where\n Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.\n\n And now in mimic flight they flee,\n And now they rush, a boisterous band—\n And, tiny hand on tiny hand,\n Climb up the black and leafless tree.\n\n Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,\n And children climbed me, for their sake\n Though it be winter I would break\n Into spring blossoms white and blue!\n\n\n\nPAN\nDOUBLE VILLANELLE\n\n\n I.\n\n O GOAT-FOOT God of Arcady!\n This modern world is grey and old,\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n No more the shepherd lads in glee\n Throw apples at thy wattled fold,\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n\n Nor through the laurels can one see\n Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n And dull and dead our Thames would be,\n For here the winds are chill and cold,\n O goat-loot God of Arcady!\n\n Then keep the tomb of Helice,\n Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,\n And what remains to us of thee?\n\n Though many an unsung elegy\n Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,\n O goat-foot God of Arcady!\n Ah, what remains to us of thee?\n\n II.\n\n AH, leave the hills of Arcady,\n Thy satyrs and their wanton play,\n This modern world hath need of thee.\n\n No nymph or Faun indeed have we,\n For Faun and nymph are old and grey,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n\n This is the land where liberty\n Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n A land of ancient chivalry\n Where gentle Sidney saw the day,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n\n This fierce sea-lion of the sea,\n This England lacks some stronger lay,\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n Then blow some trumpet loud and free,\n And give thine oaten pipe away,\n Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!\n This modern world hath need of thee!\n\n\n\nIN THE FOREST\n\n\n OUT of the mid-wood’s twilight\n Into the meadow’s dawn,\n Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,\n Flashes my Faun!\n\n He skips through the copses singing,\n And his shadow dances along,\n And I know not which I should follow,\n Shadow or song!\n\n O Hunter, snare me his shadow!\n O Nightingale, catch me his strain!\n Else moonstruck with music and madness\n I track him in vain!\n\n\n\nSYMPHONY IN YELLOW\n\n\n AN omnibus across the bridge\n Crawls like a yellow butterfly\n And, here and there, a passer-by\n Shows like a little restless midge.\n\n Big barges full of yellow hay\n Are moored against the shadowy wharf,\n And, like a yellow silken scarf,\n The thick fog hangs along the quay.\n\n The yellow leaves begin to fade\n And flutter from the Temple elms,\n And at my feet the pale green Thames\n Lies like a rod of rippled jade.\n\n\n\n\nSONNETS\n\n\nHÉLAS!\n\n\n TO drift with every passion till my soul\n Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play,\n Is it for this that I have given away\n Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?\n Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll\n Scrawled over on some boyish holiday\n With idle songs for pipe and virelay,\n Which do but mar the secret of the whole.\n Surely there was a time I might have trod\n The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance\n Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:\n Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod\n I did but touch the honey of romance—\n And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?\n\n\n\nTO MILTON\n\n\n MILTON! I think thy spirit hath passed away\n From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;\n This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours\n Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,\n And the age changed unto a mimic play\n Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:\n For all our pomp and pageantry and powers\n We are but fit to delve the common clay,\n Seeing this little isle on which we stand,\n This England, this sea-lion of the sea,\n By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,\n Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land\n Which bare a triple empire in her hand\n When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!\n\n\n\nON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA\n\n\n CHRIST, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones\n Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?\n And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her\n Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?\n For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,\n The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,\n Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain\n From those whose children lie upon the stones?\n Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom\n Curtains the land, and through the starless night\n Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!\n If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb\n Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might\n Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!\n\n\n\nHOLY WEEK AT GENOA\n\n\n I WANDERED through Scoglietto’s far retreat,\n The oranges on each o’erhanging spray\n Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;\n Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet\n Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet\n Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:\n And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay\n Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.\n Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,\n ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,\n O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’\n Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours\n Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,\n The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.\n\n\n\nURBS SACRA ÆTERNA\n\n\n ROME! what a scroll of History thine has been;\n In the first days thy sword republican\n Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:\n Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,\n Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;\n And now upon thy walls the breezes fan\n (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)\n The hated flag of red and white and green.\n When was thy glory! when in search for power\n Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,\n And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?\n Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,\n When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,\n The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.\n MONTRE MARIO\n\n\n\nE TENEBRIS\n\n\n COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,\n For I am drowning in a stormier sea\n Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:\n The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,\n My heart is as some famine-murdered land\n Whence all good things have perished utterly,\n And well I know my soul in Hell must lie\n If I this night before God’s throne should stand.\n ‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,\n Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name\n From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’\n Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,\n The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,\n The wounded hands, the weary human face.\n\n\n\nAT VERONA\n\n\n HOW steep the stairs within King’s houses are\n For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,\n And O how salt and bitter is the bread\n Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far\n That I had died in the red ways of war,\n Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,\n Than to live thus, by all things comraded\n Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.\n\n ‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?\n He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss\n Of his gold city, and eternal day’—\n Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars\n I do possess what none can take away,\n My love and all the glory of the stars.\n\n\n\nON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS\n\n\n THESE are the letters which Endymion wrote\n To one he loved in secret, and apart.\n And now the brawlers of the auction mart\n Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,\n Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote\n The merchant’s price. I think they love not art\n Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart\n That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.\n\n Is it not said that many years ago,\n In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran\n With torches through the midnight, and began\n To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw\n Dice for the garments of a wretched man,\n Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?\n\n\n\nTHE NEW REMORSE\n\n\n THE sin was mine; I did not understand.\n So now is music prisoned in her cave,\n Save where some ebbing desultory wave\n Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.\n And in the withered hollow of this land\n Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,\n That hardly can the leaden willow crave\n One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.\n\n But who is this who cometh by the shore?\n (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this\n Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?\n It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss\n The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,\n And I shall weep and worship, as before.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARMIDES AND OTHER POEMS***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 1031-0.txt or 1031-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/3/1031\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook of An Ideal Husband, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: An Ideal Husband\n A Play\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: March 27, 2009 [eBook #885]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN IDEAL HUSBAND***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1912 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n AN IDEAL HUSBAND\n\n\n A PLAY\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n * * * * *\n\n _First Published_, _at 1s. net_, _in 1912_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_This book was First Published in 1893_\n\n_First Published_ (_Second Edition_) _by _February_ _1908_\n Methuen & Co._\n_Third Edition_ _October_ _1909_\n_Fourth edition_ _October_ _1910_\n_Fifth Edition_ _May_ _1912_\n\nTHE PERSONS OF THE PLAY\n\n\nTHE EARL OF CAVERSHAM, K.G.\n\nVISCOUNT GORING, his Son\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN, Bart., Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC, Attaché at the French Embassy in London\n\nMR. MONTFORD\n\nMASON, Butler to Sir Robert Chiltern\n\nPHIPPS, Lord Goring’s Servant\n\nJAMES }\n\nHAROLD } Footmen\n\nLADY CHILTERN\n\nLADY MARKBY\n\nTHE COUNTESS OF BASILDON\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT\n\nMISS MABEL CHILTERN, Sir Robert Chiltern’s Sister\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCENES OF THE PLAY\n\n\nACT I. _The Octagon Room in Sir Robert Chiltern’s House in Grosvenor\nSquare_.\n\nACT II. _Morning-room in Sir Robert Chiltern’s House_.\n\nACT III. _The Library of Lord Goring’s House in Curzon Street_.\n\nACT IV. _Same as Act II_.\n\nTIME: _The Present_\n\nPLACE: _London_.\n\n _The action of the play is completed within twenty-four hours_.\n\n\n\n\nTHEATRE ROYAL, HAYMARKET\n\n\n _Sole Lessee_: _Mr. Herbert Beerbohm Tree_\n\n _Managers_: _Mr. Lewis Waller and Mr. H. H. Morell_\n\n _January_ 3_rd_, 1895\n\nTHE EARL OF CAVERSHAM _Mr. Alfred Bishop_.\nVISCOUNT GORING _Mr. Charles H. Hawtrey_.\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN _Mr. Lewis Waller_.\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC _Mr. Cosmo Stuart_.\nMR. MONTFORD _Mr. Harry Stanford_.\nPHIPPS _Mr. C. H. Brookfield_.\nMASON _Mr. H. Deane_.\nJAMES _Mr. Charles Meyrick_.\nHAROLD _Mr. Goodhart_.\nLADY CHILTERN _Miss Julia Neilson_.\nLADY MARKBY _Miss Fanny Brough_.\nCOUNTESS OF BASILDON _Miss Vane Featherston_.\nMRS. MARCHMONT _Miss Helen Forsyth_.\nMISS MABEL CHILTERN _Miss Maud Millet_.\nMRS. CHEVELEY _Miss Florence West_.\n\n\n\n\nFIRST ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\n_The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern’s house in Grosvenor Square_.\n\n[_The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests_. _At the top of\nthe staircase stands_ LADY CHILTERN, _a woman of grave Greek beauty_,\n_about twenty-seven years of age_. _She receives the guests as they come\nup_. _Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax\nlights_, _which illumine a large eighteenth-century French\ntapestry—representing the Triumph of Love_, _from a design by\nBoucher—that is stretched on the staircase wall_. _On the right is the\nentrance to the music-room_. _The sound of a string quartette is faintly\nheard_. _The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms_. MRS.\nMARCHMONT _and_ LADY BASILDON, _two very pretty women_, _are seated\ntogether on a Louis Seize sofa_. _They are types of exquisite\nfragility_. _Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm_.\n_Watteau would have loved to paint them_.]\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks’ to-night, Margaret?\n\nLADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you?\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don’t they?\n\nLADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I\ngo anywhere.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated.\n\nLADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the\ncommercial classes, doesn’t it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always\ntelling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come\nhere to try to find one.\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Looking round through her lorgnette_.] I don’t see\nanybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose.\nThe man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the whole\ntime.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him!\n\nLADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about?\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. About myself.\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Languidly_.] And were you interested?\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Shaking her head_.] Not in the smallest degree.\n\nLADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Rising_.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia!\n\n[_They rise and go towards the music-room_. _The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC, _a\nyoung attaché known for his neckties and his Anglomania_, _approaches\nwith a low bow_, _and enters into conversation_.]\n\nMASON. [_Announcing guests from the top of the staircase_.] Mr. and\nLady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM, _an old gentleman of seventy_, _wearing the\nriband and star of the Garter_. _A fine Whig type_. _Rather like a\nportrait by Lawrence_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing\nyoung son been here?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] I don’t think Lord Goring has arrived yet.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Coming up to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord\nGoring good-for-nothing?\n\n[MABEL CHILTERN _is a perfect example of the English type of prettiness_,\n_the apple-blossom type_. _She has all the fragrance and freedom of a\nflower_. _There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair_, _and\nthe little mouth_, _with its parted lips_, _is expectant_, _like the\nmouth of a child_. _She has the fascinating tyranny of youth_, _and the\nastonishing courage of innocence_. _To sane people she is not\nreminiscent of any work of art_. _But she is really like a Tanagra\nstatuette_, _and would be rather annoyed if she were told so_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the Row\nat ten o’clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week,\nchanges his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out every night\nof the season. You don’t call that leading an idle life, do you?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes_.]\nYou are a very charming young lady!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do come\nto us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays, and you\nlook so well with your star!\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society.\nShouldn’t mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the\nright side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my\nwife’s milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham’s bonnets.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely\nimproved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant\nlunatics. Just what Society should be.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the other\nthing?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I have been obliged for the present to put\nLord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing\ncharmingly!\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Into what?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little curtsey_.] I hope to let you know very\nsoon, Lord Caversham!\n\nMASON. [_Announcing guests_.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY _is a pleasant_,\n_kindly_, _popular woman_, _with gray hair à la marquise and good lace_.\nMRS. CHEVELEY, _who accompanies her_, _is tall and rather slight_. _Lips\nvery thin and highly-coloured_, _a line of scarlet on a pallid face_.\n_Venetian red hair_, _aquiline nose_, _and long throat_. _Rouge\naccentuates the natural paleness of her complexion_. _Gray-green eyes\nthat move restlessly_. _She is in heliotrope_, _with diamonds_. _She\nlooks rather like an orchid_, _and makes great demands on one’s\ncuriosity_. _In all her movements she is extremely graceful_. _A work\nof art_, _on the whole_, _but showing the influence of too many\nschools_.]\n\nLADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me\nbring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know each\nother!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Advances towards_ MRS. CHEVELEY _with a sweet smile_.\n_Then suddenly stops_, _and bows rather distantly_.] I think Mrs.\nCheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a second\ntime.\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Genially_.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they\ncan, don’t they? It is most fashionable. [_To_ DUCHESS OF MARYBOROUGH.]\nDear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak, I suppose? Well,\nthat is only to be expected, is it not? His good father was just the\nsame. There is nothing like race, is there?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Playing with her fan_.] But have we really met before,\nLady Chiltern? I can’t remember where. I have been out of England for\nso long.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Superciliously_.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about my\nschooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] I am not surprised!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her sweetest manner_.] Do you know, I am quite\nlooking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he\nhas been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in Vienna.\nThey actually succeed in spelling his name right in the newspapers. That\nin itself is fame, on the continent.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between you\nand my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [_Moves away_.]\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chère Madame, queue surprise! I have not seen\nyou since Berlin!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago!\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever.\nHow do you manage it?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly charming\npeople like yourself.\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say here.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them!\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should be\nmore widely known.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters_. _A man of forty_, _but looking somewhat\nyounger_. _Clean-shaven_, _with finely-cut features_, _dark-haired and\ndark-eyed_. _A personality of mark_. _Not popular—few personalities\nare_. _But intensely admired by the few_, _and deeply respected by the\nmany_. _The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction_, _with a\nslight touch of pride_. _One feels that he is conscious of the success\nhe has made in life_. _A nervous temperament_, _with a tired look_.\n_The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the\nromantic expression in the deep-set eyes_. _The variance is suggestive\nof an almost complete separation of passion and intellect_, _as though\nthought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some\nviolence of will-power_. _There is nervousness in the nostrils_, _and in\nthe pale_, _thin_, _pointed hands_. _It would be inaccurate to call him\npicturesque_. _Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons_.\n_But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have brought\nSir John with you?\n\nLADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than Sir\nJohn. Sir John’s temper since he has taken seriously to politics has\nbecome quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying\nto become useful, it does a great deal of harm.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our\nbest to waste the public time, don’t we? But who is this charming person\nyou have been kind enough to bring to us?\n\nLADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire\nCheveleys, I suppose. But I really don’t know. Families are so mixed\nnowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.\n\nLADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant\nscandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter.\nI hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have\nto be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to\nsee her.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir\nRobert Chiltern is dying to know you!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the\nbrilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attachés at Vienna write to us about\nnothing else.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with\na compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the\nright manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school\ntogether. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct\nprize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting\nthe good conduct prize!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs.\nCheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don’t think\nany of them were for good conduct. I forget!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being\ncharming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more\nwomen grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than\nthrough anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for\nthe terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To\nattempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But\nmay I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to\nbe the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I’m neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and\nPessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them\nmerely poses.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep\nup.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of\nwhom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that\npsychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely\nadored.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem\nof women?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is\nwhy it has no future before it, in this world.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree\nwith you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave\nyour brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London—or perhaps the question is\nindiscreet?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or\npleasure?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is\nnot fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is\nforty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have\nnothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems\nto me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their\nfellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . .\nbecoming!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir\nRobert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour\nLondon so suddenly. Our season is almost over.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don’t care about the London season! It is too\nmatrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from\nthem. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman’s\ncuriosity is. Almost as great as a man’s! I wanted immensely to meet\nyou, and . . . to ask you to do something for me.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I\nfind that little things are so very difficult to do.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment’s reflection_.] No, I don’t think it is\nquite a little thing.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your\nbeautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron\nArnheim—you remember the Baron?—used to tell me you had some wonderful\nCorots.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you\nknow Baron Arnheim well?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn’t he?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many\nways.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs.\nThey would have been most interesting.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old\nGreek.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope\nwaiting at home for him.\n\nMASON. Lord Goring.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_.\n_A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not\nlike to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he\nwere considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly\ngood terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It\ngives him a post of vantage_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow\nme to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs.\nCheveley.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still\na bachelor?\n\nLORD GORING. I . . . believe so.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic!\n\nLORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I\nleave romance to my seniors.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle’s Club, Mrs.\nCheveley.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution.\n\nLORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the\ncooking, and partly on Sir Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war,\nI hope?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present!\n\n[_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and\ngoes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL\nCHILTERN.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You are very late!\n\nLORD GORING. Have you missed me?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Awfully!\n\nLORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being\nmissed.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you!\n\nLORD GORING. I am very selfish.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord\nGoring.\n\nLORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad?\n\nLORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to\nsleep at once.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t have\nyou part with one of them.\n\nLORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By\nthe way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs.\nCheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the\nroom with your brother?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask?\n\nLORD GORING. I haven’t seen her for years, that is all.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason!\n\nLORD GORING. All reasons are absurd.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she?\n\nLORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already.\n\nLORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste.\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the\ndragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste.\n\nLORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us.\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so\namusing.\n\nLORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the\nlines.\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_\nMABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the\nmusic-room, Mademoiselle?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte,\nquite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren’t you coming to the\nmusic-room?\n\nLORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not\nunderstand it.\n\n[_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his\nson_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life\nas usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard\nof you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing till four o’clock in the\nmorning!\n\nLORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Can’t make out how you stand London Society. The thing\nhas gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing.\n\nLORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing\nI know anything about.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure.\n\nLORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like\nhappiness.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless!\n\nLORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon!\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no\nidea you ever came to political parties!\n\nLORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to\nus where people don’t talk politics.\n\nLADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long.\nBut I can’t bear listening to them. I don’t know how the unfortunate men\nin the House stand these long debates.\n\nLORD GORING. By never listening.\n\nLADY BASILDON. Really?\n\nLORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is\na very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced;\nand a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a\nthoroughly unreasonable person.\n\nLADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never\nunderstood, and so much in women that their husbands never appreciate in\nthem!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_With a sigh_.] Our husbands never appreciate anything\nin us. We have to go to others for that!\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Emphatically_.] Yes, always to others, have we not?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] And those are the views of the two ladies who\nare known to have the most admirable husbands in London.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can’t stand. My Reginald is\nquite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times!\nThere is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him.\n\nLORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely\nknown!\n\nLADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he was\na bachelor.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Pressing_ LADY BASILDON’S _hand_.] My poor Olivia!\nWe have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it.\n\nLORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were\npunished.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Drawing herself up_.] Oh, dear no! They are as happy\nas possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust\nus.\n\nLADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic!\n\nLORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon?\n\nLADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you to\nsuggest such a thing!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as\nusual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in.\n\nLORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley!\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Stiffly_.] Please don’t praise other women in our\npresence. You might wait for us to do that!\n\nLORD GORING. I did wait.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I hear she went\nto the Opera on Monday night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper that, as\nfar as she could see, London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and\ndandies.\n\nLORD GORING. She is quite right, too. The men are all dowdies and the\nwomen are all dandies, aren’t they?\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_After a pause_.] Oh! do you really think that is what\nMrs. Cheveley meant?\n\nLORD GORING. Of course. And a very sensible remark for Mrs. Cheveley to\nmake, too.\n\n[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN. _She joins the group_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is\ntalking about Mrs. Cheveley! Lord Goring says—what did you say, Lord\nGoring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I remember, that she was a genius in\nthe daytime and a beauty at night.\n\nLADY BASILDON. What a horrid combination! So very unnatural!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_In her most dreamy manner_.] I like looking at\ngeniuses, and listening to beautiful people.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs. Marchmont!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Brightening to a look of real pleasure_.] I am so\nglad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven\nyears, and he has never once told me that I was morbid. Men are so\npainfully unobservant!\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Turning to her_.] I have always said, dear Margaret,\nthat you were the most morbid person in London.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Ah! but you are always sympathetic, Olivia!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire for food? I have a great\ndesire for food. Lord Goring, will you give me some supper?\n\nLORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel. [_Moves away with her_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been! You have never talked to me\nthe whole evening!\n\nLORD GORING. How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You might have followed us. Pursuit would have been\nonly polite. I don’t think I like you at all this evening!\n\nLORD GORING. I like you immensely.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you’d show it in a more marked way! [_They\ngo downstairs_.]\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness.\nI think I should like some supper very much. I know I should like some\nsupper.\n\nLADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for supper, Margaret!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these\nthings.\n\nLADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material, grossly material!\n\n[_The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC _enters from the music-room with some other\nguests_. _After having carefully examined all the people present_, _he\napproaches_ LADY BASILDON.]\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of taking you down to supper,\nComtesse?\n\nLADY BASILDON. [_Coldly_.] I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte.\n[_The_ VICOMTE _is about to retire_. LADY BASILDON, _seeing this_,\n_rises at once and takes his arm_.] But I will come down with you with\npleasure.\n\nVICOMTE DE NANJAC. I am so fond of eating! I am very English in all my\ntastes.\n\nLADY BASILDON. You look quite English, Vicomte, quite English.\n\n[_They pass out_. MR. MONTFORD, _a perfectly groomed young dandy_,\n_approaches_ MRS. MARCHMONT.]\n\nMR. MONTFORD. Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont?\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Languidly_.] Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch\nsupper. [_Rises hastily and takes his arm_.] But I will sit beside you,\nand watch you.\n\nMR. MONTFORD. I don’t know that I like being watched when I am eating!\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one else.\n\nMR. MONTFORD. I don’t know that I should like that either.\n\nMRS. MARCHMONT. [_Severely_.] Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these\npainful scenes of jealousy in public!\n\n[_They go downstairs with the other guests_, _passing_ SIR ROBERT\nCHILTERN _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY, _who now enter_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to any of our country houses\nbefore you leave England, Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I can’t stand your English house-parties. In\nEngland people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so\ndreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. And then\nthe family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England\nreally depends on you, Sir Robert. [_Sits down on the sofa_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking a seat beside her_.] Seriously?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to talk to you about a great\npolitical and financial scheme, about this Argentine Canal Company, in\nfact.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What a tedious, practical subject for you to talk\nabout, Mrs. Cheveley!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don’t\nlike are tedious, practical people. There is a wide difference.\nBesides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes. You\nwere Lord Radley’s secretary, weren’t you, when the Government bought the\nSuez Canal shares?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. But the Suez Canal was a very great and\nsplendid undertaking. It gave us our direct route to India. It had\nimperial value. It was necessary that we should have control. This\nArgentine scheme is a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring\nspeculation.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle. Let us\ncall things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler. We have\nall the information about it at the Foreign Office. In fact, I sent out\na special Commission to inquire into the matter privately, and they\nreport that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already\nsubscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. The whole thing\nis a second Panama, and with not a quarter of the chance of success that\nmiserable affair ever had. I hope you have not invested in it. I am\nsure you are far too clever to have done that.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I have invested very largely in it.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who could have advised you to do such a foolish\nthing?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend—and mine.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Baron Arnheim.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Frowning_.] Ah! yes. I remember hearing, at the\ntime of his death, that he had been mixed up in the whole affair.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His last but one, to do him\njustice.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] But you have not seen my Corots yet.\nThey are in the music-room. Corots seem to go with music, don’t they?\nMay I show them to you?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shaking her head_.] I am not in a mood to-night for\nsilver twilights, or rose-pink dawns. I want to talk business.\n[_Motions to him with her fan to sit down again beside her_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I have no advice to give you, Mrs. Cheveley,\nexcept to interest yourself in something less dangerous. The success of\nthe Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England, and I am going\nto lay the report of the Commissioners before the House to-morrow night.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert,\nto say nothing of mine, you must not do that.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at her in wonder_.] In my own interests?\nMy dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean? [_Sits down beside her_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you\nto withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on\nthe ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have\nbeen prejudiced or misinformed, or something. Then I want you to say a\nfew words to the effect that the Government is going to reconsider the\nquestion, and that you have reason to believe that the Canal, if\ncompleted, will be of great international value. You know the sort of\nthings ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes\nwill do. In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good\nplatitude. It makes the whole world kin. Will you do that for me?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me\nsuch a proposition!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I am quite serious.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Pray allow me to believe that you are\nnot.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Speaking with great deliberation and emphasis_.] Ah!\nbut I am. And if you do what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very\nhandsomely!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay me!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Leaning back on the sofa and looking at him_.] How\nvery disappointing! And I have come all the way from Vienna in order\nthat you should thoroughly understand me.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I don’t.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her most nonchalant manner_.] My dear Sir Robert,\nyou are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose.\nEverybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so\ndreadfully expensive. I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable\nin your terms.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises indignantly_.] If you will allow me, I\nwill call your carriage for you. You have lived so long abroad, Mrs.\nCheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to\nan English gentleman.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan_, _and\nkeeping it there while she is talking_.] I realise that I am talking to\na man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock\nExchange speculator a Cabinet secret.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] What do you mean?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Rising and facing him_.] I mean that I know the real\norigin of your wealth and your career, and I have got your letter, too.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What letter?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Contemptuously_.] The letter you wrote to Baron\nArnheim, when you were Lord Radley’s secretary, telling the Baron to buy\nSuez Canal shares—a letter written three days before the Government\nannounced its own purchase.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Hoarsely_.] It is not true.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had been destroyed. How foolish\nof you! It is in my possession.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The affair to which you allude was no more than a\nspeculation. The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might\nhave been rejected.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swindle, Sir Robert. Let us call things by\ntheir proper names. It makes everything simpler. And now I am going to\nsell you that letter, and the price I ask for it is your public support\nof the Argentine scheme. You made your own fortune out of one canal.\nYou must help me and my friends to make our fortunes out of another!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is infamous, what you propose—infamous!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! This is the game of life as we all have to play\nit, Sir Robert, sooner or later!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot do what you ask me.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help doing it. You know you are\nstanding on the edge of a precipice. And it is not for you to make\nterms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing you refuse—\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What then?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what then? You are ruined, that is\nall! Remember to what a point your Puritanism in England has brought\nyou. In old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his\nneighbours. In fact, to be a bit better than one’s neighbour was\nconsidered excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays, with our\nmodern mania for morality, every one has to pose as a paragon of purity,\nincorruptibility, and all the other seven deadly virtues—and what is the\nresult? You all go over like ninepins—one after the other. Not a year\npasses in England without somebody disappearing. Scandals used to lend\ncharm, or at least interest, to a man—now they crush him. And yours is a\nvery nasty scandal. You couldn’t survive it. If it were known that as a\nyoung man, secretary to a great and important minister, you sold a\nCabinet secret for a large sum of money, and that that was the origin of\nyour wealth and career, you would be hounded out of public life, you\nwould disappear completely. And after all, Sir Robert, why should you\nsacrifice your entire future rather than deal diplomatically with your\nenemy? For the moment I am your enemy. I admit it! And I am much\nstronger than you are. The big battalions are on my side. You have a\nsplendid position, but it is your splendid position that makes you so\nvulnerable. You can’t defend it! And I am in attack. Of course I have\nnot talked morality to you. You must admit in fairness that I have\nspared you that. Years ago you did a clever, unscrupulous thing; it\nturned out a great success. You owe to it your fortune and position.\nAnd now you have got to pay for it. Sooner or later we have all to pay\nfor what we do. You have to pay now. Before I leave you to-night, you\nhave got to promise me to suppress your report, and to speak in the House\nin favour of this scheme.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is impossible.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You must make it possible. You are going to make it\npossible. Sir Robert, you know what your English newspapers are like.\nSuppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper\noffice, and give them this scandal and the proofs of it! Think of their\nloathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down, of\nthe mud and mire they would plunge you in. Think of the hypocrite with\nhis greasy smile penning his leading article, and arranging the foulness\nof the public placard.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop! You want me to withdraw the report and to\nmake a short speech stating that I believe there are possibilities in the\nscheme?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down on the sofa_.] Those are my terms.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_In a low voice_.] I will give you any sum of\nmoney you want.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back\nyour past. No man is.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not do what you ask me. I will not.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You have to. If you don’t . . . [_Rises from the sofa_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bewildered and unnerved_.] Wait a moment! What\ndid you propose? You said that you would give me back my letter, didn’t\nyou?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. That is agreed. I will be in the Ladies’ Gallery\nto-morrow night at half-past eleven. If by that time—and you will have\nhad heaps of opportunity—you have made an announcement to the House in\nthe terms I wish, I shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest\nthanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suitable, compliment I can\nthink of. I intend to play quite fairly with you. One should always\nplay fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The Baron taught me\nthat . . . amongst other things.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let me have time to consider your\nproposal.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Give me a week—three days!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God! what brought you into my life?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Circumstances. [_Moves towards the door_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Don’t go. I consent. The report shall be\nwithdrawn. I will arrange for a question to be put to me on the subject.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should come to an amicable\nagreement. I understood your nature from the first. I analysed you,\nthough you did not adore me. And now you can get my carriage for me, Sir\nRobert. I see the people coming up from supper, and Englishmen always\nget romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully. [_Exit_ SIR\nROBERT CHILTERN.]\n\n[_Enter Guests_, LADY CHILTERN, LADY MARKBY, LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY\nBASILDON, MRS. MARCHMONT, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.]\n\nLADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Cheveley, I hope you have enjoyed yourself.\nSir Robert is very entertaining, is he not?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have enjoyed my talk with him\nimmensely.\n\nLADY MARKBY. He has had a very interesting and brilliant career. And he\nhas married a most admirable wife. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the very\nhighest principles, I am glad to say. I am a little too old now, myself,\nto trouble about setting a good example, but I always admire people who\ndo. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling effect on life, though her\ndinner-parties are rather dull sometimes. But one can’t have everything,\ncan one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call for you to-morrow?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.\n\nLADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at five. Everything looks so\nfresh in the Park now!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people!\n\nLADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little jaded. I have often\nobserved that the Season as it goes on produces a kind of softening of\nthe brain. However, I think anything is better than high intellectual\npressure. That is the most unbecoming thing there is. It makes the\nnoses of the young girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so\ndifficult to marry as a large nose; men don’t like them. Good-night,\ndear! [_To_ LADY CHILTERN.] Good-night, Gertrude! [_Goes out on_ LORD\nCAVERSHAM’S _arm_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern! I have\nspent a delightful evening. It has been so interesting getting to know\nyour husband.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this\nArgentine Canal scheme, of which I dare say you have heard. And I found\nhim most susceptible,—susceptible to reason, I mean. A rare thing in a\nman. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in\nthe House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We must go to the\nLadies’ Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have\nmy husband’s support.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I assure you it’s all settled. I don’t regret my\ntedious journey from Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of\ncourse, for the next twenty-four hours the whole thing is a dead secret.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Gently_.] A secret? Between whom?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a flash of amusement in her eyes_.] Between your\nhusband and myself.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Entering_.] Your carriage is here, Mrs.\nCheveley!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks! Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord\nGoring! I am at Claridge’s. Don’t you think you might leave a card?\n\nLORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don’t be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to\nleave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be\nconsidered en règle. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me\ndown, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we\nshall be great friends, I hope!\n\n[_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN’S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the\ntop of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her\nexpression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of\nthe guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman!\n\nLORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring!\n\nLORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don’t see\nwhy I shouldn’t give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice.\nIt is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room.\nI think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed\nfor hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you\nlike, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy,\nMrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving\nsubjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half\nhidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond\nbrooch! Quite beautiful, isn’t it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was\nmine, but Gertrude won’t let me wear anything but pearls, and I am\nthoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so\nintellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to.\n\nLORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch.\n\nLORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a brooch.\n\nLORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [_Takes it from her_, _and_,\n_pulling out a green letter-case_, _puts the ornament carefully in it_,\n_and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect\nsang froid_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing?\n\nLORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to\nyou.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it\nall the evening.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Is a little taken aback_, _but recovers himself_.] Don’t\nmention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any\none write and claim it, let me know at once.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request.\n\nLORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years\nago.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You did?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\n[LADY CHILTERN _enters alone_. _The other guests have gone_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night,\nGertrude! [_Exit_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady\nMarkby brought here to-night?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come\nhere for?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some\nfraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in\nfact.\n\nLORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn’t she?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like\nmy husband’s!\n\nLORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get\nRobert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes\nclever women make.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I don’t call women of that kind clever. I call them\nstupid!\n\nLORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Good-night!\n\n[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a\nlittle!\n\nLORD GORING. Afraid I can’t, thanks. I have promised to look in at the\nHartlocks’. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays\nmauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-bye!\n\n[_Exit_]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend\nyour support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn’t!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she\ncalls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this\nwoman. You don’t. We were at school together. She was untruthful,\ndishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she\ncould win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief.\nShe was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it\nhappened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have\nchanged since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One’s past is what one is. It is the only\nway by which people should be judged.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by\nboasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing\nI have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme\nthere has ever been in political life?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I\ntook. We all may make mistakes.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the\nreport from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole\nthing.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to\nbelieve that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed.\nBesides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They\nhave different laws, and move on different lines.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no\ndifference between them.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of\npractical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. All!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sternly_.] Yes!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you\nsuch a question—Robert, are you telling me the whole truth?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Why do you not answer it?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sitting down_.] Gertrude, truth is a very\ncomplex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels\nwithin wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one\nmust pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise.\nEvery one does.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently\nto-night from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you—\n\nLADY CHILTERN. What?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable.\nOr if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not,\nRobert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get?\nMoney? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted\nsource is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is\npower to do good that is fine—that, and that only. What is it, then?\nRobert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I\ntold you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than\nthat.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who\ntreat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not\nfor you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from\nothers. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to\nmyself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That\ngreat inheritance throw not away—that tower of ivory do not destroy.\nRobert, men can love what is beneath them—things unworthy, stained,\ndishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our\nworship, we lose everything. Oh! don’t kill my love for you, don’t kill\nthat!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their\nlives—men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical\nmoment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame—oh! don’t\ntell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any\nsecret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that—\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Speaking very slowly_.] That our lives may drift\napart.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better\nfor us both.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you\nmight not know.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it. But why did\nyou say those dreadful things, things so unlike your real self? Don’t\nlet us ever talk about the subject again. You will write, won’t you, to\nMrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scandalous\nscheme of hers? If you have given her any promise you must take it back,\nthat is all!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I write and tell her that?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Surely, Robert! What else is there to do?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might see her personally. It would be better.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You must never see her again, Robert. She is not a woman\nyou should ever speak to. She is not worthy to talk to a man like you.\nNo; you must write to her at once, now, this moment, and let your letter\nshow her that your decision is quite irrevocable!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Write this moment!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is so late. It is close on twelve.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. That makes no matter. She must know at once that she has\nbeen mistaken in you—and that you are not a man to do anything base or\nunderhand or dishonourable. Write here, Robert. Write that you decline\nto support this scheme of hers, as you hold it to be a dishonest scheme.\nYes—write the word dishonest. She knows what that word means. [SIR\nROBERT CHILTERN _sits down and writes a letter_. _His wife takes it up\nand reads it_.] Yes; that will do. [_Rings bell_.] And now the\nenvelope. [_He writes the envelope slowly_. _Enter_ MASON.] Have this\nletter sent at once to Claridge’s Hotel. There is no answer. [_Exit_\nMASON. LADY CHILTERN _kneels down beside her husband_, _and puts her\narms around him_.] Robert, love gives one an instinct to things. I feel\nto-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a\ndanger to you, from something that might have made men honour you less\nthan they do. I don’t think you realise sufficiently, Robert, that you\nhave brought into the political life of our time a nobler atmosphere, a\nfiner attitude towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher\nideals—I know it, and for that I love you, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, love me always, Gertrude, love me always!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I will love you always, because you will always be worthy\nof love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! [_Kisses him\nand rises and goes out_.]\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down for a moment_; _then sits down\nand buries his face in his hands_. _The Servant enters and begins\npulling out the lights_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _looks up_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights, Mason, put out the lights!\n\n[_The Servant puts out the lights_. _The room becomes almost dark_.\n_The only light there is comes from the great chandelier that hangs over\nthe staircase and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of Love_.]\n\n ACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nSECOND ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\n_Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern’s house_.\n\n[LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an\narmchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_.\n_He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_.\n_As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.]\n\nLORD GORING. My dear Robert, it’s a very awkward business, very awkward\nindeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from\nother people’s wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at\nleast, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know\nbetter. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She\ninvariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things.\nThey can discover everything except the obvious.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn’t tell my wife. When could I have\ntold her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation\nbetween us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world\nI worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last\nnight it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me\nin horror . . . in horror and in contempt.\n\nLORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Taking off his left-hand glove_.] What a pity! I beg\nyour pardon, my dear fellow, I didn’t quite mean that. But if what you\ntell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with\nLady Chiltern.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless.\n\nLORD GORING. May I try?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views.\n\nLORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological\nexperiment.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous.\n\nLORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn’t so,\nlife wouldn’t be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think\nyou should have told her years ago.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she\nwould have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is\nsuch as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done\na thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Slowly_.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There\nis no doubt of that.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bitterly_.] Men who every day do something of\nthe same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets\nin their own lives.\n\nLORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other\npeople’s secrets. It distracts public attention from their own.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No\none.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Looking at him steadily_.] Except yourself, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Of course I had private\ninformation about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of\nthe day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the\nsource of every large modern fortune.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Tapping his boot with his cane_.] And public scandal\ninvariably the result.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Pacing up and down the room_.] Arthur, do you\nthink that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up\nagainst me now? Do you think it fair that a man’s whole career should be\nruined for a fault done in one’s boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the\ntime, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two\nunforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of\none’s youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like\nmine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have\nworked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur?\n\nLORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing\nfor most of us that it is not.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with\nits own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this\ncentury is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one\nmust have wealth.\n\nLORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth\nyou could have succeeded just as well.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my\npassion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out,\ndisappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time\nfor success. I couldn’t wait.\n\nLORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are\nstill young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success.\nUnder-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty—that’s good\nenough for any one, I should think.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose\neverything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life?\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Excitedly_.] I did not sell myself for money. I\nbought success at a great price. That is all.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it.\nBut what first made you think of doing such a thing?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim.\n\nLORD GORING. Damned scoundrel!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined\nintellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most\nintellectual men I ever met.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to\nbe said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great\nadmiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose.\nBut how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Throws himself into an armchair by the\nwriting-table_.] One night after dinner at Lord Radley’s the Baron began\ntalking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce\nto an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating\nquiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all\nphilosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous\nof all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had\nproduced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come\nand see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb\nhas now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale,\ncurved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me\nhis tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me\nwonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and\nthen told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in\na play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world, was\nthe one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the\none joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich\npossessed it.\n\nLORD GORING. [_With great deliberation_.] A thoroughly shallow creed.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] I didn’t think so then. I don’t think\nso now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very\noutset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never\nbeen poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what\na wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get.\n\nLORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But\ntell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to—well, to do\nwhat you did?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever\ncould give him any private information of real value he would make me a\nvery rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my\nambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks\nlater certain private documents passed through my hands.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet_.] State\ndocuments?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. [LORD GORING _sighs_, _then passes his hand\nacross his forehead and looks up_.]\n\nLORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have\nbeen so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim\nheld out to you.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick\nof using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is\nweakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible\ntemptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to.\nTo stake all one’s life on a single moment, to risk everything on one\nthrow, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not—there is no\nweakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that\ncourage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the\nletter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over\nthe transaction.\n\nLORD GORING. And you?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron £110,000.\n\nLORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power\nover others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in\nfinance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my\nfortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a\nsuccess. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so\nextraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember\nhaving read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to\npunish us they answer our prayers.\n\nLORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for\nwhat you had done?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its\nown weapons, and won.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Sadly_.] You thought you had won.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. [_After a long pause_.] Arthur, do\nyou despise me for what I have told you?\n\nLORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] I am very sorry for\nyou, Robert, very sorry indeed.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don’t say that I suffered any remorse. I didn’t.\nNot remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have\npaid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm\ndestiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in\npublic charities since then.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Looking up_.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot\nof harm you must have done, Robert!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don’t say that, Arthur; don’t talk like that!\n\nLORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I\nshouldn’t say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great\nmistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As\nregards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can.\nOf course you know that.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be\ndone? What can be done?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Leaning back with his hands in his pockets_.] Well, the\nEnglish can’t stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but\nthey are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It\nis one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a\nconfession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is\n. . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole\naffair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a\nman who can’t talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral\naudience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing\nleft for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession\nwould be of no use. It would ruin you.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to\ndo now is to fight the thing out.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Rising from his chair_.] I was waiting for you to say\nthat, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by\ntelling your wife the whole story.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do.\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn’t do it. It would kill her love for me.\nAnd now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself\nagainst her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Arranging his necktie_.] So little that I got engaged to\nbe married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys’. The affair\nlasted for three days . . . nearly.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Airily_.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter.\nBy the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly\nfond of money.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused.\n\nLORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes.\nThe rich can’t do everything, after all.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur,\nI feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I\nnever knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of\nice were laid upon one’s heart. It is as if one’s heart were beating\nitself to death in some empty hollow.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Striking the table_.] Robert, you must fight her. You\nmust fight her.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how?\n\nLORD GORING. I can’t tell you how at present. I have not the smallest\nidea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one\nof us. [_Strolls to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass_.]\nMy father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don’t\nknow.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a\nright to use any weapon I can find, have I not?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Still looking in the glass_.] In your place I don’t\nthink I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly\nwell able to take care of herself.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his\nhand_.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna,\nto inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some\nsecret scandal she might be afraid of.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Settling his buttonhole_.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs.\nCheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new\nscandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every\nafternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the\nsorrow of her life at present is that she can’t manage to have enough of\nthem.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Writing_.] Why do you say that?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Turning round_.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last\nnight, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in\na woman.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Striking a bell_.] But it is worth while my\nwiring to Vienna, is it not?\n\nLORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is\nnot always worth while answering one.\n\n[_Enter_ MASON.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room?\n\nMASON. Yes, Sir Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Puts what he has written into an envelope_,\n_which he then carefully closes_.] Tell him to have this sent off in\ncipher at once. There must not be a moment’s delay.\n\nMASON. Yes, Sir Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again.\n\n[_Writes something on the envelope_. MASON _then goes out with the\nletter_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron\nArnheim. I wonder what it was.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I wonder.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife\nknows nothing.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Strongly_.] Oh, fight in any case—in any case.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] If my wife found\nout, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear\nfrom Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a\nchance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own\nweapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she\nlooks like a woman with a past, doesn’t she?\n\nLORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just\nas there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley’s past is merely\na slightly décolleté one, and they are excessively popular nowadays.\nBesides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening\nMrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be\neasily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows\nwonderful presence of mind.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance.\nI feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet,\nand the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife’s voice.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN _in walking dress_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring!\n\nLORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. No; I have just come from the Woman’s Liberal\nAssociation, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud\napplause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [_To_ LORD GORING.]\nYou will wait and have some tea, won’t you?\n\nLORD GORING. I’ll wait for a short time, thanks.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my\nhat off.\n\nLORD GORING. [_In his most earnest manner_.] Oh! please don’t. It is\nso pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman’s\nLiberal Association received it with loud applause.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_With a smile_.] We have much more important work to do\nthan look at each other’s bonnets, Lord Goring.\n\nLORD GORING. Really? What sort of work?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female\nInspectors, the Eight Hours’ Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. . . .\nEverything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting.\n\nLORD GORING. And never bonnets?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_With mock indignation_.] Never bonnets, never!\n\n[LADY CHILTERN _goes out through the door leading to her boudoir_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes_ LORD GORING’S _hand_.] You have been a\ngood friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend.\n\nLORD GORING. I don’t know that I have been able to do much for you,\nRobert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as\nfar as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is\nsomething. The truth has always stifled me.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible!\nBad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with\nthe older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the\ntruth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to\nlive the truth. [_Sighs_, _and goes towards the door_.] I’ll see you\nsoon again, Arthur, shan’t I?\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly. Whenever you like. I’m going to look in at the\nBachelors’ Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I’ll\ncome round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any\nchance, send round a note to Curzon Street.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.\n\n[_As he reaches the door_, LADY CHILTERN _enters from her boudoir_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to write, dear.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Going to him_.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem\nnever to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing, dear, nothing.\n\n[_He kisses her and goes out_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have\ncalled. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or\nthe Woman’s Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the\nfirst subject, and not nearly enough in the second.\n\nLORD GORING. You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I\nfound out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made\nRobert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise.\n\nLORD GORING. So he gave me to understand.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have been the first stain on a\ncareer that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach.\nHe is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do.\n[_She looks at_ LORD GORING, _who remains silent_.] Don’t you agree with\nme? You are Robert’s greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord\nGoring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has\nno secrets from me, and I don’t think he has any from you.\n\nLORD GORING. He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don’t\nthink so.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am\nright. But speak to me frankly.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Looking straight at her_.] Quite frankly?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you?\n\nLORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will\nallow me to say so, that in practical life—\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] Of which you know so little, Lord Goring—\n\nLORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know\nsomething by observation. I think that in practical life there is\nsomething about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous,\nsomething about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set\nhis heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the\ncrag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire—\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Well?\n\nLORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking\ngenerally about life.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so\nstrangely, Lord Goring?\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps\nyou are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . .\noften you don’t make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are\nelements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance,\nthat—that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had,\nyears ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . .\n\nLADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a foolish letter?\n\nLORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising one’s position. I am only\nputting an imaginary case.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is\nof doing a wrong thing.\n\nLORD GORING. [_After a long pause_.] Nobody is incapable of doing a\nfoolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say?\nThey will all have to go into mourning.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Rising_.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist.\nIndeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All\nI do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot\nbe lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy,\nthat is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the\nexplanation of the next. And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern,\ntrust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever\nwant me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it. Come at\nonce to me.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him in surprise_.] Lord Goring, you are\ntalking quite seriously. I don’t think I ever heard you talk seriously\nbefore.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Laughing_.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won’t\noccur again, if I can help it.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious.\n\n[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN, _in the most ravishing frock_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don’t say such a dreadful thing to Lord\nGoring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon\nLord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can.\n\nLORD GORING. I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a\nlittle out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you\nhave! I am sure you were very badly brought up.\n\nLORD GORING. I was.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up!\n\nLORD GORING. I am so sorry you didn’t.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. It is too late now, I suppose?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I am not so sure.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Will you ride to-morrow morning?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes, at ten.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Don’t forget.\n\nLORD GORING. Of course I shan’t. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no\nlist of your guests in _The Morning Post_ of to-day. It has apparently\nbeen crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or\nsomething equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a\nparticular reason for asking you.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one.\n\nLORD GORING. Thanks, so much.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful person in London.\n\nLORD GORING [_Turning to her_.] And who is the most ornamental?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN [_Triumphantly_.] I am.\n\nLORD GORING. How clever of you to guess it! [_Takes up his hat and\ncane_.] Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you,\nwon’t you?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don’t know why you said it to me.\n\nLORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN [_With a little moue of disappointment_.] I wish you were\nnot going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a\nhalf, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them.\n\nLORD GORING. How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There\nwon’t be any left for me.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I don’t want you to have any. They would not be good\nfor you.\n\nLORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me.\nHow charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Sharp.\n\nLORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don’t bring Mr. Trafford.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little toss of the head_.] Of course I shan’t\nbring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace.\n\nLORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [_Bows and goes out_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says\nhe is the best secretary he has ever had.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does\nnothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the\nmusic-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio\ngoing on. I didn’t dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly\ntell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical\npeople are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be\nperfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely\ndeaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of\nthat dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front\nof that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere.\nAt luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose\nagain, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was\na bimetallist. Fortunately I don’t know what bimetallism means. And I\ndon’t believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed\nTommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so\nannoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice,\nI should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public.\nBut he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be\nromantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy,\nbut his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude,\nyou would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often\nenough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a\nmanner that attracts some attention.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don’t talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks\nvery highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future\nbefore him.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn’t marry a man with a future before him for\nanything under the sun.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn’t\nyou? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble,\nself-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no character\nat all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear. As a rule, I\nthink they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don’t they?\nSuch a bad habit! And they are always thinking about themselves, when I\nwant them to be thinking about me. I must go round now and rehearse at\nLady Basildon’s. You remember, we are having tableaux, don’t you? The\nTriumph of something, I don’t know what! I hope it will be triumph of\nme. Only triumph I am really interested in at present. [_Kisses_ LADY\nCHILTERN _and goes out_; _then comes running back_.] Oh, Gertrude, do\nyou know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a\nmost lovely gown. Did you ask her?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me?\nImpossible!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life\nand not nearly so natural.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is\nexpecting you.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is\ndelightful. I love being scolded by her.\n\n[_Enter_ MASON.]\n\nMASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Advancing to meet them_.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice\nof you to come and see me! [_Shakes hands with her_, _and bows somewhat\ndistantly to_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn’t that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much\nto know her.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you.\n\n[MABEL CHILTERN _gives a little nod_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Sitting down_.] I thought your frock so charming last\nnight, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a\nsurprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby!\n\nLADY MARKBY. Going already?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to\nrehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux.\n\nLADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most\nunhealthy. [_Takes a seat on the sofa next_ LADY CHILTERN.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the\nUndeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the\nsecretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is president.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him admirably, unless he has\ndeteriorated since I knew him first.\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Reflecting_.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A\nlittle too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern.\nOne is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many\ninstances of it.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. What a dreadful prospect!\n\nLADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be\nas pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only\nfashion that England succeeds in setting.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_With a curtsey_.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for\nEngland . . . and myself. [_Goes out_.]\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just\ncalled to know if Mrs. Cheveley’s diamond brooch has been found.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Here?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge’s, and I\nthought I might possibly have dropped it here.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the\nbutler and ask. [_Touches the bell_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray don’t trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost\nit at the Opera, before we came on here.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact\nis, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have\nanything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that,\nwhen I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn’t\na shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to\nprevent the lower classes making painful observations through the windows\nof the carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly\nover-populated. Really, some one should arrange a proper scheme of\nassisted emigration. It would do a great deal of good.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six\nyears since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society\nhas become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere.\n\nLADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But one needn’t know them. I’m\nsure I don’t know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all\nI hear, I shouldn’t like to.\n\n[_Enter_ MASON.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs.\nCheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby.\n\nLADY MARKBY. I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Smiling_.] No, lady Markby—a ruby.\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Nodding her head_.] And very becoming, I am quite sure.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the\nrooms this morning, Mason?\n\nMASON. No, my lady.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so\nsorry to have put you to any inconvenience.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will\ndo, Mason. You can bring tea.\n\n[_Exit_ MASON.]\n\nLADY MARKBY. Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I\nremember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly\nhandsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don’t think he has\never given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly\ndegenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our\nhusbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a\nhappy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called\nthe Higher Education of Women was invented.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby.\nRobert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am\nafraid, am I.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men is what I should like to see.\nMen need it so sadly.\n\nLADY MARKBY. They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be\nquite unpractical. I don’t think man has much capacity for development.\nHe has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to\nwomen, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I\nam sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we\nwere taught not to understand anything. That was the old system, and\nwonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I\nand my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite\nextraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern\nwoman never understands.\n\nLADY MARKBY. And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might\nbreak up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say,\nGertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as\nmuch for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates\nregularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language\nhas become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is\naddressing the House, and consequently whenever he discusses the state of\nthe agricultural labourer, or the Welsh Church, or something quite\nimproper of that kind, I am obliged to send all the servants out of the\nroom. It is not pleasant to see one’s own butler, who has been with one\nfor twenty-three years, actually blushing at the side-board, and the\nfootmen making contortions in corners like persons in circuses. I assure\nyou my life will be quite ruined unless they send John at once to the\nUpper House. He won’t take any interest in politics then, will he? The\nHouse of Lords is so sensible. An assembly of gentlemen. But in his\npresent state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this morning\nbefore breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug, put his\nhands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of his\nvoice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need\nhardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house!\nI trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby.\nI love to hear Robert talk about them.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John\nis. I don’t think they can be quite improving reading for any one.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer\nbooks . . . in yellow covers.\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it\nnot? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so\nnow if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a\nman on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn’t say so from the sort of hats they\nwear? would one?\n\n[_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small\ntable close to_ LADY CHILTERN.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea\non a salver_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby?\n\nLADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I\nhave promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster,\nwho is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up\ngirl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in\nShropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can’t understand this\nmodern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course,\nrunning about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of\nthem, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is\nquite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the\neldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they\nmeet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money\narticle in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common\noccurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The\nTimes_ at all the clubs in St. James’s Street; there are so many sons who\nwon’t have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who\nwon’t speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be\nregretted.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons\nnowadays.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have\nproduced in modern times.\n\nLADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster\nknew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did.\n[_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don’t you, dear?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn,\nwhen we were there.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of\nhappiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her\nfamily, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll,\nhad a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say.\nShe ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on\nto the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative\nart-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in\nlife. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall\nleave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of\nan hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn’t mind waiting in\nthe carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a\nvisit of condolence, I shan’t stay long.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don’t mind waiting in the carriage at all,\nprovided there is somebody to look at one.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends.\n\nLADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a\nlittle. I should like to have a few minutes’ conversation with her.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing\nwould give me greater pleasure.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of\nyour schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I\nsee you at Lady Bonar’s to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new\ngenius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great\ncomfort, is it not?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night,\nand I don’t think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course,\nwill have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on.\n\nLADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah,\nI forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and\nnothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule.\n[_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn’t she? Talks more and\nsays less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker.\nMuch more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always\ndull and usually violent.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a\npause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks\nstern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I\nthink it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you\nreally were, I should not have invited you to my house last night.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a\nbit, Gertrude.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I never change.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you\nnothing?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty\nof a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second\ntime, and should be shunned.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any\nfurther acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite\nimpossible?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I\ndon’t mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude\nwe adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I\nam quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have\ncome here to do you a service.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to\nrender my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from\nthat.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write\nthat insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till\nto-morrow morning—no more. If by that time your husband does not\nsolemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am\ninterested—\n\nLADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation—\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the\nhollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell\nhim.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent.\nWhat has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with\nlike. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest\nthat we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He\nand I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same\nsin binds us.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare\nyou threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife’s last\nwords_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour.\nA house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round\nand sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune\nis! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret.\nLearn from him to what you owe your position.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at\nhim! Can he deny it? Does he dare to?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either\nof you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don’t do\nwhat I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert\nChiltern.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out.\n\n[MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness\nto_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for\na moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_,\n_followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband\nand wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a\ndreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She\nlooks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the\nfirst time_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life\nwith fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is\nnot true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude,\nlisten to me. You don’t realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the\nwhole thing. [_Goes towards her_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. I feel as if you\nhad soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these\nyears! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a\ncommon thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest\nbidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world.\nAnd yet you will not lie to me.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No,\ndon’t speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories—memories\nof things that made me love you—memories of words that made me love\nyou—memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You\nwere to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest,\nwithout stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and\ngoodness more real because you lived. And now—oh, when I think that I\nmade of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The\nerror all women commit. Why can’t you women love us, faults and all?\nWhy do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay,\nwomen as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing\ntheir weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the\nmore, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the\nimperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own\nhands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us—else\nwhat use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love\nshould forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon.\nA man’s love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a\nwoman’s. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are\nmaking of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and\nI had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my\nweaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it\nnow. And so, last night you ruined my life for me—yes, ruined it! What\nthis woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me.\nShe offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had\nthought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its\nhands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into\nits tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You\nprevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before\nme but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a\nlonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day?\nLet women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and\nbow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you—you\nwhom I have so wildly loved—have ruined mine!\n\n[_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the\ndoor is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_,\n_helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_,\n_outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind_.\n_Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her\nsobs are like the sobs of a child_.]\n\n ACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\n_The Library in Lord Goring’s house_. _An Adam room_. _On the right is\nthe door leading into the hall_. _On the left_, _the door of the\nsmoking-room_. _A pair of folding doors at the back open into the\ndrawing-room_. _The fire is lit_. _Phipps_, _the butler_, _is arranging\nsome newspapers on the writing-table_. _The distinction of Phipps is his\nimpassivity_. _He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler_. _The\nSphinx is not so incommunicable_. _He is a mask with a manner_. _Of his\nintellectual or emotional life_, _history knows nothing_. _He represents\nthe dominance of form_.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is\nwearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a\nLouis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_.\n_One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it\nindeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher\nin the history of thought_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps?\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and\npresents new buttonhole on salver_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person\nof the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that,\n\nLORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is\nwhat one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths\nof other people.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society\nis oneself.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance,\nPhipps.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don’t think I quite\nlike this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me\nalmost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?\n\nPHIPPS. I don’t observe any alteration in your lordship’s appearance.\n\nLORD GORING. You don’t, Phipps?\n\nPHIPPS. No, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial\nbuttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.\n\nPHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her\nfamily lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your\nlordship complains of in the buttonhole.\n\nLORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England—they\nare always losing their relations.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains\nimpassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps?\n\nPHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when\ndid this letter arrive?\n\nPHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the\nclub.\n\nLORD GORING. That will do. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern’s\nhandwriting on Lady Chiltern’s pink notepaper. That is rather curious.\nI thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say\nto me? [_Sits at bureau and opens letter_, _and reads it_.] ‘I want\nyou. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’ [_Puts down the\nletter with a puzzled look_. _Then takes it up_, _and reads it again\nslowly_.] ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.’ So she has\nfound out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [ _Pulls out watch and\nlooks at it_.] But what an hour to call! Ten o’clock! I shall have to\ngive up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be\nexpected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors’, so I\nshall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband.\nThat is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any\nwoman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in women that makes\nmarriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o’clock. She\nshould be here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any one else.\n[_Goes towards bell_]\n\n[_Enter_ PHIPPS.]\n\nPHIPPS. Lord Caversham.\n\nLORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some\nextraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]\nDelighted to see you, my dear father. [_Goes to meet him_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off.\n\nLORD GORING. Is it worth while, father?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most\ncomfortable chair?\n\nLORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I\nhave visitors.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room?\n\nLORD GORING. No, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Sitting down_.] Glad to hear it. Can’t stand\ndraughts. No draughts at home.\n\nLORD GORING. Good many breezes, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don’t understand what you mean. Want to have\na serious conversation with you, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o’clock. What is your\nobjection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour!\n\nLORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking\nseriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir?\n\nLORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the\nfirst Tuesday in every month, from four to seven.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday.\n\nLORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must\nnot have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my\nsleep.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You\nare not married.\n\nLORD GORING. No, father, I am not married.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about,\nsir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your\nage, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was\nalready paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is\nyour duty to get married. You can’t be always living for pleasure.\nEvery man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable\nany more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You\nmust get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to\nby probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why\ndon’t you imitate him, sir? Why don’t you take him for your model?\n\nLORD GORING. I think I shall, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At\npresent I make your mother’s life miserable on your account. You are\nheartless, sir, quite heartless.\n\nLORD GORING. I hope not, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are\nthirty-four years of age, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two—thirty-one and\na half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not . . .\ntrivial enough.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a\ndraught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why did\nyou tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it\ndistinctly.\n\nLORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come\nand see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you like. Let\nme help you on with your cloak, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite\npurpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health or\nyours. Put down my cloak, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room.\n[_Rings bell_.] There is a dreadful draught here. [_Enter_ PHIPPS.]\nPhipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room?\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite\nheartrending.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I\nchoose?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Apologetically_.] Quite so, father. I was merely\nexpressing sympathy.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much of\nthat sort of thing going on nowadays.\n\nLORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy\nin the world there would be less trouble in the world.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Going towards the smoking-room_.] That is a paradox,\nsir. I hate paradoxes.\n\nLORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox\nnowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Turning round_, _and looking at his son beneath his\nbushy eyebrows_.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir?\n\nLORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Yes, father, if I listen\nattentively.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Indignantly_.] If you listen attentively! . . .\nConceited young puppy!\n\n[_Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room_. PHIPPS _enters_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening on\nparticular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives.\nYou understand?\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps.\n\nPHIPPS. I understand, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances.\n\nPHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [_Bell rings_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself.\n\n[_Just as he is going towards the door_ LORD CAVERSHAM _enters from the\nsmoking-room_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Considerably perplexed_.] In a moment, father. Do\nexcuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes back_.] Well, remember my\ninstructions, Phipps—into that room.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\n[LORD GORING _goes into the smoking-room_. HAROLD, _the footman shows_\nMRS. CHEVELEY _in_. _Lamia-like_, _she is in green and silver_. _She\nhas a cloak of black satin_, _lined with dead rose-leaf silk_.]\n\nHAROLD. What name, madam?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_To_ PHIPPS, _who advances towards her_.] Is Lord\nGoring not here? I was told he was at home?\n\nPHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham, madam.\n\n[_Turns a cold_, _glassy eye on_ HAROLD, _who at once retires_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] How very filial!\n\nPHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to\nwait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you there.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a look of surprise_.] Lord Goring expects me?\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, madam.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure?\n\nPHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her to\nwait in the drawing-room. [_Goes to the door of the drawing-room and\nopens it_.] His lordship’s directions on the subject were very precise.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_] How thoughtful of him! To expect the\nunexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [_Goes towards the\ndrawing-room and looks in_.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor’s drawing-room\nalways looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS _brings the lamp\nfrom the writing-table_.] No, I don’t care for that lamp. It is far too\nglaring. Light some candles.\n\nPHIPPS. [_Replaces lamp_.] Certainly, madam.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades.\n\nPHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet.\n\n[_Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for\nto-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so silly\nwhen they are caught. And they are always being caught. [_Looks about\nroom and approaches the writing-table_.] What a very interesting room!\nWhat a very interesting picture! Wonder what his correspondence is like.\n[_Takes up letters_.] Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence!\nBills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink\npaper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of\na middle-class romance. Romance should never begin with sentiment. It\nshould begin with science and end with a settlement. [_Puts letter\ndown_, _then takes it up again_.] I know that handwriting. That is\nGertrude Chiltern’s. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in\nevery stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder\nwhat Gertrude is writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I\nsuppose. How I detest that woman! [_Reads it_.] ‘I trust you. I want\nyou. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’ ‘I trust you. I want you. I am\ncoming to you.’\n\n[_A look of triumph comes over her face_. _She is just about to steal\nthe letter_, _when_ PHIPPS _comes in_.]\n\nPHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you directed.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [_Rises hastily and slips the letter under a\nlarge silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table_.]\n\nPHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are the\nmost becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses himself\nwhen he is dressing for dinner.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a smile_.] Then I am sure they will be perfectly\nright.\n\nPHIPPS. [_Gravely_.] Thank you, madam.\n\n[MRS. CHEVELEY _goes into the drawing-room_. PHIPPS _closes the door and\nretires_. _The door is then slowly opened_, _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes\nout and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table_. _Suddenly voices\nare heard from the smoking-room_. MRS. CHEVELEY _grows pale_, _and\nstops_. _The voices grow louder_, _and she goes back into the\ndrawing-room_, _biting her lip_.]\n\n[_Enter_ LORD GORING _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_Expostulating_.] My dear father, if I am to get married,\nsurely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and person?\nParticularly the person.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would\nprobably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted, not\nyou. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection.\nAffection comes later on in married life.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people\nthoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn’t it? [_Puts on_ LORD\nCAVERSHAM’S _cloak for him_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, air. You are\ntalking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a matter\nfor common sense.\n\nLORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain,\nfather, aren’t they? Of course I only speak from hearsay.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all,\nsir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex.\n\nLORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never\nuse it, do we, father?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else.\n\nLORD GORING. So my mother tells me.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother’s happiness. You are\nvery heartless, sir, very heartless.\n\nLORD GORING. I hope not, father.\n\n[_Goes out for a moment_. _Then returns_, _looking rather put out_,\n_with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck meeting\nyou on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were not at home.\nHow extraordinary!\n\nLORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I\ngave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a\ncomparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole time.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are my\nbest friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My wife\nhas discovered everything.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at him_.] Really! How?\n\nLORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Oh, merely by something in the\nexpression of your face as you came in. Who told her?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love knows\nthat I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my\nlife upon sands of shame—that I sold, like a common huckster, the secret\nthat had been intrusted to me as a man of honour. I thank heaven poor\nLord Radley died without knowing that I betrayed him. I would to God I\nhad died before I had been so horribly tempted, or had fallen so low.\n[_Burying his face in his hands_.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_After a pause_.] You have heard nothing from Vienna yet,\nin answer to your wire?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking up_.] Yes; I got a telegram from the\nfirst secretary at eight o’clock to-night.\n\nLORD GORING. Well?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On the\ncontrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is a sort\nof open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion of his\nimmense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing.\n\nLORD GORING. She doesn’t turn out to be a spy, then?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their profession\nis over. The newspapers do their work instead.\n\nLORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring for\nsomething? Some hock and seltzer?\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [_Rings the bell_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don’t know what to do, Arthur, I don’t\nknow what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend you\nare—the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely, can’t I?\n\n[_Enter_ PHIPPS.]\n\nLORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [_To_ PHIPPS.] Bring some\nhock and seltzer.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. And Phipps!\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to give\nsome directions to my servant.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly.\n\nLORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home\nthis evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town.\nYou understand?\n\nPHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into\nthat room, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] What a mess I\nam in. No; I think I shall get through it. I’ll give her a lecture\nthrough the door. Awkward thing to manage, though.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life seems to\nhave crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night without\na star.\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don’t you?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I used\nto think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing\nin the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her. But I am\ndefamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a wide gulf\nbetween us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me out.\n\nLORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly—some\nindiscretion—that she should not forgive your sin?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what weakness\nor temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands apart as good\nwomen do—pitiless in her perfection—cold and stern and without mercy.\nBut I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I have no one else to\nlove, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had sent us children she\nmight have been kinder to me. But God has given us a lonely house. And\nshe has cut my heart in two. Don’t let us talk of it. I was brutal to\nher this evening. But I suppose when sinners talk to saints they are\nbrutal always. I said to her things that were hideously true, on my\nside, from my stand-point, from the standpoint of men. But don’t let us\ntalk of that.\n\nLORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she is\nforgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [_Buries his face in\nhis hands_.] But there is something more I have to tell you, Arthur.\n\n[_Enter_ PHIPPS _with drinks_.]\n\nPHIPPS. [_Hands hock and seltzer to_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and\nseltzer, sir.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.\n\nLORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club.\n\nLORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps.\n\nPHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, you don’t mind my sending you away?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes. I\nhave made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House. The\ndebate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [_A chair falls in\nthe drawing-room_.] What is that?\n\nLORD GORING. Nothing.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some one\nhas been listening.\n\nLORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the room,\nand the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every secret of my\nlife. Arthur, what does this mean?\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is no\none in that room. Sit down, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one\nthere?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [_Sits down_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises_.] Arthur, let me see for myself.\n\nLORD GORING. No, no.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look in\nthat room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy myself.\nLet me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life’s secret. Arthur, you\ndon’t realise what I am going through.\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is no\none in that room—that is enough.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushes to the door of the room_.] It is not\nenough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is no\none there, so what reason can you have for refusing me?\n\nLORD GORING. For God’s sake, don’t! There is some one there. Some one\nwhom you must not see.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so!\n\nLORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don’t care\nwho is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my secret and my\nshame. [_Enters room_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife!\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _comes back_, _with a look of scorn and anger on his\nface_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the\npresence of that woman here?\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is\nstainless and guiltless of all offence towards you.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing!\n\nLORD GORING. Don’t say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came\nhere. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and no\none else.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues\nwith you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well suited to each\nother. She, corrupt and shameful—you, false as a friend, treacherous as\nan enemy even—\n\nLORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true. In\nher presence and in yours I will explain all.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon your\nword of honour.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _goes out_. LORD GORING _rushes to the door of the\ndrawing-room_, _when_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out_, _looking radiant and\nmuch amused_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a mock curtsey_] Good evening, Lord Goring!\n\nLORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you\nwere doing in my drawing-room?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening\nthrough keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them.\n\nLORD GORING. Doesn’t that sound rather like tempting Providence?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.\n[_Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off_, _which he does_.]\n\nLORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some\ngood advice.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don’t. One should never give a woman anything\nthat she can’t wear in the evening.\n\nLORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more\nexperience.\n\nLORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a\ncigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally\nI prefer the other half.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn’t like it,\nand a woman’s first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn’t it? What\nthe second duty is, no one has as yet discovered.\n\nLORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern’s letter,\nhaven’t you?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess\nthat?\n\nLORD GORING. Because you haven’t mentioned the subject. Have you got it\nwith you?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down_.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no\npockets.\n\nLORD GORING. What is your price for it?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a\ncheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have\nvery much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern\nhas got hold of. Money is not what I want.\n\nLORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Why don’t you call me Laura?\n\nLORD GORING. I don’t like the name.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes: that’s why. [MRS. CHEVELEY _motions to him to sit\ndown beside her_. _He smiles_, _and does so_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife.\n\nLORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw,\npoor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the\nconservatory at Tenby.\n\nLORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that\nmatter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich.\n\nLORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who\nhad only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never\ncould quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the\nmost horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur.\nWhy, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One\nof those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country\nhouse on an English country Sunday. I don’t think any one at all morally\nresponsible for what he or she does at an English country house.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.\n\nLORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever\nto know anything about love.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved\nme; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has\nonce loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love\nher? [_Puts her hand on his_.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_Taking his hand away quietly_.] Yes: except that.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] I am tired of living abroad. I want\nto come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to\nhave a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the\nIrish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I\nhave arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the\nChilterns’, I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I\never have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day\nyou marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern’s letter. That is my\noffer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me.\n\nLORD GORING. Now?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] To-morrow.\n\nLORD GORING. Are you really serious?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious.\n\nLORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused\nme immensely.\n\nLORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don’t you?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life?\n\nLORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. What book?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Rising_.] The Book of Numbers.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to\na woman in your own house?\n\nLORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge,\nnot a defence.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear\nArthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That\nis the difference between the two sexes.\n\nLORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know\nthem.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Then you are going to allow your\ngreatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some\none who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would\nhave risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you\nshould. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your\nown perfections.\n\nLORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that\nshould be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom\none sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You\nseem to forget that I know his real character.\n\nLORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was\nan act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I\nadmit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true\ncharacter.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other!\n\nLORD GORING. How you women war against each other!\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Bitterly_.] I only war against one woman, against\nGertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.\n\nLORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I\nsuppose.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a sneer_.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in\na woman’s life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her\nfuture invariably her husband.\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which\nyou are alluding.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters\nnever knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven\nand three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any\nmoral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic\ninterview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don’t\nyou? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a\ngreat prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very\nwell. If Sir Robert doesn’t uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him.\nVoilà tout.\n\nLORD GORING. You mustn’t do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Oh! don’t use big words.\nThey mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all.\nThere is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell\nRobert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won’t pay me my price, he will\nhave to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I\nmust go. Good-bye. Won’t you shake hands?\n\nLORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may\npass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age;\nbut you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of\nlove, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a\nbook closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most\nnoble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes,\nto try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and\nbitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her\nsoul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can\nbe no forgiveness.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite\nunjust to me. I didn’t go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of\ndoing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby\nsimply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last\nnight, had been found at the Chilterns’. If you don’t believe me, you\ncan ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that\noccurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me\nby Gertrude’s rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!—a little out of malice\nif you like—but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found.\nThat was the origin of the whole thing.\n\nLORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know?\n\nLORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself,\nand stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was\nleaving. [_Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers_.]\nIt is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn’t it?\n[_Holds up the brooch_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a present.\n\nLORD GORING. Won’t you wear it?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING _suddenly\nclasps it on her arm_.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never\nknew it could he worn as a bracelet.\n\nLORD GORING. Really?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Holding out her handsome arm_.] No; but it looks very\nwell on me as a bracelet, doesn’t it?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Calmly_.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from\nwhom you stole it.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting_.] What do you mean?\n\nLORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary\nBerkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a\nwretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last\nnight. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief.\nI have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Tossing her head_.] It is not true.\n\nLORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your\nface at this moment.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I\nwill say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in\nmy possession.\n\n[MRS. CHEVELEY _tries to get the bracelet off her arm_, _but fails_.\nLORD GORING _looks on amused_. _Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no\npurpose_. _A curse breaks from her_.]\n\nLORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that\none never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can’t\nget that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see\nyou don’t know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [_She tries again to unclasp the\nbracelet_, _but fails_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Oh! don’t use big words. They mean so little.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage_,\n_with inarticulate sounds_. _Then stops_, _and looks at_ LORD GORING.]\nWhat are you going to do?\n\nLORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable\nservant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I\nwill tell him to fetch the police.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Trembling_.] The police? What for?\n\nLORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what\nthe police are for.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Is now in an agony of physical terror_. _Her face is\ndistorted_. _Her mouth awry_. _A mask has fallen from her_. _She it_,\n_for the moment_, _dreadful to look at_.] Don’t do that. I will do\nanything you want. Anything in the world you want.\n\nLORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think.\n\nLORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you\nto-morrow.\n\nLORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS.\nCHEVELEY _pulls the letter out_, _and hands it to him_. _She is horribly\npale_.] This is it?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_In a hoarse voice_.] Yes.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Takes the letter_, _examines it_, _sighs_, _and burns it\nwith the lamp_.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have\nmoments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Catches sight of_ LADY CHILTERN’S _letter_, _the cover\nof which is just showing from under the blotting-book_.] Please get me a\nglass of water.\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly. [_Goes to the corner of the room and pours out\na glass of water_. _While his back is turned_ MRS. CHEVELEY _steals_\nLADY CHILTERN’S _letter_. _When_ LORD GORING _returns the glass she\nrefuses it with a gesture_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak?\n\nLORD GORING. With pleasure. [_Puts her cloak on_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern\nagain.\n\nLORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn’t. On the\ncontrary, I am going to render him a great service.\n\nLORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation.\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can’t bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable\nan English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so—\n\nLORD GORING. Well?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern’s dying speech and\nconfession has strayed into my pocket.\n\nLORD GORING. What do you mean?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a bitter note of triumph in her voice_.] I mean\nthat I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to\nyou to-night.\n\nLORD GORING. Love-letter?\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_Laughing_.] ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to\nyou. Gertrude.’\n\n[LORD GORING _rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope_, _finds is\nempty_, _and turns round_.]\n\nLORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me\nback that letter. I’ll take it from you by force. You shall not leave\nmy room till I have got it.\n\n[_He rushes towards her_, _but_ MRS. CHEVELEY _at once puts her hand on\nthe electric bell that is on the table_. _The bell sounds with shrill\nreverberations_, _and_ PHIPPS _enters_.]\n\nMRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Lord Goring merely rang that you\nshould show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring!\n\n[_Goes out followed by_ PHIPPS. _Her face is illumined with evil\ntriumph_. _There is joy in her eyes_. _Youth seems to have come back to\nher_. _Her last glance is like a swift arrow_. LORD GORING _bites his\nlip_, _and lights his a cigarette_.]\n\n ACT DROPS\n\n\n\n\nFOURTH ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\n_Same as Act II_.\n\n[LORD GORING _is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his\npockets_. _He is looking rather bored_.]\n\nLORD GORING. [_Pulls out his watch_, _inspects it_, _and rings the\nbell_.] It is a great nuisance. I can’t find any one in this house to\ntalk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the\nlatest edition of something or other.\n\n[_Enter servant_.]\n\nJAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord.\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet?\n\nJAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just\ncome in from riding.\n\nLORD GORING. [_To himself_.] Ah! that is something.\n\nJAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir\nRobert. I told him your lordship was here.\n\nLORD GORING. Thank you! Would you kindly tell him I’ve gone?\n\nJAMES. [_Bowing_.] I shall do so, my lord.\n\n[_Exit servant_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Really, I don’t want to meet my father three days running.\nIt is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness\nhe won’t come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the\nonly proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are\ndarlings. [_Throws himself down into a chair_, _picks up a paper and\nbegins to read it_.]\n\n[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time\nas usual, I suppose?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Throws down paper and rises_.] My dear father, when one\npays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not\none’s own.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about\nlast night?\n\nLORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Genially_.] Not yet: but I hope to be before lunch-time.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Caustically_.] You can have till dinner-time if it\nwould be of any convenience to you.\n\nLORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think I’d sooner be engaged before\nlunch.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not.\n\nLORD GORING. Neither do I, father.\n\n[_A pause_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read _The Times_ this morning?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Airily_.] The Times? Certainly not. I only read _The\nMorning Post_. All that one should know about modern life is where the\nDuchesses are; anything else is quite demoralising.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read _The Times_ leading\narticle on Robert Chiltern’s career?\n\nLORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of\ncourse. Chiltern’s speech last night on this Argentine Canal scheme was\none of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since\nCanning.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did . . .\ndid Chiltern uphold the scheme?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he\ndenounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance.\nThis speech is the turning-point in his career, as _The Times_ points\nout. You should read this article, sir. [_Opens_ The Times.] ‘Sir\nRobert Chiltern . . . most rising of our young statesmen . . . Brilliant\nOrator . . . Unblemished career . . . Well-known integrity of character\n. . . Represents what is best in English public life . . . Noble contrast\nto the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.’ They will\nnever say that of you, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at\nwhat you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got\npluck.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius.\n\nLORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as\ngenius is.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament.\n\nLORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the\nHouse of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you try to do something useful in life?\n\nLORD GORING. I am far too young.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It\nis a great deal too prevalent nowadays.\n\nLORD GORING. Youth isn’t an affectation. Youth is an art.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern?\n\nLORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposition, especially in the\nmorning.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I don’t suppose there is the smallest chance of her\naccepting you.\n\nLORD GORING. I don’t know how the betting stands to-day.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she would be the prettiest fool in\nEngland.\n\nLORD GORING. That is just what I should like to marry. A thoroughly\nsensible wife would reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less\nthan six months.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. You don’t deserve her, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we\nshould have a very bad time of it.\n\n[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh! . . . How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady\nCaversham is quite well?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual.\n\nLORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Taking no notice at all of_ LORD GORING, _and\naddressing herself exclusively to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] And Lady Caversham’s\nbonnets . . . are they at all better?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. They have had a serious relapse, I am sorry to say.\n\nLORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] I hope an operation will not be\nnecessary.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Smiling at her pertness_.] If it is, we shall have to\ngive Lady Caversham a narcotic. Otherwise she would never consent to\nhave a feather touched.\n\nLORD GORING. [_With increased emphasis_.] Good morning, Miss Mabel!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Turning round with feigned surprise_.] Oh, are you\nhere? Of course you understand that after your breaking your appointment\nI am never going to speak to you again.\n\nLORD GORING. Oh, please don’t say such a thing. You are the one person\nin London I really like to have to listen to me.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a single word that either\nyou or I say to each other.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my dear, quite right . . . as far\nas he is concerned, I mean.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could possibly make your son behave a\nlittle better occasionally? Just as a change.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say, Miss Chiltern, that I have no influence\nat all over my son. I wish I had. If I had, I know what I would make\nhim do.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak\nnatures that are not susceptible to influence.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. He is very heartless, very heartless.\n\nLORD GORING. It seems to me that I am a little in the way here.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know\nwhat people say of you behind your back.\n\nLORD GORING. I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my\nback. It makes me far too conceited.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not going to leave me all alone with\nLord Goring? Especially at such an early hour in the day.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I am afraid I can’t take him with me to Downing Street.\nIt is not the Prime Minster’s day for seeing the unemployed.\n\n[_Shakes hands with_ MABEL CHILTERN, _takes up his hat and stick_, _and\ngoes out_, _with a parting glare of indignation at_ LORD GORING.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Takes up roses and begins to arrange them in a bowl on\nthe table_.] People who don’t keep their appointments in the Park are\nhorrid.\n\nLORD GORING. Detestable.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I am glad you admit it. But I wish you wouldn’t look so\npleased about it.\n\nLORD GORING. I can’t help it. I always look pleased when I am with you.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] Then I suppose it is my duty to remain with\nyou?\n\nLORD GORING. Of course it is.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I never do, on principle. It\nalways depresses me. So I am afraid I must leave you.\n\nLORD GORING. Please don’t, Miss Mabel. I have something very particular\nto say to you.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Rapturously_.] Oh! is it a proposal?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Somewhat taken aback_.] Well, yes, it is—I am bound to\nsay it is.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_With a sigh of pleasure_.] I am so glad. That makes\nthe second to-day.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Indignantly_.] The second to-day? What conceited ass\nhas been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had\nproposed to you?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy’s days\nfor proposing. He always proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the\nSeason.\n\nLORD GORING. You didn’t accept him, I hope?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to accept Tommy. That is why he\ngoes on proposing. Of course, as you didn’t turn up this morning, I very\nnearly said yes. It would have been an excellent lesson both for him and\nfor you if I had. It would have taught you both better manners.\n\nLORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass. I\nlove you.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before.\nI am sure I have given you heaps of opportunities.\n\nLORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing a man always says to a\ngirl before he has been married to her. He never says it afterwards.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Taking hold of her hand_.] Mabel, I have told you that I\nlove you. Can’t you love me a little in return?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about . . .\nanything, which you don’t, you would know that I adore you. Every one in\nLondon knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you.\nI have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of\nsociety that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say\nto me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that\nI am quite sure I have no character left at all.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Catches her in his arms and kisses her_. _Then there is\na pause of bliss_.] Dear! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being\nrefused!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking up at him_.] But you never have been refused\nyet by anybody, have you, Arthur? I can’t imagine any one refusing you.\n\nLORD GORING. [_After kissing her again_.] Of course I’m not nearly good\nenough for you, Mabel.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Nestling close to him_.] I am so glad, darling. I\nwas afraid you were.\n\nLORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] And I’m . . . I’m a little over\nthirty.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Dear, you look weeks younger than that.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Enthusiastically_.] How sweet of you to say so! . . .\nAnd it is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. But so am I, Arthur. So we’re sure to agree. And now I\nmust go and see Gertrude.\n\nLORD GORING. Must you really? [_Kisses her_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nLORD GORING. Then do tell her I want to talk to her particularly. I\nhave been waiting here all the morning to see either her or Robert.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Do you mean to say you didn’t come here expressly to\npropose to me?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Triumphantly_.] No; that was a flash of genius.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Your first.\n\nLORD GORING. [_With determination_.] My last.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. I am delighted to hear it. Now don’t stir. I’ll be\nback in five minutes. And don’t fall into any temptations while I am\naway.\n\nLORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are away, there are none. It makes\nme horribly dependent on you.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Good morning, dear! How pretty you are looking!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. How pale you are looking, Gertrude! It is most\nbecoming!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Good morning, Lord Goring!\n\nLORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] Good morning, Lady Chiltern!\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_Aside to_ LORD GORING.] I shall be in the\nconservatory under the second palm tree on the left.\n\nLORD GORING. Second on the left?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. [_With a look of mock surprise_.] Yes; the usual palm\ntree.\n\n[_Blows a kiss to him_, _unobserved by_ LADY CHILTERN, _and goes out_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain amount of very good news to\ntell you. Mrs. Cheveley gave me up Robert’s letter last night, and I\nburned it. Robert is safe.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Sinking on the sofa_.] Safe! Oh! I am so glad of\nthat. What a good friend you are to him—to us!\n\nLORD GORING. There is only one person now that could be said to be in\nany danger.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Who is that?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Sitting down beside her_.] Yourself.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I? In danger? What do you mean?\n\nLORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It is a word I should not have\nused. But I admit I have something to tell you that may distress you,\nthat terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening you wrote me a very\nbeautiful, womanly letter, asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one\nof your oldest friends, one of your husband’s oldest friends. Mrs.\nCheveley stole that letter from my rooms.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her? Why should she not have it?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Rising_.] Lady Chiltern, I will be quite frank with you.\nMrs. Cheveley puts a certain construction on that letter and proposes to\nsend it to your husband.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. But what construction could she put on it? . . . Oh! not\nthat! not that! If I in—in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting you,\npropose to come to you . . . that you may advise me . . . assist me . . .\nOh! are there women so horrible as that . . .? And she proposes to send\nit to my husband? Tell me what happened. Tell me all that happened.\n\nLORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in a room adjoining my library,\nwithout my knowledge. I thought that the person who was waiting in that\nroom to see me was yourself. Robert came in unexpectedly. A chair or\nsomething fell in the room. He forced his way in, and he discovered her.\nWe had a terrible scene. I still thought it was you. He left me in\nanger. At the end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession of your\nletter—she stole it, when or how, I don’t know.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. At what hour did this happen?\n\nLORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I propose that we tell Robert\nthe whole thing at once.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him with amazement that is almost terror_.]\nYou want me to tell Robert that the woman you expected was not Mrs.\nCheveley, but myself? That it was I whom you thought was concealed in a\nroom in your house, at half-past ten o’clock at night? You want me to\ntell him that?\n\nLORD GORING. I think it is better that he should know the exact truth.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Oh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t!\n\nLORD GORING. May I do it?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. No.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] You are wrong, Lady Chiltern.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be intercepted. That is all. But\nhow can I do it? Letters arrive for him every moment of the day. His\nsecretaries open them and hand them to him. I dare not ask the servants\nto bring me his letters. It would be impossible. Oh! why don’t you tell\nme what to do?\n\nLORD GORING. Pray be calm, Lady Chiltern, and answer the questions I am\ngoing to put to you. You said his secretaries open his letters.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nLORD GORING. Who is with him to-day? Mr. Trafford, isn’t it?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think.\n\nLORD GORING. You can trust him?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Oh! how do I know?\n\nLORD GORING. He would do what you asked him, wouldn’t he?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I think so.\n\nLORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper. He could recognise it\nwithout reading it, couldn’t he? By the colour?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I suppose so.\n\nLORD GORING. Is he in the house now?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nLORD GORING. Then I will go and see him myself, and tell him that a\ncertain letter, written on pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert\nto-day, and that at all costs it must not reach him. [_Goes to the\ndoor_, _and opens it_.] Oh! Robert is coming upstairs with the letter in\nhis hand. It has reached him already.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_With a cry of pain_.] Oh! you have saved his life;\nwhat have you done with mine?\n\n[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He has the letter in his hand_, _and is\nreading it_. _He comes towards his wife_, _not noticing_ LORD GORING’S\n_presence_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.\nGertrude.’ Oh, my love! Is this true? Do you indeed trust me, and want\nme? If so, it was for me to come to you, not for you to write of coming\nto me. This letter of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing that\nthe world may do can hurt me now. You want me, Gertrude?\n\n[LORD GORING, _unseen by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _makes an imploring sign\nto_ LADY CHILTERN _to accept the situation and_ SIR ROBERT’S _error_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You trust me, Gertrude?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! why did you not add you loved me?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Taking his hand_.] Because I loved you.\n\n[LORD GORING _passes into the conservatory_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Kisses her_.] Gertrude, you don’t know what I\nfeel. When Montford passed me your letter across the table—he had opened\nit by mistake, I suppose, without looking at the handwriting on the\nenvelope—and I read it—oh! I did not care what disgrace or punishment was\nin store for me, I only thought you loved me still.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. There is no disgrace in store for you, nor any public\nshame. Mrs. Cheveley has handed over to Lord Goring the document that\nwas in her possession, and he has destroyed it.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Are you sure of this, Gertrude?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just told me.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh! what a wonderful thing to be\nsafe! For two days I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did\nArthur destroy my letter? Tell me.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. He burned it.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had seen that one sin of my youth burning\nto ashes. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see\ntheir past burning to white ashes before them! Is Arthur still here?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conservatory.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad now I made that speech last night in\nthe House, so glad. I made it thinking that public disgrace might be the\nresult. But it has not been so.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the result.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think so. I fear so, almost. For although I am\nsafe from detection, although every proof against me is destroyed, I\nsuppose, Gertrude . . . I suppose I should retire from public life? [_He\nlooks anxiously at his wife_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh yes, Robert, you should do that. It is\nyour duty to do that.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to surrender.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to gain.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down the room with a troubled\nexpression_. _Then comes over to his wife_, _and puts his hand on her\nshoulder_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be happy living somewhere alone with\nme, abroad perhaps, or in the country away from London, away from public\nlife? You would have no regrets?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Oh! none, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] And your ambition for me? You used to\nbe ambitious for me.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have none now, but that we two may\nlove each other. It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us not\ntalk about ambition.\n\n[LORD GORING _returns from the conservatory_, _looking very pleased with\nhimself_, _and with an entirely new buttonhole that some one has made for\nhim_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Going towards him_.] Arthur, I have to thank you\nfor what you have done for me. I don’t know how I can repay you.\n[_Shakes hands with him_.]\n\nLORD GORING. My dear fellow, I’ll tell you at once. At the present\nmoment, under the usual palm tree . . . I mean in the conservatory . . .\n\n[_Enter_ MASON.]\n\nMASON. Lord Caversham.\n\nLORD GORING. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of\nturning up at the wrong moment. It is very heartless of him, very\nheartless indeed.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM. MASON _goes out_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chiltern! Warmest congratulations to\nyou, Chiltern, on your brilliant speech last night. I have just left the\nPrime Minister, and you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a look of joy and triumph_.] A seat in the\nCabinet?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Yes; here is the Prime Minister’s letter. [_Hands\nletter_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes letter and reads it_.] A seat in the\nCabinet!\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well deserve it too. You have got\nwhat we want so much in political life nowadays—high character, high\nmoral tone, high principles. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Everything that you\nhave not got, sir, and never will have.\n\nLORD GORING. I don’t like principles, father. I prefer prejudices.\n\n[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is on the brink of accepting the Prime Minister’s\noffer_, _when he sees wife looking at him with her clear_, _candid eyes_.\n_He then realises that it is impossible_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have\nmade up my mind to decline it.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My intention is to retire at once from public life.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Angrily_.] Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire\nfrom public life? Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course\nof my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. Chiltern, I beg your\npardon. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Don’t grin like that, sir.\n\nLORD GORING. No, father.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman, the most\nsensible woman in London, the most sensible woman I know. Will you\nkindly prevent your husband from making such a . . . from taking such\n. . . Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I think my husband in right in his determination, Lord\nCaversham. I approve of it.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good heavens!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Taking her husband’s hand_.] I admire him for it. I\nadmire him immensely for it. I have never admired him so much before.\nHe is finer than even I thought him. [_To_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] You\nwill go and write your letter to the Prime Minister now, won’t you?\nDon’t hesitate about it, Robert.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a touch of bitterness_.] I suppose I had\nbetter write it at once. Such offers are not repeated. I will ask you\nto excuse me for a moment, Lord Caversham.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert, may I not?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Gertrude.\n\n[LADY CHILTERN _goes out with him_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with this family? Something wrong\nhere, eh? [_Tapping his forehead_.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I suppose.\nBoth of them, too. Wife as well as husband. Very sad. Very sad indeed!\nAnd they are not an old family. Can’t understand it.\n\nLORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure you.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir?\n\nLORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Well, it is what is called\nnowadays a high moral tone, father. That is all.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Hate these new-fangled names. Same thing as we used to\ncall idiocy fifty years ago. Shan’t stay in this house any longer.\n\nLORD GORING. [_Taking his arm_.] Oh! just go in here for a moment,\nfather. Third palm tree to the left, the usual palm tree.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir?\n\nLORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I forgot. The conservatory,\nfather, the conservatory—there is some one there I want you to talk to.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir?\n\nLORD GORING. About me, father,\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Grimly_.] Not a subject on which much eloquence is\npossible.\n\nLORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like me. She doesn’t care much\nfor eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud.\n\n[LORD CAVERSHAM _goes out into the conservatory_. LADY CHILTERN\n_enters_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you playing Mrs. Cheveley’s cards?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Startled_.] I don’t understand you.\n\nLORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband. Either\nto drive him from public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable\nposition. From the latter tragedy you saved him. The former you are now\nthrusting on him. Why should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried to\ndo and failed?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring?\n\nLORD GORING. [_Pulling himself together for a great effort_, _and\nshowing the philosopher that underlies the dandy_.] Lady Chiltern, allow\nme. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me\nand wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now\nis the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and\njudgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What\nsort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his\nambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career,\nif you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to\nsterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not\nmeant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon,\nnot punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods\nfor a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself?\nA man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It has larger issues,\nwider scope, greater ambitions. A woman’s life revolves in curves of\nemotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life progresses.\nDon’t make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a\nman’s love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of\nwomen, or should want of them.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Troubled and hesitating_.] But it is my husband\nhimself who wishes to retire from public life. He feels it is his duty.\nIt was he who first said so.\n\nLORD GORING. Rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything, wreck\nhis whole career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is making for\nyou a terrible sacrifice. Take my advice, Lady Chiltern, and do not\naccept a sacrifice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it\nbitterly. We men and women are not made to accept such sacrifices from\neach other. We are not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been\npunished enough.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. We have both been punished. I set him up too high.\n\nLORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] Do not for that reason\nset him down now too low. If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust\nhim into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the very mire of shame.\nPower is his passion. He would lose everything, even his power to feel\nlove. Your husband’s life is at this moment in your hands, your\nhusband’s love is in your hands. Don’t mar both for him.\n\n[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, here is the draft of my letter. Shall I\nread it to you?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Let me see it.\n\n[SIR ROBERT _hands her the letter_. _She reads it_, _and then_, _with a\ngesture of passion_, _tears it up_.]\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. A man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It has\nlarger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in\ncurves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life\nprogresses. I have just learnt this, and much else with it, from Lord\nGoring. And I will not spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as\na sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That\nis how women help the world. I see that now.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Deeply overcome by emotion_, _embraces her_.] My\nwife! my wife! [_To_ LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always to\nbe in your debt.\n\nLORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt is to Lady Chiltern, not to\nme!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And now tell me what you were\ngoing to ask me just now as Lord Caversham came in.\n\nLORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister’s guardian, and I want your\nconsent to my marriage with her. That is all.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad! [_Shakes hands with_\nLORD GORING.]\n\nLORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltern.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a troubled look_.] My sister to be your\nwife?\n\nLORD GORING. Yes.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Speaking with great firmness_.] Arthur, I am\nvery sorry, but the thing is quite out of the question. I have to think\nof Mabel’s future happiness. And I don’t think her happiness would be\nsafe in your hands. And I cannot have her sacrificed!\n\nLORD GORING. Sacrificed!\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, utterly sacrificed. Loveless marriages are\nhorrible. But there is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless\nmarriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only;\nfaith, but on one side only; devotion, but on one side only, and in which\nof the two hearts one is sure to be broken.\n\nLORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other woman has any place in my life.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each other, why should they not be\nmarried?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring Mabel the love that she\ndeserves.\n\nLORD GORING. What reason have you for saying that?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Do you really require me to\ntell you?\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly I do.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. As you choose. When I called on you yesterday\nevening I found Mrs. Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was between\nten and eleven o’clock at night. I do not wish to say anything more.\nYour relations with Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night,\nnothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you were engaged to be married\nto her once. The fascination she exercised over you then seems to have\nreturned. You spoke to me last night of her as of a woman pure and\nstainless, a woman whom you respected and honoured. That may be so. But\nI cannot give my sister’s life into your hands. It would be wrong of me.\nIt would be unjust, infamously unjust to her.\n\nLORD GORING. I have nothing more to say.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs. Cheveley whom Lord Goring\nexpected last night.\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley! Who was it then?\n\nLORD GORING. Lady Chiltern!\n\nLADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert, yesterday afternoon Lord\nGoring told me that if ever I was in trouble I could come to him for\nhelp, as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on, after that\nterrible scene in this room, I wrote to him telling him that I trusted\nhim, that I had need of him, that I was coming to him for help and\nadvice. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _takes the letter out of his pocket_.]\nYes, that letter. I didn’t go to Lord Goring’s, after all. I felt that\nit is from ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made me think that.\nMrs. Cheveley went. She stole my letter and sent it anonymously to you\nthis morning, that you should think . . . Oh! Robert, I cannot tell you\nwhat she wished you to think. . . .\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had I fallen so low in your eyes that you\nthought that even for a moment I could have doubted your goodness?\nGertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white image of all good things, and\nsin can never touch you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have my\nbest wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is no name at the beginning of\nthis letter. The brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed\nthat. There should be a name.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is you I trust and need. You and\nnone else.\n\nLORD GORING. Well, really, Lady Chiltern, I think I should have back my\nown letter.\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] No; you shall have Mabel. [_Takes the\nletter and writes her husband’s name on it_.]\n\nLORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn’t changed her mind. It’s nearly\ntwenty minutes since I saw her last.\n\n[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your father’s conversation much\nmore improving than yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caversham in\nthe future, and always under the usual palm tree.\n\nLORD GORING. Darling! [_Kisses her_.]\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. [_Considerably taken aback_.] What does this mean, sir?\nYou don’t mean to say that this charming, clever young lady has been so\nfoolish as to accept you?\n\nLORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chiltern’s been wise enough to\naccept the seat in the Cabinet.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. I am very glad to hear that, Chiltern . . . I\ncongratulate you, sir. If the country doesn’t go to the dogs or the\nRadicals, we shall have you Prime Minister, some day.\n\n[_Enter_ MASON.]\n\nMASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady!\n\n[MASON _goes out_.]\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. You’ll stop to luncheon, Lord Caversham, won’t you?\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. With pleasure, and I’ll drive you down to Downing Street\nafterwards, Chiltern. You have a great future before you, a great\nfuture. Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [_To_ LORD GORING.]\nBut your career will have to be entirely domestic.\n\nLORD GORING. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don’t make this young lady an ideal husband,\nI’ll cut you off with a shilling.\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. An ideal husband! Oh, I don’t think I should like that.\nIt sounds like something in the next world.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to be then, dear?\n\nMABEL CHILTERN. He can be what he chooses. All I want is to be . . . to\nbe . . . oh! a real wife to him.\n\nLORD CAVERSHAM. Upon my word, there is a good deal of common sense in\nthat, Lady Chiltern.\n\n[_They all go out except_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He sinks in a chair_,\n_wrapt in thought_. _After a little time_ LADY CHILTERN _returns to look\nfor him_.]\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Leaning over the back of the chair_.] Aren’t you\ncoming in, Robert?\n\nSIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking her hand_.] Gertrude, is it love you feel\nfor me, or is it pity merely?\n\nLADY CHILTERN. [_Kisses him_.] It is love, Robert. Love, and only\nlove. For both of us a new life is beginning.\n\n CURTAIN\n\n * * * * *\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN IDEAL HUSBAND***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 885-0.txt or 885-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/8/8/885\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,\nset forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to\ncopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to\nprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, The Duchess of Padua, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: The Duchess of Padua\n A Play\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: October 26, 2014 [eBook #875]\n[This file was first posted on April 9, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUCHESS OF PADUA***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1916 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n THE\n DUCHESS OF PADUA\n\n\n A PLAY\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Fifth Edition_\n\n\n\n\nTHE PERSONS OF THE PLAY\n\n\nSimone Gesso, Duke of Padua\n\nBeatrice, his Wife\n\nAndreas Pollajuolo, Cardinal of Padua\n\nMaffio Petrucci, Jeppo Vitellozzo, Taddeo Bardi } Gentlemen of the Duke’s\nHousehold\n\nGuido Ferranti, a Young Man\n\nAscanio Cristofano, his Friend\n\nCount Moranzone, an Old Man\n\nBernardo Cavalcanti, Lord Justice of Padua\n\nHugo, the Headsman\n\nLucy, a Tire woman\n\nServants, Citizens, Soldiers, Monks, Falconers with their hawks and dogs,\netc.\n\n * * * * *\n\nPLACE: _Padua_\n\nTIME: _The latter half of the Sixteenth Century_\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCENES OF THE PLAY\n\nACT I. _The Market Place of Padua_ (25 _minutes_).\nACT II. _Room in the Duke’s Palace_ (36 _minutes_).\nACT III. _Corridor in the Duke’s Palace_ (29\n _minutes_).\nACT IV. _The Hall of Justice_ (31 _minutes_).\nACT V. _The Dungeon_ (25 _minutes_).\n\n _Style of Architecture_: Italian, Gothic and Romanesque.\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_The Market Place of Padua at noon_; _in the background is the great\nCathedral of Padua_; _the architecture is Romanesque_, _and wrought in\nblack and white marbles_; _a flight of marble steps leads up to the\nCathedral door_; _at the foot of the steps are two large stone lions_;\n_the houses on each aide of the stage have coloured awnings from their\nwindows_, _and are flanked by stone arcades_; _on the right of the stage\nis the public fountain_, _with a triton in green bronze blowing from a\nconch_; _around the fountain is a stone seat_; _the bell of the Cathedral\nis ringing_, _and the citizens_, _men_, _women and children_, _are\npassing into the Cathedral_.\n\n[_Enter_ GUIDO FERRANTI _and_ ASCANIO CRISTOFANO.]\n\n Now by my life, Guido, I will go no farther; for if I walk another\n step I will have no life left to swear by; this wild-goose errand of\n yours!\n\n [_Sits down on the step of the fountain_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n I think it must be here. [_Goes up to passer-by and doffs his cap_.]\n Pray, sir, is this the market place, and that the church of Santa\n Croce? [_Citizen bows_.] I thank you, sir.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Well?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ay! it is here.\n\nASCANIO\n\n I would it were somewhere else, for I see no wine-shop.\n\nGUIDO\n\n [_Taking a letter from his pocket and reading it_.] ‘The hour noon;\n the city, Padua; the place, the market; and the day, Saint Philip’s\n Day.’\n\nASCANIO\n\n And what of the man, how shall we know him?\n\nGUIDO [_reading still_]\n\n ‘I will wear a violet cloak with a silver falcon broidered on the\n shoulder.’ A brave attire, Ascanio.\n\nASCANIO\n\n I’d sooner have my leathern jerkin. And you think he will tell you of\n your father?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Why, yes! It is a month ago now, you remember; I was in the vineyard,\n just at the corner nearest the road, where the goats used to get in, a\n man rode up and asked me was my name Guido, and gave me this letter,\n signed ‘Your Father’s Friend,’ bidding me be here to-day if I would\n know the secret of my birth, and telling me how to recognise the\n writer! I had always thought old Pedro was my uncle, but he told me\n that he was not, but that I had been left a child in his charge by\n some one he had never since seen.\n\nASCANIO\n\n And you don’t know who your father is?\n\nGUIDO\n\n No.\n\nASCANIO\n\n No recollection of him even?\n\nGUIDO\n\n None, Ascanio, none.\n\nASCANIO [_laughing_]\n\n Then he could never have boxed your ears so often as my father did\n mine.\n\nGUIDO [_smiling_]\n\n I am sure you never deserved it.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Never; and that made it worse. I hadn’t the consciousness of guilt to\n buoy me up. What hour did you say he fixed?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Noon.\n\n [_Clock in the Cathedral strikes_.]\n\nASCANIO\n\n It is that now, and your man has not come. I don’t believe in him,\n Guido. I think it is some wench who has set her eye at you; and, as I\n have followed you from Perugia to Padua, I swear you shall follow me\n to the nearest tavern. [_Rises_.] By the great gods of eating,\n Guido, I am as hungry as a widow is for a husband, as tired as a young\n maid is of good advice, and as dry as a monk’s sermon. Come, Guido,\n you stand there looking at nothing, like the fool who tried to look\n into his own mind; your man will not come.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Well, I suppose you are right. Ah! [_Just as he is leaving the stage\n with_ ASCANIO, _enter_ LORD MORANZONE _in a violet cloak_, _with a\n silver falcon broidered on the shoulder_; _he passes across to the\n Cathedral_, _and just as he is going in_ GUIDO _runs up and touches\n him_.]\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Guido Ferranti, thou hast come in time.\n\nGUIDO\n\n What! Does my father live?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! lives in thee.\n Thou art the same in mould and lineament,\n Carriage and form, and outward semblances;\n I trust thou art in noble mind the same.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, tell me of my father; I have lived\n But for this moment.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n We must be alone.\n\nGUIDO\n\n This is my dearest friend, who out of love\n Has followed me to Padua; as two brothers,\n There is no secret which we do not share.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n There is one secret which ye shall not share;\n Bid him go hence.\n\nGUIDO [_to_ ASCANIO]\n\n Come back within the hour.\n He does not know that nothing in this world\n Can dim the perfect mirror of our love.\n Within the hour come.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Speak not to him,\n There is a dreadful terror in his look.\n\nGUIDO [_laughing_]\n\n Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come to tell\n That I am some great Lord of Italy,\n And we will have long days of joy together.\n Within the hour, dear Ascanio.\n\n [_Exit_ ASCANIO.]\n\n Now tell me of my father? [_Sits down on a stone seat_.]\n Stood he tall?\n I warrant he looked tall upon his horse.\n His hair was black? or perhaps a reddish gold,\n Like a red fire of gold? Was his voice low?\n The very bravest men have voices sometimes\n Full of low music; or a clarion was it\n That brake with terror all his enemies?\n Did he ride singly? or with many squires\n And valiant gentlemen to serve his state?\n For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins\n Beat with the blood of kings. Was he a king?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay, of all men he was the kingliest.\n\nGUIDO [_proudly_]\n\n Then when you saw my noble father last\n He was set high above the heads of men?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay, he was high above the heads of men,\n\n[_Walks over to_ GUIDO _and puts his hand upon his shoulder_.]\n\n On a red scaffold, with a butcher’s block\n Set for his neck.\n\nGUIDO [_leaping up_]\n\n What dreadful man art thou,\n That like a raven, or the midnight owl,\n Com’st with this awful message from the grave?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I am known here as the Count Moranzone,\n Lord of a barren castle on a rock,\n With a few acres of unkindly land\n And six not thrifty servants. But I was one\n Of Parma’s noblest princes; more than that,\n I was your father’s friend.\n\nGUIDO [_clasping his hand_]\n\n Tell me of him.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo,\n He was the Prince of Parma, and the Duke\n Of all the fair domains of Lombardy\n Down to the gates of Florence; nay, Florence even\n Was wont to pay him tribute—\n\nGUIDO\n\n Come to his death.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n You will hear that soon enough. Being at war—\n O noble lion of war, that would not suffer\n Injustice done in Italy!—he led\n The very flower of chivalry against\n That foul adulterous Lord of Rimini,\n Giovanni Malatesta—whom God curse!\n And was by him in treacherous ambush taken,\n And like a villain, or a low-born knave,\n Was by him on the public scaffold murdered.\n\nGUIDO [_clutching his dagger_]\n\n Doth Malatesta live?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n No, he is dead.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Did you say dead? O too swift runner, Death,\n Couldst thou not wait for me a little space,\n And I had done thy bidding!\n\nMORANZONE [_clutching his wrist_]\n\n Thou canst do it!\n The man who sold thy father is alive.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Sold! was my father sold?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! trafficked for,\n Like a vile chattel, for a price betrayed,\n Bartered and bargained for in privy market\n By one whom he had held his perfect friend,\n One he had trusted, one he had well loved,\n One whom by ties of kindness he had bound—\n\nGUIDO\n\n And he lives\n Who sold my father?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I will bring you to him.\n\nGUIDO\n\n So, Judas, thou art living! well, I will make\n This world thy field of blood, so buy it straight-way,\n For thou must hang there.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Judas said you, boy?\n Yes, Judas in his treachery, but still\n He was more wise than Judas was, and held\n Those thirty silver pieces not enough.\n\nGUIDO\n\n What got he for my father’s blood?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What got he?\n Why cities, fiefs, and principalities,\n Vineyards, and lands.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Of which he shall but keep\n Six feet of ground to rot in. Where is he,\n This damned villain, this foul devil? where?\n Show me the man, and come he cased in steel,\n In complete panoply and pride of war,\n Ay, guarded by a thousand men-at-arms,\n Yet I shall reach him through their spears, and feel\n The last black drop of blood from his black heart\n Crawl down my blade. Show me the man, I say,\n And I will kill him.\n\nMORANZONE [_coldly_]\n\n Fool, what revenge is there?\n Death is the common heritage of all,\n And death comes best when it comes suddenly.\n\n [_Goes up close to_ GUIDO.]\n\n Your father was betrayed, there is your cue;\n For you shall sell the seller in his turn.\n I will make you of his household, you shall sit\n At the same board with him, eat of his bread—\n\nGUIDO\n\n O bitter bread!\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Thy palate is too nice,\n Revenge will make it sweet. Thou shalt o’ nights\n Pledge him in wine, drink from his cup, and be\n His intimate, so he will fawn on thee,\n Love thee, and trust thee in all secret things.\n If he bid thee be merry thou must laugh,\n And if it be his humour to be sad\n Thou shalt don sables. Then when the time is ripe—\n\n [GUIDO _clutches his sword_.]\n\n Nay, nay, I trust thee not; your hot young blood,\n Undisciplined nature, and too violent rage\n Will never tarry for this great revenge,\n But wreck itself on passion.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Thou knowest me not.\n Tell me the man, and I in everything\n Will do thy bidding.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Well, when the time is ripe,\n The victim trusting and the occasion sure,\n I will by sudden secret messenger\n Send thee a sign.\n\nGUIDO\n\n How shall I kill him, tell me?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n That night thou shalt creep into his private chamber;\n But if he sleep see that thou wake him first,\n And hold thy hand upon his throat, ay! that way,\n Then having told him of what blood thou art,\n Sprung from what father, and for what revenge,\n Bid him to pray for mercy; when he prays,\n Bid him to set a price upon his life,\n And when he strips himself of all his gold\n Tell him thou needest not gold, and hast not mercy,\n And do thy business straight away. Swear to me\n Thou wilt not kill him till I bid thee do it,\n Or else I go to mine own house, and leave\n Thee ignorant, and thy father unavenged.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Now by my father’s sword—\n\nMORANZONE\n\n The common hangman\n Brake that in sunder in the public square.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Then by my father’s grave—\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What grave? what grave?\n Your noble father lieth in no grave,\n I saw his dust strewn on the air, his ashes\n Whirled through the windy streets like common straws\n To plague a beggar’s eyesight, and his head,\n That gentle head, set on the prison spike,\n For the vile rabble in their insolence\n To shoot their tongues at.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Was it so indeed?\n Then by my father’s spotless memory,\n And by the shameful manner of his death,\n And by the base betrayal by his friend,\n For these at least remain, by these I swear\n I will not lay my hand upon his life\n Until you bid me, then—God help his soul,\n For he shall die as never dog died yet.\n And now, the sign, what is it?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n This dagger, boy;\n It was your father’s.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, let me look at it!\n I do remember now my reputed uncle,\n That good old husbandman I left at home,\n Told me a cloak wrapped round me when a babe\n Bare too such yellow leopards wrought in gold;\n I like them best in steel, as they are here,\n They suit my purpose better. Tell me, sir,\n Have you no message from my father to me?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Poor boy, you never saw that noble father,\n For when by his false friend he had been sold,\n Alone of all his gentlemen I escaped\n To bear the news to Parma to the Duchess.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Speak to me of my mother.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n When thy mother\n Heard my black news, she fell into a swoon,\n And, being with untimely travail seized—\n Bare thee into the world before thy time,\n And then her soul went heavenward, to wait\n Thy father, at the gates of Paradise.\n\nGUIDO\n\n A mother dead, a father sold and bartered!\n I seem to stand on some beleaguered wall,\n And messenger comes after messenger\n With a new tale of terror; give me breath,\n Mine ears are tired.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n When thy mother died,\n Fearing our enemies, I gave it out\n Thou wert dead also, and then privily\n Conveyed thee to an ancient servitor,\n Who by Perugia lived; the rest thou knowest.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Saw you my father afterwards?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! once;\n In mean attire, like a vineyard dresser,\n I stole to Rimini.\n\nGUIDO [_taking his hand_]\n\n O generous heart!\n\nMORANZONE\n\n One can buy everything in Rimini,\n And so I bought the gaolers! when your father\n Heard that a man child had been born to him,\n His noble face lit up beneath his helm\n Like a great fire seen far out at sea,\n And taking my two hands, he bade me, Guido,\n To rear you worthy of him; so I have reared you\n To revenge his death upon the friend who sold him.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Thou hast done well; I for my father thank thee.\n And now his name?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n How you remind me of him,\n You have each gesture that your father had.\n\nGUIDO\n\n The traitor’s name?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Thou wilt hear that anon;\n The Duke and other nobles at the Court\n Are coming hither.\n\nGUIDO\n\n What of that? his name?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Do they not seem a valiant company\n Of honourable, honest gentlemen?\n\nGUIDO\n\n His name, milord?\n\n[_Enter the_ DUKE OF PADUA _with_ COUNT BARDI, MAFFIO, PETRUCCI, _and\nother gentlemen of his Court_.]\n\nMORANZONE [_quickly_]\n\n The man to whom I kneel\n Is he who sold your father! mark me well.\n\nGUIDO [_clutches hit dagger_]\n\n The Duke!\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Leave off that fingering of thy knife.\n Hast thou so soon forgotten? [_Kneels to the_ DUKE.]\n My noble Lord.\n\nDUKE\n\n Welcome, Count Moranzone; ’tis some time\n Since we have seen you here in Padua.\n We hunted near your castle yesterday—\n Call you it castle? that bleak house of yours\n Wherein you sit a-mumbling o’er your beads,\n Telling your vices like a good old man.\n\n [_Catches sight of_ GUIDO _and starts back_.]\n\n Who is that?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n My sister’s son, your Grace,\n Who being now of age to carry arms,\n Would for a season tarry at your Court\n\nDUKE [_still looking at_ GUIDO]\n\n What is his name?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Guido Ferranti, sir.\n\nDUKE\n\n His city?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n He is Mantuan by birth.\n\nDUKE [_advancing towards_ GUIDO]\n\n You have the eyes of one I used to know,\n But he died childless. Are you honest, boy?\n Then be not spendthrift of your honesty,\n But keep it to yourself; in Padua\n Men think that honesty is ostentatious, so\n It is not of the fashion. Look at these lords.\n\nCOUNT BARDI [_aside_]\n\n Here is some bitter arrow for us, sure.\n\nDUKE\n\n Why, every man among them has his price,\n Although, to do them justice, some of them\n Are quite expensive.\n\nCOUNT BARDI [_aside_]\n\n There it comes indeed.\n\nDUKE\n\n So be not honest; eccentricity\n Is not a thing should ever be encouraged,\n Although, in this dull stupid age of ours,\n The most eccentric thing a man can do\n Is to have brains, then the mob mocks at him;\n And for the mob, despise it as I do,\n I hold its bubble praise and windy favours\n In such account, that popularity\n Is the one insult I have never suffered.\n\nMAFFIO [_aside_]\n\n He has enough of hate, if he needs that.\n\nDUKE\n\n Have prudence; in your dealings with the world\n Be not too hasty; act on the second thought,\n First impulses are generally good.\n\nGUIDO [_aside_]\n\n Surely a toad sits on his lips, and spills its venom there.\n\nDUKE\n\n See thou hast enemies,\n Else will the world think very little of thee;\n It is its test of power; yet see thou show’st\n A smiling mask of friendship to all men,\n Until thou hast them safely in thy grip,\n Then thou canst crush them.\n\nGUIDO [_aside_]\n\n O wise philosopher!\n That for thyself dost dig so deep a grave.\n\nMORANZONE [_to him_]\n\n Dost thou mark his words?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, be thou sure I do.\n\nDUKE\n\n And be not over-scrupulous; clean hands\n With nothing in them make a sorry show.\n If you would have the lion’s share of life\n You must wear the fox’s skin. Oh, it will fit you;\n It is a coat which fitteth every man.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Your Grace, I shall remember.\n\nDUKE\n\n That is well, boy, well.\n I would not have about me shallow fools,\n Who with mean scruples weigh the gold of life,\n And faltering, paltering, end by failure; failure,\n The only crime which I have not committed:\n I would have _men_ about me. As for conscience,\n Conscience is but the name which cowardice\n Fleeing from battle scrawls upon its shield.\n You understand me, boy?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I do, your Grace,\n And will in all things carry out the creed\n Which you have taught me.\n\nMAFFIO\n\n I never heard your Grace\n So much in the vein for preaching; let the Cardinal\n Look to his laurels, sir.\n\nDUKE\n\n The Cardinal!\n Men follow my creed, and they gabble his.\n I do not think much of the Cardinal;\n Although he is a holy churchman, and\n I quite admit his dulness. Well, sir, from now\n We count you of our household\n\n[_He holds out his hand for_ GUIDO _to kiss_. GUIDO _starts back in\nhorror_, _but at a gesture from_ COUNT MORANZONE, _kneels and kisses\nit_.]\n\n We will see\n That you are furnished with such equipage\n As doth befit your honour and our state.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I thank your Grace most heartily.\n\nDUKE\n\n Tell me again\n What is your name?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Guido Ferranti, sir.\n\nDUKE\n\n And you are Mantuan? Look to your wives, my lords,\n When such a gallant comes to Padua.\n Thou dost well to laugh, Count Bardi; I have noted\n How merry is that husband by whose hearth\n Sits an uncomely wife.\n\nMAFFIO\n\n May it please your Grace,\n The wives of Padua are above suspicion.\n\nDUKE\n\n What, are they so ill-favoured! Let us go,\n This Cardinal detains our pious Duchess;\n His sermon and his beard want cutting both:\n Will you come with us, sir, and hear a text\n From holy Jerome?\n\nMORANZONE [_bowing_]\n\n My liege, there are some matters—\n\nDUKE [_interrupting_]\n\n Thou need’st make no excuse for missing mass.\n Come, gentlemen.\n\n [_Exit with his suite into Cathedral_.]\n\nGUIDO [_after a pause_]\n\n So the Duke sold my father;\n I kissed his hand.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Thou shalt do that many times.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Must it be so?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! thou hast sworn an oath.\n\nGUIDO\n\n That oath shall make me marble.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Farewell, boy,\n Thou wilt not see me till the time is ripe.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I pray thou comest quickly.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I will come\n When it is time; be ready.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Fear me not.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Here is your friend; see that you banish him\n Both from your heart and Padua.\n\nGUIDO\n\n From Padua,\n Not from my heart.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Nay, from thy heart as well,\n I will not leave thee till I see thee do it.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Can I have no friend?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Revenge shall be thy friend;\n Thou need’st no other.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Well, then be it so.\n\n [_Enter_ ASCANIO CRISTOFANO.]\n\nASCANIO\n\n Come, Guido, I have been beforehand with you in everything, for I have\n drunk a flagon of wine, eaten a pasty, and kissed the maid who served\n it. Why, you look as melancholy as a schoolboy who cannot buy apples,\n or a politician who cannot sell his vote. What news, Guido, what\n news?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Why, that we two must part, Ascanio.\n\nASCANIO\n\n That would be news indeed, but it is not true.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Too true it is, you must get hence, Ascanio,\n And never look upon my face again.\n\nASCANIO\n\n No, no; indeed you do not know me, Guido;\n ’Tis true I am a common yeoman’s son,\n Nor versed in fashions of much courtesy;\n But, if you are nobly born, cannot I be\n Your serving man? I will tend you with more love\n Than any hired servant.\n\nGUIDO [_clasping his hand_]\n\n Ascanio!\n\n [_Sees_ MORANZONE _looking at him and drops_ ASCANIO’S _hand_.]\n\n It cannot be.\n\nASCANIO\n\n What, is it so with you?\n I thought the friendship of the antique world\n Was not yet dead, but that the Roman type\n Might even in this poor and common age\n Find counterparts of love; then by this love\n Which beats between us like a summer sea,\n Whatever lot has fallen to your hand\n May I not share it?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Share it?\n\nASCANIO\n\n Ay!\n\nGUIDO\n\n No, no.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Have you then come to some inheritance\n Of lordly castle, or of stored-up gold?\n\nGUIDO [_bitterly_]\n\n Ay! I have come to my inheritance.\n O bloody legacy! and O murderous dole!\n Which, like the thrifty miser, must I hoard,\n And to my own self keep; and so, I pray you,\n Let us part here.\n\nASCANIO\n\n What, shall we never more\n Sit hand in hand, as we were wont to sit,\n Over some book of ancient chivalry\n Stealing a truant holiday from school,\n Follow the huntsmen through the autumn woods,\n And watch the falcons burst their tasselled jesses,\n When the hare breaks from covert.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Never more.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Must I go hence without a word of love?\n\nGUIDO\n\n You must go hence, and may love go with you.\n\nASCANIO\n\n You are unknightly, and ungenerous.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Unknightly and ungenerous if you will.\n Why should we waste more words about the matter\n Let us part now.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Have you no message, Guido?\n\nGUIDO\n\n None; my whole past was but a schoolboy’s dream;\n To-day my life begins. Farewell.\n\nASCANIO\n\n Farewell [_exit slowly_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Now are you satisfied? Have you not seen\n My dearest friend, and my most loved companion,\n Thrust from me like a common kitchen knave!\n Oh, that I did it! Are you not satisfied?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! I am satisfied. Now I go hence,\n Do not forget the sign, your father’s dagger,\n And do the business when I send it to you.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Be sure I shall. [_Exit_ LORD MORANZONE.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n O thou eternal heaven!\n If there is aught of nature in my soul,\n Of gentle pity, or fond kindliness,\n Wither it up, blast it, bring it to nothing,\n Or if thou wilt not, then will I myself\n Cut pity with a sharp knife from my heart\n And strangle mercy in her sleep at night\n Lest she speak to me. Vengeance there I have it.\n Be thou my comrade and my bedfellow,\n Sit by my side, ride to the chase with me,\n When I am weary sing me pretty songs,\n When I am light o’ heart, make jest with me,\n And when I dream, whisper into my ear\n The dreadful secret of a father’s murder—\n Did I say murder? [_Draws his dagger_.]\n Listen, thou terrible God!\n Thou God that punishest all broken oaths,\n And bid some angel write this oath in fire,\n That from this hour, till my dear father’s murder\n In blood I have revenged, I do forswear\n The noble ties of honourable friendship,\n The noble joys of dear companionship,\n Affection’s bonds, and loyal gratitude,\n Ay, more, from this same hour I do forswear\n All love of women, and the barren thing\n Which men call beauty—\n\n[_The organ peals in the Cathedral_, _and under a canopy of cloth of\nsilver tissue_, _borne by four pages in scarlet_, _the_ DUCHESS OF PADUA\n_comes down the steps_; _as she passes across their eyes meet for a\nmoment_, _and as she leaves the stage she looks back at_ GUIDO, _and the\ndagger falls from his hand_.]\n\n Oh! who is that?\n\nA CITIZEN\n\n The Duchess of Padua!\n\n * * * * *\n\n END OF ACT I.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_A state room in the Ducal Palace_, _hung with tapestries representing\nthe Masque of Venus_; _a large door in the centre opens into a corridor\nof red marble_, _through which one can see a view of Padua_; _a large\ncanopy is set_ (_R.C._) _with three thrones_, _one a little lower than\nthe others_; _the ceiling is made of long gilded beams_; _furniture of\nthe period_, _chairs covered with gilt leather_, _and buffets set with\ngold and silver plate_, _and chests painted with mythological scenes_.\n_A number of the courtiers is out on the corridor looking from it down\ninto the street below_; _from the street comes the roar of a mob and\ncries of_ ‘_Death to the Duke_’: _after a little interval enter the Duke\nvery calmly_; _he is leaning on the arm of Guido Ferranti_; _with him\nenters also the Lord Cardinal_; _the mob still shouting_.\n\nDUKE\n\n No, my Lord Cardinal, I weary of her!\n Why, she is worse than ugly, she is good.\n\nMAFFIO [_excitedly_]\n\n Your Grace, there are two thousand people there\n Who every moment grow more clamorous.\n\nDUKE\n\n Tut, man, they waste their strength upon their lungs!\n People who shout so loud, my lords, do nothing;\n The only men I fear are silent men.\n\n [_A yell from the people_.]\n\n You see, Lord Cardinal, how my people love me.\n\n [_Another yell_.]\n\n Go, Petrucci,\n And tell the captain of the guard below\n To clear the square. Do you not hear me, sir?\n Do what I bid you.\n\n [_Exit_ PETRUCCI.]\n\nCARDINAL\n\n I beseech your Grace\n To listen to their grievances.\n\nDUKE [_sitting on his throne_]\n\n Ay! the peaches\n Are not so big this year as they were last.\n I crave your pardon, my lord Cardinal,\n I thought you spake of peaches.\n\n [_A cheer from the people_.]\n\n What is that?\n\nGUIDO [_rushes to the window_]\n\n The Duchess has gone forth into the square,\n And stands between the people and the guard,\n And will not let them shoot.\n\nDUKE\n\n The devil take her!\n\nGUIDO [_still at the window_]\n\n And followed by a dozen of the citizens\n Has come into the Palace.\n\nDUKE [_starting up_]\n\n By Saint James,\n Our Duchess waxes bold!\n\nBARDI\n\n Here comes the Duchess.\n\nDUKE\n\n Shut that door there; this morning air is cold.\n\n [_They close the door on the corridor_.]\n\n[_Enter the Duchess followed by a crowd of meanly dressed Citizens_.]\n\nDUCHESS [_flinging herself upon her knees_]\n\n I do beseech your Grace to give us audience.\n\nDUKE\n\n What are these grievances?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas, my Lord,\n Such common things as neither you nor I,\n Nor any of these noble gentlemen,\n Have ever need at all to think about;\n They say the bread, the very bread they eat,\n Is made of sorry chaff.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Ay! so it is,\n Nothing but chaff.\n\nDUKE\n\n And very good food too,\n I give it to my horses.\n\nDUCHESS [_restraining herself_]\n\n They say the water,\n Set in the public cisterns for their use,\n [Has, through the breaking of the aqueduct,]\n To stagnant pools and muddy puddles turned.\n\nDUKE\n\n They should drink wine; water is quite unwholesome.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Alack, your Grace, the taxes which the customs\n Take at the city gate are grown so high\n We cannot buy wine.\n\nDUKE\n\n Then you should bless the taxes\n\n Which make you temperate.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Think, while we sit\n In gorgeous pomp and state, gaunt poverty\n Creeps through their sunless lanes, and with sharp knives\n Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily\n And no word said.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Ay! marry, that is true,\n My little son died yesternight from hunger;\n He was but six years old; I am so poor,\n I cannot bury him.\n\nDUKE\n\n If you are poor,\n Are you not blessed in that? Why, poverty\n Is one of the Christian virtues,\n\n [_Turns to the_ CARDINAL.]\n\n Is it not?\n I know, Lord Cardinal, you have great revenues,\n Rich abbey-lands, and tithes, and large estates\n For preaching voluntary poverty.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Nay but, my lord the Duke, be generous;\n While we sit here within a noble house\n [With shaded porticoes against the sun,\n And walls and roofs to keep the winter out],\n There are many citizens of Padua\n Who in vile tenements live so full of holes,\n That the chill rain, the snow, and the rude blast,\n Are tenants also with them; others sleep\n Under the arches of the public bridges\n All through the autumn nights, till the wet mist\n Stiffens their limbs, and fevers come, and so—\n\nDUKE\n\n And so they go to Abraham’s bosom, Madam.\n They should thank me for sending them to Heaven,\n If they are wretched here. [_To the_ CARDINAL.]\n Is it not said\n Somewhere in Holy Writ, that every man\n Should be contented with that state of life\n God calls him to? Why should I change their state,\n Or meddle with an all-wise providence,\n Which has apportioned that some men should starve,\n And others surfeit? I did not make the world.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n He hath a hard heart.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Nay, be silent, neighbour;\n I think the Cardinal will speak for us.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n True, it is Christian to bear misery,\n Yet it is Christian also to be kind,\n And there seem many evils in this town,\n Which in your wisdom might your Grace reform.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n What is that word reform? What does it mean?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Marry, it means leaving things as they are; I like it not.\n\nDUKE\n\n Reform Lord Cardinal, did _you_ say reform?\n There is a man in Germany called Luther,\n Who would reform the Holy Catholic Church.\n Have you not made him heretic, and uttered\n Anathema, maranatha, against him?\n\nCARDINAL [_rising from his seat_]\n\n He would have led the sheep out of the fold,\n We do but ask of you to feed the sheep.\n\nDUKE\n\n When I have shorn their fleeces I may feed them.\n As for these rebels— [DUCHESS _entreats him_.]\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n That is a kind word,\n He means to give us something.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Is that so?\n\nDUKE\n\n These ragged knaves who come before us here,\n With mouths chock-full of treason.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Good my Lord,\n Fill up our mouths with bread; we’ll hold our tongues.\n\nDUKE\n\n Ye shall hold your tongues, whether you starve or not.\n My lords, this age is so familiar grown,\n That the low peasant hardly doffs his hat,\n Unless you beat him; and the raw mechanic\n Elbows the noble in the public streets.\n\n [_To the Citizens_.]\n\n Still as our gentle Duchess has so prayed us,\n And to refuse so beautiful a beggar\n Were to lack both courtesy and love,\n Touching your grievances, I promise this—\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Marry, he will lighten the taxes!\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Or a dole of bread, think you, for each man?\n\nDUKE\n\n That, on next Sunday, the Lord Cardinal\n Shall, after Holy Mass, preach you a sermon\n Upon the Beauty of Obedience.\n\n [_Citizens murmur_.]\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n I’ faith, that will not fill our stomachs!\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n A sermon is but a sorry sauce, when\n You have nothing to eat with it.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Poor people,\n You see I have no power with the Duke,\n But if you go into the court without,\n My almoner shall from my private purse,\n Divide a hundred ducats ’mongst you all.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n God save the Duchess, say I.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n God save her.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And every Monday morn shall bread be set\n For those who lack it.\n\n [_Citizens applaud and go out_.]\n\nFIRST CITIZEN [_going out_]\n\n Why, God save the Duchess again!\n\nDUKE [_calling him back_]\n\n Come hither, fellow! what is your name?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Dominick, sir.\n\nDUKE\n\n A good name! Why were you called Dominick?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN [_scratching his head_]\n\n Marry, because I was born on St. George’s day.\n\nDUKE\n\n A good reason! here is a ducat for you!\n Will you not cry for me God save the Duke?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN [_feebly_]\n\n God save the Duke.\n\nDUKE\n\n Nay! louder, fellow, louder.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN [_a little louder_]\n\n God save the Duke!\n\nDUKE\n\n More lustily, fellow, put more heart in it!\n Here is another ducat for you.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN [_enthusiastically_]\n\n God save the Duke!\n\nDUKE [_mockingly_]\n\n Why, gentlemen, this simple fellow’s love\n Touches me much. [_To the Citizen_, _harshly_.]\n Go! [_Exit Citizen_, _bowing_.]\n This is the way, my lords,\n You can buy popularity nowadays.\n Oh, we are nothing if not democratic!\n\n [_To the_ DUCHESS.]\n\n Well, Madam,\n You spread rebellion ’midst our citizens.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n My Lord, the poor have rights you cannot touch,\n The right to pity, and the right to mercy.\n\nDUKE\n\n So, so, you argue with me? This is she,\n The gentle Duchess for whose hand I yielded\n Three of the fairest towns in Italy,\n Pisa, and Genoa, and Orvieto.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Promised, my Lord, not yielded: in that matter\n Brake you your word as ever.\n\nDUKE\n\n You wrong us, Madam,\n There were state reasons.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What state reasons are there\n For breaking holy promises to a state?\n\nDUKE\n\n There are wild boars at Pisa in a forest\n Close to the city: when I promised Pisa\n Unto your noble and most trusting father,\n I had forgotten there was hunting there.\n At Genoa they say,\n Indeed I doubt them not, that the red mullet\n Runs larger in the harbour of that town\n Than anywhere in Italy.\n\n [_Turning to one of the Court_.]\n\n You, my lord,\n Whose gluttonous appetite is your only god,\n Could satisfy our Duchess on that point.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And Orvieto?\n\nDUKE [_yawning_]\n\n I cannot now recall\n Why I did not surrender Orvieto\n According to the word of my contract.\n Maybe it was because I did not choose.\n\n [_Goes over to the_ DUCHESS.]\n\n Why look you, Madam, you are here alone;\n ’Tis many a dusty league to your grey France,\n And even there your father barely keeps\n A hundred ragged squires for his Court.\n What hope have you, I say? Which of these lords\n And noble gentlemen of Padua\n Stands by your side.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n There is not one.\n\n [GUIDO _starts_, _but restrains himself_.]\n\nDUKE\n\n Nor shall be,\n While I am Duke in Padua: listen, Madam,\n Being mine own, you shall do as I will,\n And if it be my will you keep the house,\n Why then, this palace shall your prison be;\n And if it be my will you walk abroad,\n Why, you shall take the air from morn to night.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Sir, by what right—?\n\nDUKE\n\n Madam, my second Duchess\n Asked the same question once: her monument\n Lies in the chapel of Bartholomew,\n Wrought in red marble; very beautiful.\n Guido, your arm. Come, gentlemen, let us go\n And spur our falcons for the mid-day chase.\n Bethink you, Madam, you are here alone.\n\n [_Exit the_ DUKE _leaning on_ GUIDO, _with his Court_.]\n\nDUCHESS [_looking after them_]\n\n The Duke said rightly that I was alone;\n Deserted, and dishonoured, and defamed,\n Stood ever woman so alone indeed?\n Men when they woo us call us pretty children,\n Tell us we have not wit to make our lives,\n And so they mar them for us. Did I say woo?\n We are their chattels, and their common slaves,\n Less dear than the poor hound that licks their hand,\n Less fondled than the hawk upon their wrist.\n Woo, did I say? bought rather, sold and bartered,\n Our very bodies being merchandise.\n I know it is the general lot of women,\n Each miserably mated to some man\n Wrecks her own life upon his selfishness:\n That it is general makes it not less bitter.\n I think I never heard a woman laugh,\n Laugh for pure merriment, except one woman,\n That was at night time, in the public streets.\n Poor soul, she walked with painted lips, and wore\n The mask of pleasure: I would not laugh like her;\n No, death were better.\n\n[_Enter_ GUIDO _behind unobserved_; _the_ DUCHESS _flings herself down\nbefore a picture of the Madonna_.]\n\n O Mary mother, with your sweet pale face\n Bending between the little angel heads\n That hover round you, have you no help for me?\n Mother of God, have you no help for me?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I can endure no longer.\n This is my love, and I will speak to her.\n Lady, am I a stranger to your prayers?\n\nDUCHESS [_rising_]\n\n None but the wretched needs my prayers, my lord.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Then must I need them, lady.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n How is that?\n Does not the Duke show thee sufficient honour?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Your Grace, I lack no favours from the Duke,\n Whom my soul loathes as I loathe wickedness,\n But come to proffer on my bended knees,\n My loyal service to thee unto death.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas! I am so fallen in estate\n I can but give thee a poor meed of thanks.\n\nGUIDO [_seizing her hand_]\n\n Hast thou no love to give me?\n\n [_The_ DUCHESS _starts_, _and_ GUIDO _falls at her feet_.]\n\n O dear saint,\n If I have been too daring, pardon me!\n Thy beauty sets my boyish blood aflame,\n And, when my reverent lips touch thy white hand,\n Each little nerve with such wild passion thrills\n That there is nothing which I would not do\n To gain thy love. [_Leaps up_.]\n Bid me reach forth and pluck\n Perilous honour from the lion’s jaws,\n And I will wrestle with the Nemean beast\n On the bare desert! Fling to the cave of War\n A gaud, a ribbon, a dead flower, something\n That once has touched thee, and I’ll bring it back\n Though all the hosts of Christendom were there,\n Inviolate again! ay, more than this,\n Set me to scale the pallid white-faced cliffs\n Of mighty England, and from that arrogant shield\n Will I raze out the lilies of your France\n Which England, that sea-lion of the sea,\n Hath taken from her!\n O dear Beatrice,\n Drive me not from thy presence! without thee\n The heavy minutes crawl with feet of lead,\n But, while I look upon thy loveliness,\n The hours fly like winged Mercuries\n And leave existence golden.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I did not think\n I should be ever loved: do you indeed\n Love me so much as now you say you do?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea,\n Ask of the roses if they love the rain,\n Ask of the little lark, that will not sing\n Till day break, if it loves to see the day:—\n And yet, these are but empty images,\n Mere shadows of my love, which is a fire\n So great that all the waters of the main\n Can not avail to quench it. Will you not speak?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I hardly know what I should say to you.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Will you not say you love me?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Is that my lesson?\n Must I say all at once? ’Twere a good lesson\n If I did love you, sir; but, if I do not,\n What shall I say then?\n\nGUIDO\n\n If you do not love me,\n Say, none the less, you do, for on your tongue\n Falsehood for very shame would turn to truth.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What if I do not speak at all? They say\n Lovers are happiest when they are in doubt\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, doubt would kill me, and if I must die,\n Why, let me die for joy and not for doubt.\n Oh, tell me may I stay, or must I go?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I would not have you either stay or go;\n For if you stay you steal my love from me,\n And if you go you take my love away.\n Guido, though all the morning stars could sing\n They could not tell the measure of my love.\n I love you, Guido.\n\nGUIDO [_stretching out his hands_]\n\n Oh, do not cease at all;\n I thought the nightingale sang but at night;\n Or if thou needst must cease, then let my lips\n Touch the sweet lips that can such music make.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n To touch my lips is not to touch my heart.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Do you close that against me?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas! my lord,\n I have it not: the first day that I saw you\n I let you take my heart away from me;\n Unwilling thief, that without meaning it\n Did break into my fenced treasury\n And filch my jewel from it! O strange theft,\n Which made you richer though you knew it not,\n And left me poorer, and yet glad of it!\n\nGUIDO [_clasping her in his arms_]\n\n O love, love, love! Nay, sweet, lift up your head,\n Let me unlock those little scarlet doors\n That shut in music, let me dive for coral\n In your red lips, and I’ll bear back a prize\n Richer than all the gold the Gryphon guards\n In rude Armenia.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n You are my lord,\n And what I have is yours, and what I have not\n Your fancy lends me, like a prodigal\n Spending its wealth on what is nothing worth.\n\n [_Kisses him_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Methinks I am bold to look upon you thus:\n The gentle violet hides beneath its leaf\n And is afraid to look at the great sun\n For fear of too much splendour, but my eyes,\n O daring eyes! are grown so venturous\n That like fixed stars they stand, gazing at you,\n And surfeit sense with beauty.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Dear love, I would\n You could look upon me ever, for your eyes\n Are polished mirrors, and when I peer\n Into those mirrors I can see myself,\n And so I know my image lives in you.\n\nGUIDO [_taking her in his arms_]\n\n Stand still, thou hurrying orb in the high heavens,\n And make this hour immortal! [_A pause_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Sit down here,\n A little lower than me: yes, just so, sweet,\n That I may run my fingers through your hair,\n And see your face turn upwards like a flower\n To meet my kiss.\n Have you not sometimes noted,\n When we unlock some long-disuséd room\n With heavy dust and soiling mildew filled,\n Where never foot of man has come for years,\n And from the windows take the rusty bar,\n And fling the broken shutters to the air,\n And let the bright sun in, how the good sun\n Turns every grimy particle of dust\n Into a little thing of dancing gold?\n Guido, my heart is that long-empty room,\n But you have let love in, and with its gold\n Gilded all life. Do you not think that love\n Fills up the sum of life?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ay! without love\n Life is no better than the unhewn stone\n Which in the quarry lies, before the sculptor\n Has set the God within it. Without love\n Life is as silent as the common reeds\n That through the marshes or by rivers grow,\n And have no music in them.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Yet out of these\n The singer, who is Love, will make a pipe\n And from them he draws music; so I think\n Love will bring music out of any life.\n Is that not true?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Sweet, women make it true.\n There are men who paint pictures, and carve statues,\n Paul of Verona and the dyer’s son,\n Or their great rival, who, by the sea at Venice,\n Has set God’s little maid upon the stair,\n White as her own white lily, and as tall,\n Or Raphael, whose Madonnas are divine\n Because they are mothers merely; yet I think\n Women are the best artists of the world,\n For they can take the common lives of men\n Soiled with the money-getting of our age,\n And with love make them beautiful.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ah, dear,\n I wish that you and I were very poor;\n The poor, who love each other, are so rich.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Tell me again you love me, Beatrice.\n\nDUCHESS [_fingering his collar_]\n\n How well this collar lies about your throat.\n\n [LORD MORANZONE _looks through the door from the corridor outside_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, tell me that you love me.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I remember,\n That when I was a child in my dear France,\n Being at Court at Fontainebleau, the King\n Wore such a collar.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Will you not say you love me?\n\nDUCHESS [_smiling_]\n\n He was a very royal man, King Francis,\n Yet he was not royal as you are.\n Why need I tell you, Guido, that I love you?\n\n [_Takes his head in her hands and turns his face up to her_.]\n\n Do you not know that I am yours for ever,\n Body and soul?\n\n [_Kisses him_, _and then suddenly catches sight of_ MORANZONE _and leaps\n up_.]\n\n Oh, what is that? [MORANZONE _disappears_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n What, love?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Methought I saw a face with eyes of flame\n Look at us through the doorway.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, ’twas nothing:\n The passing shadow of the man on guard.\n\n [_The_ DUCHESS _still stands looking at the window_.]\n\n ’Twas nothing, sweet.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay! what can harm us now,\n Who are in Love’s hand? I do not think I’d care\n Though the vile world should with its lackey Slander\n Trample and tread upon my life; why should I?\n They say the common field-flowers of the field\n Have sweeter scent when they are trodden on\n Than when they bloom alone, and that some herbs\n Which have no perfume, on being bruiséd die\n With all Arabia round them; so it is\n With the young lives this dull world seeks to crush,\n It does but bring the sweetness out of them,\n And makes them lovelier often. And besides,\n While we have love we have the best of life:\n Is it not so?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Dear, shall we play or sing?\n I think that I could sing now.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Do not speak,\n For there are times when all existences\n Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy,\n And Passion sets a seal upon the lips.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, with mine own lips let me break that seal!\n You love me, Beatrice?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay! is it not strange\n I should so love mine enemy?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Who is he?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Why, you: that with your shaft did pierce my heart!\n Poor heart, that lived its little lonely life\n Until it met your arrow.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ah, dear love,\n I am so wounded by that bolt myself\n That with untended wounds I lie a-dying,\n Unless you cure me, dear Physician.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I would not have you cured; for I am sick\n With the same malady.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, how I love you!\n See, I must steal the cuckoo’s voice, and tell\n The one tale over.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Tell no other tale!\n For, if that is the little cuckoo’s song,\n The nightingale is hoarse, and the loud lark\n Has lost its music.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Kiss me, Beatrice!\n\n[_She takes his face in her hands and bends down and kisses him_; _a loud\nknocking then comes at the door_, _and_ GUIDO _leaps up_; _enter a\nServant_.]\n\nSERVANT\n\n A package for you, sir.\n\nGUIDO [_carelessly_]\n\n Ah! give it to me.\n\n [_Servant hands package wrapped in vermilion silk_, _and exit_; _as_\n GUIDO _is about to open it the_ DUCHESS _comes up behind_, _and in\n sport takes it from him_.]\n\nDUCHESS [_laughing_]\n\n Now I will wager it is from some girl\n Who would have you wear her favour; I am so jealous\n I will not give up the least part in you,\n But like a miser keep you to myself,\n And spoil you perhaps in keeping.\n\nGUIDO\n\n It is nothing.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Nay, it is from some girl.\n\nGUIDO\n\n You know ’tis not.\n\nDUCHESS [_turns her back and opens it_]\n\n Now, traitor, tell me what does this sign mean,\n A dagger with two leopards wrought in steel?\n\nGUIDO [_taking it from her_]\n\n O God!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I’ll from the window look, and try\n If I can’t see the porter’s livery\n Who left it at the gate! I will not rest\n Till I have learned your secret.\n\n [_Runs laughing into the corridor_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, horrible!\n Had I so soon forgot my father’s death,\n Did I so soon let love into my heart,\n And must I banish love, and let in murder\n That beats and clamours at the outer gate?\n Ay, that I must! Have I not sworn an oath?\n Yet not to-night; nay, it must be to-night.\n Farewell then all the joy and light of life,\n All dear recorded memories, farewell,\n Farewell all love! Could I with bloody hands\n Fondle and paddle with her innocent hands?\n Could I with lips fresh from this butchery\n Play with her lips? Could I with murderous eyes\n Look in those violet eyes, whose purity\n Would strike men blind, and make each eyeball reel\n In night perpetual? No, murder has set\n A barrier between us far too high\n For us to kiss across it.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Guido!\n\nGUIDO\n\n Beatrice,\n You must forget that name, and banish me\n Out of your life for ever.\n\nDUCHESS [_going towards him_]\n\n O dear love!\n\nGUIDO [_stepping back_]\n\n There lies a barrier between us two\n We dare not pass.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I dare do anything\n So that you are beside me.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ah! There it is,\n I cannot be beside you, cannot breathe\n The air you breathe; I cannot any more\n Stand face to face with beauty, which unnerves\n My shaking heart, and makes my desperate hand\n Fail of its purpose. Let me go hence, I pray;\n Forget you ever looked upon me.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What!\n With your hot kisses fresh upon my lips\n Forget the vows of love you made to me?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I take them back.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas, you cannot, Guido,\n For they are part of nature now; the air\n Is tremulous with their music, and outside\n The little birds sing sweeter for those vows.\n\nGUIDO\n\n There lies a barrier between us now,\n Which then I knew not, or I had forgot.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n There is no barrier, Guido; why, I will go\n In poor attire, and will follow you\n Over the world.\n\nGUIDO [_wildly_]\n\n The world’s not wide enough\n To hold us two! Farewell, farewell for ever.\n\nDUCHESS [_calm_, _and controlling her passion_]\n\n Why did you come into my life at all, then,\n Or in the desolate garden of my heart\n Sow that white flower of love—?\n\nGUIDO\n\n O Beatrice!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Which now you would dig up, uproot, tear out,\n Though each small fibre doth so hold my heart\n That if you break one, my heart breaks with it?\n Why did you come into my life? Why open\n The secret wells of love I had sealed up?\n Why did you open them—?\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God!\n\nDUCHESS [_clenching her hand_]\n\n And let\n The floodgates of my passion swell and burst\n Till, like the wave when rivers overflow\n That sweeps the forest and the farm away,\n Love in the splendid avalanche of its might\n Swept my life with it? Must I drop by drop\n Gather these waters back and seal them up?\n Alas! Each drop will be a tear, and so\n Will with its saltness make life very bitter.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I pray you speak no more, for I must go\n Forth from your life and love, and make a way\n On which you cannot follow.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I have heard\n That sailors dying of thirst upon a raft,\n Poor castaways upon a lonely sea,\n Dream of green fields and pleasant water-courses,\n And then wake up with red thirst in their throats,\n And die more miserably because sleep\n Has cheated them: so they die cursing sleep\n For having sent them dreams: I will not curse you\n Though I am cast away upon the sea\n Which men call Desolation.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God, God!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n But you will stay: listen, I love you, Guido.\n\n [_She waits a little_.]\n\n Is echo dead, that when I say I love you\n There is no answer?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Everything is dead,\n Save one thing only, which shall die to-night!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n If you are going, touch me not, but go.\n\n [_Exit_ GUIDO.]\n\n Barrier! Barrier!\n Why did he say there was a barrier?\n There is no barrier between us two.\n He lied to me, and shall I for that reason\n Loathe what I love, and what I worshipped, hate?\n I think we women do not love like that.\n For if I cut his image from my heart,\n My heart would, like a bleeding pilgrim, follow\n That image through the world, and call it back\n With little cries of love.\n\n [_Enter_ DUKE _equipped for the chase_, _with falconers and hounds_.]\n\nDUKE\n\n Madam, you keep us waiting;\n You keep my dogs waiting.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I will not ride to-day.\n\nDUKE\n\n How now, what’s this?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n My Lord, I cannot go.\n\nDUKE\n\n What, pale face, do you dare to stand against me?\n Why, I could set you on a sorry jade\n And lead you through the town, till the low rabble\n You feed toss up their hats and mock at you.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Have you no word of kindness ever for me?\n\nDUKE\n\n I hold you in the hollow of my hand\n And have no need on you to waste kind words.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Well, I will go.\n\nDUKE [_slapping his boot with his whip_]\n\n No, I have changed my mind,\n You will stay here, and like a faithful wife\n Watch from the window for our coming back.\n Were it not dreadful if some accident\n By chance should happen to your loving Lord?\n Come, gentlemen, my hounds begin to chafe,\n And I chafe too, having a patient wife.\n Where is young Guido?\n\nMAFFIO\n\n My liege, I have not seen him\n For a full hour past.\n\nDUKE\n\n It matters not,\n I dare say I shall see him soon enough.\n Well, Madam, you will sit at home and spin.\n I do protest, sirs, the domestic virtues\n Are often very beautiful in others.\n\n [_Exit_ DUKE _with his Court_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n The stars have fought against me, that is all,\n And thus to-night when my Lord lieth asleep,\n Will I fall upon my dagger, and so cease.\n My heart is such a stone nothing can reach it\n Except the dagger’s edge: let it go there,\n To find what name it carries: ay! to-night\n Death will divorce the Duke; and yet to-night\n He may die also, he is very old.\n Why should he not die? Yesterday his hand\n Shook with a palsy: men have died from palsy,\n And why not he? Are there not fevers also,\n Agues and chills, and other maladies\n Most incident to old age?\n No, no, he will not die, he is too sinful;\n Honest men die before their proper time.\n Good men will die: men by whose side the Duke\n In all the sick pollution of his life\n Seems like a leper: women and children die,\n But the Duke will not die, he is too sinful.\n Oh, can it be\n There is some immortality in sin,\n Which virtue has not? And does the wicked man\n Draw life from what to other men were death,\n Like poisonous plants that on corruption live?\n No, no, I think God would not suffer that:\n Yet the Duke will not die: he is too sinful.\n But I will die alone, and on this night\n Grim Death shall be my bridegroom, and the tomb\n My secret house of pleasure: well, what of that?\n The world’s a graveyard, and we each, like coffins,\n Within us bear a skeleton.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD MORANZONE _all in black_; _he passes across the back of the\n stage looking anxiously about_.]\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Where is Guido?\n I cannot find him anywhere.\n\nDUCHESS [_catches sight of him_]\n\n O God!\n ’Twas thou who took my love away from me.\n\nMORANZONE [_with a look of joy_]\n\n What, has he left you?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Nay, you know he has.\n Oh, give him back to me, give him back, I say,\n Or I will tear your body limb from limb,\n And to the common gibbet nail your head\n Until the carrion crows have stripped it bare.\n Better you had crossed a hungry lioness\n Before you came between me and my love.\n\n [_With more pathos_.]\n\n Nay, give him back, you know not how I love him.\n Here by this chair he knelt a half hour since;\n ’Twas there he stood, and there he looked at me;\n This is the hand he kissed, and these the ears\n Into whose open portals he did pour\n A tale of love so musical that all\n The birds stopped singing! Oh, give him back to me.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n He does not love you, Madam.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n May the plague\n Wither the tongue that says so! Give him back.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Madam, I tell you you will never see him,\n Neither to-night, nor any other night.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What is your name?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n My name? Revenge!\n\n [_Exit_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Revenge!\n I think I never harmed a little child.\n What should Revenge do coming to my door?\n It matters not, for Death is there already,\n Waiting with his dim torch to light my way.\n ’Tis true men hate thee, Death, and yet I think\n Thou wilt be kinder to me than my lover,\n And so dispatch the messengers at once,\n Harry the lazy steeds of lingering day,\n And let the night, thy sister, come instead,\n And drape the world in mourning; let the owl,\n Who is thy minister, scream from his tower\n And wake the toad with hooting, and the bat,\n That is the slave of dim Persephone,\n Wheel through the sombre air on wandering wing!\n Tear up the shrieking mandrakes from the earth\n And bid them make us music, and tell the mole\n To dig deep down thy cold and narrow bed,\n For I shall lie within thine arms to-night.\n\n END OF ACT II.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_A large corridor in the Ducal Palace_: _a window_ (_L.C._) _looks out on\na view of Padua by moonlight_: _a staircase_ (_R.C._) _leads up to a door\nwith a portière of crimson velvet_, _with the Duke’s arms embroidered in\ngold on it_: _on the lowest step of the staircase a figure draped in\nblack is sitting_: _the hall is lit by an iron cresset filled with\nburning tow_: _thunder and lightning outside_: _the time is night_.\n\n [_Enter_ GUIDO _through the window_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n The wind is rising: how my ladder shook!\n I thought that every gust would break the cords!\n\n [_Looks out at the city_.]\n\n Christ! What a night:\n Great thunder in the heavens, and wild lightnings\n Striking from pinnacle to pinnacle\n Across the city, till the dim houses seem\n To shudder and to shake as each new glare\n Dashes adown the street.\n\n [_Passes across the stage to foot of staircase_.]\n\n Ah! who art thou\n That sittest on the stair, like unto Death\n Waiting a guilty soul? [_A pause_.]\n Canst thou not speak?\n Or has this storm laid palsy on thy tongue,\n And chilled thy utterance?\n\n [_The figure rises and takes off his mask_.]\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Guido Ferranti,\n Thy murdered father laughs for joy to-night.\n\nGUIDO [_confusedly_]\n\n What, art thou here?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay, waiting for your coming.\n\nGUIDO [_looking away from him_]\n\n I did not think to see you, but am glad,\n That you may know the thing I mean to do.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n First, I would have you know my well-laid plans;\n Listen: I have set horses at the gate\n Which leads to Parma: when you have done your business\n We will ride hence, and by to-morrow night—\n\nGUIDO\n\n It cannot be.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Nay, but it shall.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Listen, Lord Moranzone,\n I am resolved not to kill this man.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Surely my ears are traitors, speak again:\n It cannot be but age has dulled my powers,\n I am an old man now: what did you say?\n You said that with that dagger in your belt\n You would avenge your father’s bloody murder;\n Did you not say that?\n\nGUIDO\n\n No, my lord, I said\n I was resolved not to kill the Duke.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n You said not that; it is my senses mock me;\n Or else this midnight air o’ercharged with storm\n Alters your message in the giving it.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, you heard rightly; I’ll not kill this man.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What of thine oath, thou traitor, what of thine oath?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I am resolved not to keep that oath.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What of thy murdered father?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Dost thou think\n My father would be glad to see me coming,\n This old man’s blood still hot upon mine hands?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ay! he would laugh for joy.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I do not think so,\n There is better knowledge in the other world;\n Vengeance is God’s, let God himself revenge.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Thou art God’s minister of vengeance.\n\nGUIDO\n\n No!\n God hath no minister but his own hand.\n I will not kill this man.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Why are you here,\n If not to kill him, then?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Lord Moranzone,\n I purpose to ascend to the Duke’s chamber,\n And as he lies asleep lay on his breast\n The dagger and this writing; when he awakes\n Then he will know who held him in his power\n And slew him not: this is the noblest vengeance\n Which I can take.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n You will not slay him?\n\nGUIDO\n\n No.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Ignoble son of a noble father,\n Who sufferest this man who sold that father\n To live an hour.\n\nGUIDO\n\n ’Twas thou that hindered me;\n I would have killed him in the open square,\n The day I saw him first.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n It was not yet time;\n Now it is time, and, like some green-faced girl,\n Thou pratest of forgiveness.\n\nGUIDO\n\n No! revenge:\n The right revenge my father’s son should take.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n You are a coward,\n Take out the knife, get to the Duke’s chamber,\n And bring me back his heart upon the blade.\n When he is dead, then you can talk to me\n Of noble vengeances.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Upon thine honour,\n And by the love thou bearest my father’s name,\n Dost thou think my father, that great gentleman,\n That generous soldier, that most chivalrous lord,\n Would have crept at night-time, like a common thief,\n And stabbed an old man sleeping in his bed,\n However he had wronged him: tell me that.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n[after some hesitation]\n\n You have sworn an oath, see that you keep that oath.\n Boy, do you think I do not know your secret,\n Your traffic with the Duchess?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Silence, liar!\n The very moon in heaven is not more chaste.\n Nor the white stars so pure.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n And yet, you love her;\n Weak fool, to let love in upon your life,\n Save as a plaything.\n\nGUIDO\n\n You do well to talk:\n Within your veins, old man, the pulse of youth\n Throbs with no ardour. Your eyes full of rheum\n Have against Beauty closed their filmy doors,\n And your clogged ears, losing their natural sense,\n Have shut you from the music of the world.\n You talk of love! You know not what it is.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Oh, in my time, boy, have I walked i’ the moon,\n Swore I would live on kisses and on blisses,\n Swore I would die for love, and did not die,\n Wrote love bad verses; ay, and sung them badly,\n Like all true lovers: Oh, I have done the tricks!\n I know the partings and the chamberings;\n We are all animals at best, and love\n Is merely passion with a holy name.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Now then I know you have not loved at all.\n Love is the sacrament of life; it sets\n Virtue where virtue was not; cleanses men\n Of all the vile pollutions of this world;\n It is the fire which purges gold from dross,\n It is the fan which winnows wheat from chaff,\n It is the spring which in some wintry soil\n Makes innocence to blossom like a rose.\n The days are over when God walked with men,\n But Love, which is his image, holds his place.\n When a man loves a woman, then he knows\n God’s secret, and the secret of the world.\n There is no house so lowly or so mean,\n Which, if their hearts be pure who live in it,\n Love will not enter; but if bloody murder\n Knock at the Palace gate and is let in,\n Love like a wounded thing creeps out and dies.\n This is the punishment God sets on sin.\n The wicked cannot love.\n\n [_A groan comes from the_ DUKE’S _chamber_.]\n\n Ah! What is that?\n Do you not hear? ’Twas nothing.\n So I think\n That it is woman’s mission by their love\n To save the souls of men: and loving her,\n My Lady, my white Beatrice, I begin\n To see a nobler and a holier vengeance\n In letting this man live, than doth reside\n In bloody deeds o’ night, stabs in the dark,\n And young hands clutching at a palsied throat.\n It was, I think, for love’s sake that Lord Christ,\n Who was indeed himself incarnate Love,\n Bade every man forgive his enemy.\n\nMORANZONE [_sneeringly_]\n\n That was in Palestine, not Padua;\n And said for saints: I have to do with men.\n\nGUIDO\n\n It was for all time said.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n And your white Duchess,\n What will she do to thank you?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Alas, I will not see her face again.\n ’Tis but twelve hours since I parted from her,\n So suddenly, and with such violent passion,\n That she has shut her heart against me now:\n No, I will never see her.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What will you do?\n\nGUIDO\n\n After that I have laid the dagger there,\n Get hence to-night from Padua.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n And then?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I will take service with the Doge at Venice,\n And bid him pack me straightway to the wars,\n And there I will, being now sick of life,\n Throw that poor life against some desperate spear.\n\n [_A groan from the_ DUKE’S _chamber again_.]\n\n Did you not hear a voice?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I always hear,\n From the dim confines of some sepulchre,\n A voice that cries for vengeance. We waste time,\n It will be morning soon; are you resolved\n You will not kill the Duke?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I am resolved.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n O wretched father, lying unavenged.\n\nGUIDO\n\n More wretched, were thy son a murderer.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Why, what is life?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I do not know, my lord,\n I did not give it, and I dare not take it.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I do not thank God often; but I think\n I thank him now that I have got no son!\n And you, what bastard blood flows in your veins\n That when you have your enemy in your grasp\n You let him go! I would that I had left you\n With the dull hinds that reared you.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Better perhaps\n That you had done so! May be better still\n I’d not been born to this distressful world.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Farewell!\n\nGUIDO\n\n Farewell! Some day, Lord Moranzone,\n You will understand my vengeance.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Never, boy.\n\n [_Gets out of window and exit by rope ladder_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Father, I think thou knowest my resolve,\n And with this nobler vengeance art content.\n Father, I think in letting this man live\n That I am doing what thou wouldst have done.\n Father, I know not if a human voice\n Can pierce the iron gateway of the dead,\n Or if the dead are set in ignorance\n Of what we do, or do not, for their sakes.\n And yet I feel a presence in the air,\n There is a shadow standing at my side,\n And ghostly kisses seem to touch my lips,\n And leave them holier. [_Kneels down_.]\n O father, if ’tis thou,\n Canst thou not burst through the decrees of death,\n And if corporeal semblance show thyself,\n That I may touch thy hand!\n No, there is nothing. [_Rises_.]\n ’Tis the night that cheats us with its phantoms,\n And, like a puppet-master, makes us think\n That things are real which are not. It grows late.\n Now must I to my business.\n\n [_Pulls out a letter from his doublet and reads it_.]\n\n When he wakes,\n And sees this letter, and the dagger with it,\n Will he not have some loathing for his life,\n Repent, perchance, and lead a better life,\n Or will he mock because a young man spared\n His natural enemy? I do not care.\n Father, it is thy bidding that I do,\n Thy bidding, and the bidding of my love\n Which teaches me to know thee as thou art.\n\n[_Ascends staircase stealthily_, _and just as he reaches out his hand to\ndraw back the curtain the Duchess appears all in white_. GUIDO _starts\nback_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Guido! what do you here so late?\n\nGUIDO\n\n O white and spotless angel of my life,\n Sure thou hast come from Heaven with a message\n That mercy is more noble than revenge?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n There is no barrier between us now.\n\nGUIDO\n\n None, love, nor shall be.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I have seen to that.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Tarry here for me.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, you are not going?\n You will not leave me as you did before?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I will return within a moment’s space,\n But first I must repair to the Duke’s chamber,\n And leave this letter and this dagger there,\n That when he wakes—\n\nDUCHESS\n\n When who wakes?\n\nGUIDO\n\n Why, the Duke.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n He will not wake again.\n\nGUIDO\n\n What, is he dead?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay! he is dead.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God! how wonderful\n Are all thy secret ways! Who would have said\n That on this very night, when I had yielded\n Into thy hands the vengeance that is thine,\n Thou with thy finger wouldst have touched the man,\n And bade him come before thy judgment seat.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I have just killed him.\n\nGUIDO [_in horror_]\n\n Oh!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n He was asleep;\n Come closer, love, and I will tell you all.\n I had resolved to kill myself to-night.\n About an hour ago I waked from sleep,\n And took my dagger from beneath my pillow,\n Where I had hidden it to serve my need,\n And drew it from the sheath, and felt the edge,\n And thought of you, and how I loved you, Guido,\n And turned to fall upon it, when I marked\n The old man sleeping, full of years and sin;\n There lay he muttering curses in his sleep,\n And as I looked upon his evil face\n Suddenly like a flame there flashed across me,\n There is the barrier which Guido spoke of:\n You said there lay a barrier between us,\n What barrier but he?—\n I hardly know\n What happened, but a steaming mist of blood\n Rose up between us two.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Oh, horrible!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And then he groaned,\n And then he groaned no more! I only heard\n The dripping of the blood upon the floor.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Enough, enough.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Will you not kiss me now?\n Do you remember saying that women’s love\n Turns men to angels? well, the love of man\n Turns women into martyrs; for its sake\n We do or suffer anything.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Will you not speak?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I cannot speak at all.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Let as not talk of this! Let us go hence:\n Is not the barrier broken down between us?\n What would you more? Come, it is almost morning.\n\n [_Puts her hand on_ GUIDO’S.]\n\nGUIDO [_breaking from her_]\n\n O damned saint! O angel fresh from Hell!\n What bloody devil tempted thee to this!\n That thou hast killed thy husband, that is nothing—\n Hell was already gaping for his soul—\n But thou hast murdered Love, and in its place\n Hast set a horrible and bloodstained thing,\n Whose very breath breeds pestilence and plague,\n And strangles Love.\n\nDUCHESS [_in amazed wonder_]\n\n I did it all for you.\n I would not have you do it, had you willed it,\n For I would keep you without blot or stain,\n A thing unblemished, unassailed, untarnished.\n Men do not know what women do for love.\n Have I not wrecked my soul for your dear sake,\n Here and hereafter?\n\nGUIDO\n\n No, do not touch me,\n Between us lies a thin red stream of blood;\n I dare not look across it: when you stabbed him\n You stabbed Love with a sharp knife to the heart.\n We cannot meet again.\n\nDUCHESS [_wringing her hands_]\n\n For you! For you!\n I did it all for you: have you forgotten?\n You said there was a barrier between us;\n That barrier lies now i’ the upper chamber\n Upset, overthrown, beaten, and battered down,\n And will not part us ever.\n\nGUIDO\n\n No, you mistook:\n Sin was the barrier, you have raised it up;\n Crime was the barrier, you have set it there.\n The barrier was murder, and your hand\n Has builded it so high it shuts out heaven,\n It shuts out God.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I did it all for you;\n You dare not leave me now: nay, Guido, listen.\n Get horses ready, we will fly to-night.\n The past is a bad dream, we will forget it:\n Before us lies the future: shall we not have\n Sweet days of love beneath our vines and laugh?—\n No, no, we will not laugh, but, when we weep,\n Well, we will weep together; I will serve you;\n I will be very meek and very gentle:\n You do not know me.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, I know you now;\n Get hence, I say, out of my sight.\n\nDUCHESS [_pacing up and down_]\n\n O God,\n How I have loved this man!\n\nGUIDO\n\n You never loved me.\n Had it been so, Love would have stayed your hand.\n How could we sit together at Love’s table?\n You have poured poison in the sacred wine,\n And Murder dips his fingers in the sop.\n\nDUCHESS [_throws herself on her knees_]\n\n Then slay me now! I have spilt blood to-night,\n You shall spill more, so we go hand in hand\n To heaven or to hell. Draw your sword, Guido.\n Quick, let your soul go chambering in my heart,\n It will but find its master’s image there.\n Nay, if you will not slay me with your sword,\n Bid me to fall upon this reeking knife,\n And I will do it.\n\nGUIDO [_wresting knife from her_]\n\n Give it to me, I say.\n O God, your very hands are wet with blood!\n This place is Hell, I cannot tarry here.\n I pray you let me see your face no more.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Better for me I had not seen your face.\n\n [GUIDO _recoils_: _she seizes his hands as she kneels_.]\n\n Nay, Guido, listen for a while:\n Until you came to Padua I lived\n Wretched indeed, but with no murderous thought,\n Very submissive to a cruel Lord,\n Very obedient to unjust commands,\n As pure I think as any gentle girl\n Who now would turn in horror from my hands—\n\n [_Stands up_.]\n\n You came: ah! Guido, the first kindly words\n I ever heard since I had come from France\n Were from your lips: well, well, that is no matter.\n You came, and in the passion of your eyes\n I read love’s meaning; everything you said\n Touched my dumb soul to music, so I loved you.\n And yet I did not tell you of my love.\n ’Twas you who sought me out, knelt at my feet\n As I kneel now at yours, and with sweet vows,\n\n [_Kneels_.]\n\n Whose music seems to linger in my ears,\n Swore that you loved me, and I trusted you.\n I think there are many women in the world\n Who would have tempted you to kill the man.\n I did not.\n Yet I know that had I done so,\n I had not been thus humbled in the dust,\n\n [_Stands up_.]\n\n But you had loved me very faithfully.\n\n [_After a pause approaches him timidly_.]\n\n I do not think you understand me, Guido:\n It was for your sake that I wrought this deed\n Whose horror now chills my young blood to ice,\n For your sake only. [_Stretching out her arm_.]\n Will you not speak to me?\n Love me a little: in my girlish life\n I have been starved for love, and kindliness\n Has passed me by.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I dare not look at you:\n You come to me with too pronounced a favour;\n Get to your tirewomen.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay, there it is!\n There speaks the man! yet had you come to me\n With any heavy sin upon your soul,\n Some murder done for hire, not for love,\n Why, I had sat and watched at your bedside\n All through the night-time, lest Remorse might come\n And pour his poisons in your ear, and so\n Keep you from sleeping! Sure it is the guilty,\n Who, being very wretched, need love most.\n\nGUIDO\n\n There is no love where there is any guilt.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No love where there is any guilt! O God,\n How differently do we love from men!\n There is many a woman here in Padua,\n Some workman’s wife, or ruder artisan’s,\n Whose husband spends the wages of the week\n In a coarse revel, or a tavern brawl,\n And reeling home late on the Saturday night,\n Finds his wife sitting by a fireless hearth,\n Trying to hush the child who cries for hunger,\n And then sets to and beats his wife because\n The child is hungry, and the fire black.\n Yet the wife loves him! and will rise next day\n With some red bruise across a careworn face,\n And sweep the house, and do the common service,\n And try and smile, and only be too glad\n If he does not beat her a second time\n Before her child!—that is how women love.\n\n [_A pause_: GUIDO _says nothing_.]\n\n I think you will not drive me from your side.\n Where have I got to go if you reject me?—\n You for whose sake this hand has murdered life,\n You for whose sake my soul has wrecked itself\n Beyond all hope of pardon.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Get thee gone:\n The dead man is a ghost, and our love too,\n Flits like a ghost about its desolate tomb,\n And wanders through this charnel house, and weeps\n That when you slew your lord you slew it also.\n Do you not see?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I see when men love women\n They give them but a little of their lives,\n But women when they love give everything;\n I see that, Guido, now.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Away, away,\n And come not back till you have waked your dead.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I would to God that I could wake the dead,\n Put vision in the glazéd eves, and give\n The tongue its natural utterance, and bid\n The heart to beat again: that cannot be:\n For what is done, is done: and what is dead\n Is dead for ever: the fire cannot warm him:\n The winter cannot hurt him with its snows;\n Something has gone from him; if you call him now,\n He will not answer; if you mock him now,\n He will not laugh; and if you stab him now\n He will not bleed.\n I would that I could wake him!\n O God, put back the sun a little space,\n And from the roll of time blot out to-night,\n And bid it not have been! Put back the sun,\n And make me what I was an hour ago!\n No, no, time will not stop for anything,\n Nor the sun stay its courses, though Repentance\n Calling it back grow hoarse; but you, my love,\n Have you no word of pity even for me?\n O Guido, Guido, will you not kiss me once?\n Drive me not to some desperate resolve:\n Women grow mad when they are treated thus:\n Will you not kiss me once?\n\nGUIDO [_holding up knife_]\n\n I will not kiss you\n Until the blood grows dry upon this knife,\n [_Wildly_] Back to your dead!\n\nDUCHESS [_going up the stairs_]\n\n Why, then I will be gone! and may you find\n More mercy than you showed to me to-night!\n\nGUIDO\n\n Let me find mercy when I go at night\n And do foul murder.\n\nDUCHESS [_coming down a few steps_.]\n\n Murder did you say?\n Murder is hungry, and still cries for more,\n And Death, his brother, is not satisfied,\n But walks the house, and will not go away,\n Unless he has a comrade! Tarry, Death,\n For I will give thee a most faithful lackey\n To travel with thee! Murder, call no more,\n For thou shalt eat thy fill.\n There is a storm\n Will break upon this house before the morning,\n So horrible, that the white moon already\n Turns grey and sick with terror, the low wind\n Goes moaning round the house, and the high stars\n Run madly through the vaulted firmament,\n As though the night wept tears of liquid fire\n For what the day shall look upon. Oh, weep,\n Thou lamentable heaven! Weep thy fill!\n Though sorrow like a cataract drench the fields,\n And make the earth one bitter lake of tears,\n It would not be enough. [_A peal of thunder_.]\n Do you not hear,\n There is artillery in the Heaven to-night.\n Vengeance is wakened up, and has unloosed\n His dogs upon the world, and in this matter\n Which lies between us two, let him who draws\n The thunder on his head beware the ruin\n Which the forked flame brings after.\n\n [_A flash of lightning followed by a peal of thunder_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Away! away!\n\n[_Exit the_ DUCHESS, _who as she lifts the crimson curtain looks back for\na moment at_ GUIDO, _but he makes no sign_. _More thunder_.]\n\n Now is life fallen in ashes at my feet\n And noble love self-slain; and in its place\n Crept murder with its silent bloody feet.\n And she who wrought it—Oh! and yet she loved me,\n And for my sake did do this dreadful thing.\n I have been cruel to her: Beatrice!\n Beatrice, I say, come back.\n\n [_Begins to ascend staircase_, _when the noise of Soldiers is heard_.]\n\n Ah! what is that?\n Torches ablaze, and noise of hurrying feet.\n Pray God they have not seized her.\n\n [_Noise grows louder_.]\n\n Beatrice!\n There is yet time to escape. Come down, come out!\n\n [_The voice of the_ DUCHESS _outside_.]\n\n This way went he, the man who slew my lord.\n\n[_Down the staircase comes hurrying a confused body of Soldiers_; GUIDO\n_is not seen at first_, _till the_ DUCHESS _surrounded by Servants\ncarrying torches appears at the top of the staircase_, _and points to_\nGUIDO, _who is seized at once_, _one of the Soldiers dragging the knife\nfrom his hand and showing it to the Captain of the Guard in sight of the\naudience_. _Tableau_.]\n\n END OF ACT III.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_The Court of Justice_: _the walls are hung with stamped grey velvet_:\n_above the hangings the wall is red_, _and gilt symbolical figures bear\nup the roof_, _which is made of red beams with grey soffits and\nmoulding_: _a canopy of white satin flowered with gold is set for the\nDuchess_: _below it a long bench with red cloth for the Judges_: _below\nthat a table for the clerks of the court. Two soldiers stand on each\nside of the canopy_, _and two soldiers guard the door_; _the citizens\nhave some of them collected in the Court_; _others are coming in greeting\none another_; _two tipstaffs in violet keep order with long white wands_.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Good morrow, neighbour Anthony.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Good morrow, neighbour Dominick.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n This is a strange day for Padua, is it not?—the Duke being dead.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n I tell you, neighbour Dominick, I have not known such a day since the\n last Duke died.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n They will try him first, and sentence him afterwards, will they not,\n neighbour Anthony?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Nay, for he might ’scape his punishment then; but they will condemn\n him first so that he gets his deserts, and give him trial afterwards\n so that no injustice is done.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Well, well, it will go hard with him I doubt not.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Surely it is a grievous thing to shed a Duke’s blood.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n They say a Duke has blue blood.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n I think our Duke’s blood was black like his soul.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Have a watch, neighbour Anthony, the officer is looking at thee.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n I care not if he does but look at me; he cannot whip me with the\n lashes of his eye.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n What think you of this young man who stuck the knife into the Duke?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Why, that he is a well-behaved, and a well-meaning, and a\n well-favoured lad, and yet wicked in that he killed the Duke.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n ’Twas the first time he did it: may be the law will not be hard on\n him, as he did not do it before.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n True.\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Silence, knave.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Am I thy looking-glass, Master Tipstaff, that thou callest me knave?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Here be one of the household coming. Well, Dame Lucy, thou art of the\n Court, how does thy poor mistress the Duchess, with her sweet face?\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n O well-a-day! O miserable day! O day! O misery! Why it is just\n nineteen years last June, at Michaelmas, since I was married to my\n husband, and it is August now, and here is the Duke murdered; there is\n a coincidence for you!\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Why, if it is a coincidence, they may not kill the young man: there is\n no law against coincidences.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n But how does the Duchess?\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n Well well, I knew some harm would happen to the house: six weeks ago\n the cakes were all burned on one side, and last Saint Martin even as\n ever was, there flew into the candle a big moth that had wings, and\n a’most scared me.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n But come to the Duchess, good gossip: what of her?\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n Marry, it is time you should ask after her, poor lady; she is\n distraught almost. Why, she has not slept, but paced the chamber all\n night long. I prayed her to have a posset, or some aqua-vitæ, and to\n get to bed and sleep a little for her health’s sake, but she answered\n me she was afraid she might dream. That was a strange answer, was it\n not?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n These great folk have not much sense, so Providence makes it up to\n them in fine clothes.\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n Well, well, God keep murder from us, I say, as long as we are alive.\n\n [_Enter_ LORD MORANZONE _hurriedly_.]\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Is the Duke dead?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n He has a knife in his heart, which they say is not healthy for any\n man.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Who is accused of having killed him?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Why, the prisoner, sir.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n But who is the prisoner?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Why, he that is accused of the Duke’s murder.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I mean, what is his name?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Faith, the same which his godfathers gave him: what else should it be?\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Guido Ferranti is his name, my lord.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n I almost knew thine answer ere you gave it.\n\n [_Aside_.]\n\n Yet it is strange he should have killed the Duke,\n Seeing he left me in such different mood.\n It is most likely when he saw the man,\n This devil who had sold his father’s life,\n That passion from their seat within his heart\n Thrust all his boyish theories of love,\n And in their place set vengeance; yet I marvel\n That he escaped not.\n\n [_Turning again to the crowd_.]\n\n How was he taken? Tell me.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Marry, sir, he was taken by the heels.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n But who seized him?\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Why, those that did lay hold of him.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n How was the alarm given?\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n That I cannot tell you, sir.\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n It was the Duchess herself who pointed him out.\n\nMORANZONE [_aside_]\n\n The Duchess! There is something strange in this.\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n Ay! And the dagger was in his hand—the Duchess’s own dagger.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n What did you say?\n\nMISTRESS LUCY\n\n Why, marry, that it was with the Duchess’s dagger that the Duke was\n killed.\n\nMORANZONE [_aside_]\n\n There is some mystery about this: I cannot understand it.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n They be very long a-coming,\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n I warrant they will come soon enough for the prisoner.\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Silence in the Court!\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Thou dost break silence in bidding us keep it, Master Tipstaff.\n\n [_Enter the_ LORD JUSTICE _and the other Judges_.]\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Who is he in scarlet? Is he the headsman?\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Nay, he is the Lord Justice.\n\n [_Enter_ GUIDO _guarded_.]\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n There be the prisoner surely.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n He looks honest.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n That be his villany: knaves nowadays do look so honest that honest\n folk are forced to look like knaves so as to be different.\n\n [_Enter the Headman_, _who takes his stand behind_ GUIDO.]\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Yon be the headsman then! O Lord! Is the axe sharp, think you?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Ay! sharper than thy wits are; but the edge is not towards him, mark\n you.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN [_scratching his neck_]\n\n I’ faith, I like it not so near.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Tut, thou need’st not be afraid; they never cut the heads of common\n folk: they do but hang us.\n\n [_Trumpets outside_.]\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n What are the trumpets for? Is the trial over?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Nay, ’tis for the Duchess.\n\n[_Enter the_ DUCHESS _in black velvet_; _her train of flowered black\nvelvet is carried by two pages in violet_; _with her is the_ CARDINAL _in\nscarlet_, _and the gentlemen of the Court in black_; _she takes her seat\non the throne above the Judges_, _who rise and take their caps off as she\nenters_; _the_ CARDINAL _sits next to her a little lower_; _the Courtiers\ngroup themselves about the throne_.]\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n O poor lady, how pale she is! Will she sit there?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Ay! she is in the Duke’s place now.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n That is a good thing for Padua; the Duchess is a very kind and\n merciful Duchess; why, she cured my child of the ague once.\n\nTHIRD CITIZEN\n\n Ay, and has given us bread: do not forget the bread.\n\nA SOLDIER\n\n Stand back, good people.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n If we be good, why should we stand back?\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Silence in the Court!\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n May it please your Grace,\n Is it your pleasure we proceed to trial\n Of the Duke’s murder? [DUCHESS _bows_.]\n Set the prisoner forth.\n What is thy name?\n\nGUIDO\n\n It matters not, my lord.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Guido Ferranti is thy name in Padua.\n\nGUIDO\n\n A man may die as well under that name as any other.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Thou art not ignorant\n What dreadful charge men lay against thee here,\n Namely, the treacherous murder of thy Lord,\n Simone Gesso, Duke of Padua;\n What dost thou say in answer?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I say nothing.\n\nLORD JUSTICE [_rising_]\n\n Guido Ferranti—\n\nMORANZONE [_stepping from the crowd_]\n\n Tarry, my Lord Justice.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Who art thou that bid’st justice tarry, sir?\n\nMORANZONE\n\n So be it justice it can go its way;\n But if it be not justice—\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Who is this?\n\nCOUNT BARDI\n\n A very noble gentleman, and well known\n To the late Duke.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Sir, thou art come in time\n To see the murder of the Duke avenged.\n There stands the man who did this heinous thing.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n My lord,\n I ask again what proof have ye?\n\nLORD JUSTICE [_holding up the dagger_]\n\n This dagger,\n Which from his blood-stained hands, itself all blood,\n Last night the soldiers seized: what further proof\n Need we indeed?\n\nMORANZONE [_takes the danger and approaches the_ DUCHESS]\n\n Saw I not such a dagger\n Hang from your Grace’s girdle yesterday?\n\n [_The_ DUCHESS _shudders and makes no answer_.]\n\n Ah! my Lord Justice, may I speak a moment\n With this young man, who in such peril stands?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Ay, willingly, my lord, and may you turn him\n To make a full avowal of his guilt.\n\n[LORD MORANZONE _goes over to_ GUIDO, _who stands R. and clutches him by\nthe hand_.]\n\nMORANZONE [_in a low voice_]\n\n She did it! Nay, I saw it in her eyes.\n Boy, dost thou think I’ll let thy father’s son\n Be by this woman butchered to his death?\n Her husband sold your father, and the wife\n Would sell the son in turn.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Lord Moranzone,\n I alone did this thing: be satisfied,\n My father is avenged.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Doth he confess?\n\nGUIDO\n\n My lord, I do confess\n That foul unnatural murder has been done.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n Why, look at that: he has a pitiful heart, and does not like murder;\n they will let him go for that.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Say you no more?\n\nGUIDO\n\n My lord, I say this also,\n That to spill human blood is deadly sin.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n Marry, he should tell that to the headsman: ’tis a good sentiment.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Lastly, my lord, I do entreat the Court\n To give me leave to utter openly\n The dreadful secret of this mystery,\n And to point out the very guilty one\n Who with this dagger last night slew the Duke.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Thou hast leave to speak.\n\nDUCHESS [_rising_]\n\n I say he shall not speak:\n What need have we of further evidence?\n Was he not taken in the house at night\n In Guilt’s own bloody livery?\n\nLORD JUSTICE [_showing her the statute_]\n\n Your Grace\n Can read the law.\n\nDUCHESS [_waiving book aside_]\n\n Bethink you, my Lord Justice,\n Is it not very like that such a one\n May, in the presence of the people here,\n Utter some slanderous word against my Lord,\n Against the city, or the city’s honour,\n Perchance against myself.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n My liege, the law.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n He shall not speak, but, with gags in his mouth,\n Shall climb the ladder to the bloody block.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n The law, my liege.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n We are not bound by law,\n But with it we bind others.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n My Lord Justice,\n Thou wilt not suffer this injustice here.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n The Court needs not thy voice, Lord Moranzone.\n Madam, it were a precedent most evil\n To wrest the law from its appointed course,\n For, though the cause be just, yet anarchy\n Might on this licence touch these golden scales\n And unjust causes unjust victories gain.\n\nCOUNT BARDI\n\n I do not think your Grace can stay the law.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay, it is well to preach and prate of law:\n Methinks, my haughty lords of Padua,\n If ye are hurt in pocket or estate,\n So much as makes your monstrous revenues\n Less by the value of one ferry toll,\n Ye do not wait the tedious law’s delay\n With such sweet patience as ye counsel me.\n\nCOUNT BARDI\n\n Madam, I think you wrong our nobles here.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I think I wrong them not. Which of you all\n Finding a thief within his house at night,\n With some poor chattel thrust into his rags,\n Will stop and parley with him? do ye not\n Give him unto the officer and his hook\n To be dragged gaolwards straightway?\n And so now,\n Had ye been men, finding this fellow here,\n With my Lord’s life still hot upon his hands,\n Ye would have haled him out into the court,\n And struck his head off with an axe.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Speak, my Lord Justice.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Your Grace, it cannot be:\n The laws of Padua are most certain here:\n And by those laws the common murderer even\n May with his own lips plead, and make defence.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n This is no common murderer, Lord Justice,\n But a great outlaw, and a most vile traitor,\n Taken in open arms against the state.\n For he who slays the man who rules a state\n Slays the state also, widows every wife,\n And makes each child an orphan, and no less\n Is to be held a public enemy,\n Than if he came with mighty ordonnance,\n And all the spears of Venice at his back,\n To beat and batter at our city gates—\n Nay, is more dangerous to our commonwealth,\n For walls and gates, bastions and forts, and things\n Whose common elements are wood and stone\n May be raised up, but who can raise again\n The ruined body of my murdered lord,\n And bid it live and laugh?\n\nMAFFIO\n\n Now by Saint Paul\n I do not think that they will let him speak.\n\nJEPPO VITELLOZZO\n\n There is much in this, listen.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Wherefore now,\n Throw ashes on the head of Padua,\n With sable banners hang each silent street,\n Let every man be clad in solemn black;\n But ere we turn to these sad rites of mourning\n Let us bethink us of the desperate hand\n Which wrought and brought this ruin on our state,\n And straightway pack him to that narrow house,\n Where no voice is, but with a little dust\n Death fills right up the lying mouths of men.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Unhand me, knaves! I tell thee, my Lord Justice,\n Thou mightst as well bid the untrammelled ocean,\n The winter whirlwind, or the Alpine storm,\n Not roar their will, as bid me hold my peace!\n Ay! though ye put your knives into my throat,\n Each grim and gaping wound shall find a tongue,\n And cry against you.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Sir, this violence\n Avails you nothing; for save the tribunal\n Give thee a lawful right to open speech,\n Naught that thou sayest can be credited.\n\n [_The_ DUCHESS _smiles and_ GUIDO _falls back with a gesture of\n despair_.]\n\n Madam, myself, and these wise Justices,\n Will with your Grace’s sanction now retire\n Into another chamber, to decide\n Upon this difficult matter of the law,\n And search the statutes and the precedents.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Go, my Lord Justice, search the statutes well,\n Nor let this brawling traitor have his way.\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Go, my Lord Justice, search thy conscience well,\n Nor let a man be sent to death unheard.\n\n [_Exit the_ LORD JUSTICE _and the Judges_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Silence, thou evil genius of my life!\n Thou com’st between us two a second time;\n This time, my lord, I think the turn is mine.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I shall not die till I have uttered voice.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Thou shalt die silent, and thy secret with thee.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Art thou that Beatrice, Duchess of Padua?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I am what thou hast made me; look at me well,\n I am thy handiwork.\n\nMAFFIO\n\n See, is she not\n Like that white tigress which we saw at Venice,\n Sent by some Indian soldan to the Doge?\n\nJEPPO\n\n Hush! she may hear thy chatter.\n\nHEADSMAN\n\n My young fellow,\n I do not know why thou shouldst care to speak,\n Seeing my axe is close upon thy neck,\n And words of thine will never blunt its edge.\n But if thou art so bent upon it, why\n Thou mightest plead unto the Churchman yonder:\n The common people call him kindly here,\n Indeed I know he has a kindly soul.\n\nGUIDO\n\n This man, whose trade is death, hath courtesies\n More than the others.\n\nHEADSMAN\n\n Why, God love you, sir,\n I’ll do you your last service on this earth.\n\nGUIDO\n\n My good Lord Cardinal, in a Christian land,\n With Lord Christ’s face of mercy looking down\n From the high seat of Judgment, shall a man\n Die unabsolved, unshrived? And if not so,\n May I not tell this dreadful tale of sin,\n If any sin there be upon my soul?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Thou dost but waste thy time.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n Alack, my son,\n I have no power with the secular arm.\n My task begins when justice has been done,\n To urge the wavering sinner to repent\n And to confess to Holy Church’s ear\n The dreadful secrets of a sinful mind.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Thou mayest speak to the confessional\n Until thy lips grow weary of their tale,\n But here thou shalt not speak.\n\nGUIDO\n\n My reverend father,\n You bring me but cold comfort.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n Nay, my son,\n For the great power of our mother Church,\n Ends not with this poor bubble of a world,\n Of which we are but dust, as Jerome saith,\n For if the sinner doth repentant die,\n Our prayers and holy masses much avail\n To bring the guilty soul from purgatory.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And when in purgatory thou seest my Lord\n With that red star of blood upon his heart,\n Tell him I sent thee hither.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O dear God!\n\nMORANZONE\n\n This is the woman, is it, whom you loved?\n\nCARDINAL\n\n Your Grace is very cruel to this man.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No more than he was cruel to her Grace.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n Yet mercy is the sovereign right of princes.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I got no mercy, and I give it not.\n He hath changed my heart into a heart of stone,\n He hath sown rank nettles in a goodly field,\n He hath poisoned the wells of pity in my breast,\n He hath withered up all kindness at the root;\n My life is as some famine murdered land,\n Whence all good things have perished utterly:\n I am what he hath made me.\n\n [_The_ DUCHESS _weeps_.]\n\nJEPPO\n\n Is it not strange\n That she should so have loved the wicked Duke?\n\nMAFFIO\n\n It is most strange when women love their lords,\n And when they love them not it is most strange.\n\nJEPPO\n\n What a philosopher thou art, Petrucci!\n\nMAFFIO\n\n Ay! I can bear the ills of other men,\n Which is philosophy.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n They tarry long,\n These greybeards and their council; bid them come;\n Bid them come quickly, else I think my heart\n Will beat itself to bursting: not indeed,\n That I here care to live; God knows my life\n Is not so full of joy, yet, for all that,\n I would not die companionless, or go\n Lonely to Hell.\n Look, my Lord Cardinal,\n Canst thou not see across my forehead here,\n In scarlet letters writ, the word Revenge?\n Fetch me some water, I will wash it off:\n ’Twas branded there last night, but in the day-time\n I need not wear it, need I, my Lord Cardinal?\n Oh, how it sears and burns into my brain:\n Give me a knife; not that one, but another,\n And I will cut it out.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n It is most natural\n To be incensed against the murderous hand\n That treacherously stabbed your sleeping lord.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I would, old Cardinal, I could burn that hand;\n But it will burn hereafter.\n\nCARDINAL\n\n Nay, the Church\n Ordains us to forgive our enemies.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Forgiveness? what is that? I never got it.\n They come at last: well, my Lord Justice, well.\n\n [_Enter the_ LORD JUSTICE.]\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Most gracious Lady, and our sovereign Liege,\n We have long pondered on the point at issue,\n And much considered of your Grace’s wisdom,\n And never wisdom spake from fairer lips—\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Proceed, sir, without compliment.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n We find,\n As your own Grace did rightly signify,\n That any citizen, who by force or craft\n Conspires against the person of the Liege,\n Is _ipso facto_ outlaw, void of rights\n Such as pertain to other citizens,\n Is traitor, and a public enemy,\n Who may by any casual sword be slain\n Without the slayer’s danger; nay, if brought\n Into the presence of the tribunal,\n Must with dumb lips and silence reverent\n Listen unto his well-deserved doom,\n Nor has the privilege of open speech.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I thank thee, my Lord Justice, heartily;\n I like your law: and now I pray dispatch\n This public outlaw to his righteous doom;\n What is there more?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Ay, there is more, your Grace.\n This man being alien born, not Paduan,\n Nor by allegiance bound unto the Duke,\n Save such as common nature doth lay down,\n Hath, though accused of treasons manifold,\n Whose slightest penalty is certain death,\n Yet still the right of public utterance\n Before the people and the open court;\n Nay, shall be much entreated by the Court,\n To make some formal pleading for his life,\n Lest his own city, righteously incensed,\n Should with an unjust trial tax our state,\n And wars spring up against the commonwealth:\n So merciful are the laws of Padua\n Unto the stranger living in her gates.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Being of my Lord’s household, is he stranger here?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Ay, until seven years of service spent\n He cannot be a Paduan citizen.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I thank thee, my Lord Justice, heartily;\n I like your law.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN\n\n I like no law at all:\n Were there no law there’d be no law-breakers,\n So all men would be virtuous.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN\n\n So they would;\n ’Tis a wise saying that, and brings you far.\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Ay! to the gallows, knave.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Is this the law?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n It is the law most certainly, my liege.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Show me the book: ’tis written in blood-red.\n\nJEPPO\n\n Look at the Duchess.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Thou accursed law,\n I would that I could tear thee from the state\n As easy as I tear thee from this book.\n\n [_Tears out the page_.]\n\n Come here, Count Bardi: are you honourable?\n Get a horse ready for me at my house,\n For I must ride to Venice instantly.\n\nBARDI\n\n To Venice, Madam?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Not a word of this,\n Go, go at once. [_Exit_ COUNT BARDI.]\n A moment, my Lord Justice.\n If, as thou sayest it, this is the law—\n Nay, nay, I doubt not that thou sayest right,\n Though right be wrong in such a case as this—\n May I not by the virtue of mine office\n Adjourn this court until another day?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Madam, you cannot stay a trial for blood.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I will not tarry then to hear this man\n Rail with rude tongue against our sacred person.\n Come, gentlemen.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n My liege,\n You cannot leave this court until the prisoner\n Be purged or guilty of this dread offence.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Cannot, Lord Justice? By what right do you\n Set barriers in my path where I should go?\n Am I not Duchess here in Padua,\n And the state’s regent?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n For that reason, Madam,\n Being the fountain-head of life and death\n Whence, like a mighty river, justice flows,\n Without thy presence justice is dried up\n And fails of purpose: thou must tarry here.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What, wilt thou keep me here against my will?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n We pray thy will be not against the law.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n What if I force my way out of the court?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Thou canst not force the Court to give thee way.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I will not tarry. [_Rises from her seat_.]\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Is the usher here?\n Let him stand forth. [_Usher comes forward_.]\n Thou knowest thy business, sir.\n\n[_The Usher closes the doors of the court_, _which are L._, _and when\nthe_ DUCHESS _and her retinue approach_, _kneels down_.]\n\nUSHER\n\n In all humility I beseech your Grace\n Turn not my duty to discourtesy,\n Nor make my unwelcome office an offence.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Is there no gentleman amongst you all\n To prick this prating fellow from our way?\n\nMAFFIO [_drawing his sword_]\n\n Ay! that will I.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Count Maffio, have a care,\n And you, sir. [_To_ JEPPO.]\n The first man who draws his sword\n Upon the meanest officer of this Court,\n Dies before nightfall.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Sirs, put up your swords:\n It is most meet that I should hear this man.\n\n [_Goes back to throne_.]\n\nMORANZONE\n\n Now hast thou got thy enemy in thy hand.\n\nLORD JUSTICE [_taking the time-glass up_]\n\n Guido Ferranti, while the crumbling sand\n Falls through this time-glass, thou hast leave to speak.\n This and no more.\n\nGUIDO\n\n It is enough, my lord.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Thou standest on the extreme verge of death;\n See that thou speakest nothing but the truth,\n Naught else will serve thee.\n\nGUIDO\n\n If I speak it not,\n Then give my body to the headsman there.\n\nLORD JUSTICE [_turns the time-glass_]\n\n Let there be silence while the prisoner speaks.\n\nTIPSTAFF\n\n Silence in the Court there.\n\nGUIDO\n\n My Lords Justices,\n And reverent judges of this worthy court,\n I hardly know where to begin my tale,\n So strangely dreadful is this history.\n First, let me tell you of what birth I am.\n I am the son of that good Duke Lorenzo\n Who was with damned treachery done to death\n By a most wicked villain, lately Duke\n Of this good town of Padua.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Have a care,\n It will avail thee nought to mock this prince\n Who now lies in his coffin.\n\nMAFFIO\n\n By Saint James,\n This is the Duke of Parma’s rightful heir.\n\nJEPPO\n\n I always thought him noble.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I confess\n That with the purport of a just revenge,\n A most just vengeance on a man of blood,\n I entered the Duke’s household, served his will,\n Sat at his board, drank of his wine, and was\n His intimate: so much I will confess,\n And this too, that I waited till he grew\n To give the fondest secrets of his life\n Into my keeping, till he fawned on me,\n And trusted me in every private matter\n Even as my noble father trusted him;\n That for this thing I waited.\n\n [_To the Headsman_.]\n\n Thou man of blood!\n Turn not thine axe on me before the time:\n Who knows if it be time for me to die?\n Is there no other neck in court but mine?\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n The sand within the time-glass flows apace.\n Come quickly to the murder of the Duke.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I will be brief: Last night at twelve o’ the clock,\n By a strong rope I scaled the palace wall,\n With purport to revenge my father’s murder—\n Ay! with that purport I confess, my lord.\n This much I will acknowledge, and this also,\n That as with stealthy feet I climbed the stair\n Which led unto the chamber of the Duke,\n And reached my hand out for the scarlet cloth\n Which shook and shivered in the gusty door,\n Lo! the white moon that sailed in the great heaven\n Flooded with silver light the darkened room,\n Night lit her candles for me, and I saw\n The man I hated, cursing in his sleep;\n And thinking of a most dear father murdered,\n Sold to the scaffold, bartered to the block,\n I smote the treacherous villain to the heart\n With this same dagger, which by chance I found\n Within the chamber.\n\nDUCHESS [_rising from her seat_]\n\n Oh!\n\nGUIDO [_hurriedly_]\n\n I killed the Duke.\n Now, my Lord Justice, if I may crave a boon,\n Suffer me not to see another sun\n Light up the misery of this loathsome world.\n\nLORD JUSTICE\n\n Thy boon is granted, thou shalt die to-night.\n Lead him away. Come, Madam\n\n[GUIDO _is led off_; _as he goes the_ DUCHESS _stretches out her arms and\nrushes down the stage_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Guido! Guido!\n\n [_Faints_.]\n\n _Tableau_\n\n END OF ACT IV.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nACT V\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_A dungeon in the public prison of Padua_; _Guido lies asleep on a\npallet_ (_L.C._); _a table with a goblet on it is set_ (_L.C._); _five\nsoldiers are drinking and playing dice in the corner on a stone table_;\n_one of them has a lantern hung to his halbert_; _a torch is set in the\nwall over Guido’s head_. _Two grated windows behind_, _one on each side\nof the door which is_ (_C._), _look out into the passage_; _the stage is\nrather dark_.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER [_throws dice_]\n\n Sixes again! good Pietro.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n I’ faith, lieutenant, I will play with thee no more. I will lose\n everything.\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n Except thy wits; thou art safe there!\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n Ay, ay, he cannot take them from me.\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n No; for thou hast no wits to give him.\n\nTHE SOLDIERS [_loudly_]\n\n Ha! ha! ha!\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Silence! You will wake the prisoner; he is asleep.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n What matter? He will get sleep enough when he is buried. I warrant\n he’d be glad if we could wake him when he’s in the grave.\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n Nay! for when he wakes there it will be judgment day.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n Ay, and he has done a grievous thing; for, look you, to murder one of\n us who are but flesh and blood is a sin, and to kill a Duke goes being\n near against the law.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Well, well, he was a wicked Duke.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n And so he should not have touched him; if one meddles with wicked\n people, one is like to be tainted with their wickedness.\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n Ay, that is true. How old is the prisoner?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n Old enough to do wrong, and not old enough to be wise.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Why, then, he might be any age.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n They say the Duchess wanted to pardon him.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Is that so?\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n Ay, and did much entreat the Lord Justice, but he would not.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n I had thought, Pietro, that the Duchess was omnipotent.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n True, she is well-favoured; I know none so comely.\n\nTHE SOLDIERS\n\n Ha! ha! ha!\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n I meant I had thought our Duchess could do anything.\n\nSECOND SOLDIER\n\n Nay, for he is now given over to the Justices, and they will see that\n justice be done; they and stout Hugh the headsman; but when his head\n is off, why then the Duchess can pardon him if she likes; there is no\n law against that.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n I do not think that stout Hugh, as you call him, will do the business\n for him after all. This Guido is of gentle birth, and so by the law\n can drink poison first, if it so be his pleasure.\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n And if he does not drink it?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Why, then, they will kill him.\n\n [_Knocking comes at the door_.]\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n See who that is.\n\n [_Third Soldier goes over and looks through the wicket_.]\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n It is a woman, sir.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Is she pretty?\n\nTHIRD SOLDIER\n\n I can’t tell. She is masked, lieutenant.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n It is only very ugly or very beautiful women who ever hide their\n faces. Let her in.\n\n [_Soldier opens the door_, _and the_ DUCHESS _masked and cloaked\n enters_.]\n\nDUCHESS [_to Third Soldier_]\n\n Are you the officer on guard?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER [_coming forward_]\n\n I am, madam.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I must see the prisoner alone.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n I am afraid that is impossible. [_The_ DUCHESS _hands him a ring_,\n _he looks at and returns it to her with a bow and makes a sign to the\n Soldiers_.] Stand without there.\n\n [_Exeunt the Soldiers_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Officer, your men are somewhat rough.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n They mean no harm.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I shall be going back in a few minutes. As I pass through the\n corridor do not let them try and lift my mask.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n You need not be afraid, madam.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n I have a particular reason for wishing my face not to be seen.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Madam, with this ring you can go in and out as you please; it is the\n Duchess’s own ring.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Leave us. [_The Soldier turns to go out_.] A moment, sir. For what\n hour is . . .\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n At twelve o’clock, madam, we have orders to lead him out; but I dare\n say he won’t wait for us; he’s more like to take a drink out of that\n poison yonder. Men are afraid of the headsman.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Is that poison?\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n Ay, madam, and very sure poison too.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n You may go, sir.\n\nFIRST SOLDIER\n\n By Saint James, a pretty hand! I wonder who she is. Some woman who\n loved him, perhaps.\n\n [_Exit_.]\n\nDUCHESS [_taking her mark off_]\n\n At last!\n He can escape now in this cloak and vizard,\n We are of a height almost: they will not know him;\n As for myself what matter?\n So that he does not curse me as he goes,\n I care but little: I wonder will he curse me.\n He has the right. It is eleven now;\n They will not come till twelve.\n\n [_Goes over to the table_.]\n\n So this is poison.\n Is it not strange that in this liquor here\n There lies the key to all philosophies?\n\n [_Takes the cup up_.]\n\n It smells of poppies. I remember well\n That, when I was a child in Sicily,\n I took the scarlet poppies from the corn,\n And made a little wreath, and my grave uncle,\n Don John of Naples, laughed: I did not know\n That they had power to stay the springs of life,\n To make the pulse cease beating, and to chill\n The blood in its own vessels, till men come\n And with a hook hale the poor body out,\n And throw it in a ditch: the body, ay,—\n What of the soul? that goes to heaven or hell.\n Where will mine go?\n\n [_Takes the torch from the wall_, _and goes over to the bed_.]\n\n How peacefully here he sleeps,\n Like a young schoolboy tired out with play:\n I would that I could sleep so peacefully,\n But I have dreams. [_Bending over him_.]\n Poor boy: what if I kissed him?\n No, no, my lips would burn him like a fire.\n He has had enough of Love. Still that white neck\n Will ’scape the headsman: I have seen to that:\n He will get hence from Padua to-night,\n And that is well. You are very wise, Lord Justices,\n And yet you are not half so wise as I am,\n And that is well.\n O God! how I have loved you,\n And what a bloody flower did Love bear!\n\n [_Comes back to the table_.]\n\n What if I drank these juices, and so ceased?\n Were it not better than to wait till Death\n Come to my bed with all his serving men,\n Remorse, disease, old age, and misery?\n I wonder does one suffer much: I think\n That I am very young to die like this,\n But so it must be. Why, why should I die?\n He will escape to-night, and so his blood\n Will not be on my head. No, I must die;\n I have been guilty, therefore I must die;\n He loves me not, and therefore I must die:\n I would die happier if he would kiss me,\n But he will not do that. I did not know him.\n I thought he meant to sell me to the Judge;\n That is not strange; we women never know\n Our lovers till they leave us.\n\n [_Bell begins to toll_.]\n\n Thou vile bell,\n That like a bloodhound from thy brazen throat\n Call’st for this man’s life, cease! thou shalt not get it.\n He stirs—I must be quick: [_Takes up cup_.]\n O Love, Love, Love,\n I did not think that I would pledge thee thus!\n\n[_Drinks poison_, _and sets the cup down on the table behind her_: _the\nnoise wakens_ GUIDO, _who starts up_, _and does not see what she has\ndone_. _There is silence for a minute_, _each looking at the other_.]\n\n I do not come to ask your pardon now,\n Seeing I know I stand beyond all pardon;\n Enough of that: I have already, sir,\n Confessed my sin to the Lords Justices;\n They would not listen to me: and some said\n I did invent a tale to save your life;\n You have trafficked with me; others said\n That women played with pity as with men;\n Others that grief for my slain Lord and husband\n Had robbed me of my wits: they would not hear me,\n And, when I sware it on the holy book,\n They bade the doctor cure me. They are ten,\n Ten against one, and they possess your life.\n They call me Duchess here in Padua.\n I do not know, sir; if I be the Duchess,\n I wrote your pardon, and they would not take it;\n They call it treason, say I taught them that;\n Maybe I did. Within an hour, Guido,\n They will be here, and drag you from the cell,\n And bind your hands behind your back, and bid you\n Kneel at the block: I am before them there;\n Here is the signet ring of Padua,\n ’Twill bring you safely through the men on guard;\n There is my cloak and vizard; they have orders\n Not to be curious: when you pass the gate\n Turn to the left, and at the second bridge\n You will find horses waiting: by to-morrow\n You will be at Venice, safe. [_A pause_.]\n Do you not speak?\n Will you not even curse me ere you go?—\n You have the right. [_A pause_.]\n You do not understand\n There lies between you and the headsman’s axe\n Hardly so much sand in the hour-glass\n As a child’s palm could carry: here is the ring:\n I have washed my hand: there is no blood upon it:\n You need not fear. Will you not take the ring?\n\nGUIDO [_takes ring and kisses it_]\n\n Ay! gladly, Madam.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And leave Padua.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Leave Padua.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n But it must be to-night.\n\nGUIDO\n\n To-night it shall be.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Oh, thank God for that!\n\nGUIDO\n\n So I can live; life never seemed so sweet\n As at this moment.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Do not tarry, Guido,\n There is my cloak: the horse is at the bridge,\n The second bridge below the ferry house:\n Why do you tarry? Can your ears not hear\n This dreadful bell, whose every ringing stroke\n Robs one brief minute from your boyish life.\n Go quickly.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ay! he will come soon enough.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Who?\n\nGUIDO [_calmly_]\n\n Why, the headsman.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, no.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Only he\n Can bring me out of Padua.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n You dare not!\n You dare not burden my o’erburdened soul\n With two dead men! I think one is enough.\n For when I stand before God, face to face,\n I would not have you, with a scarlet thread\n Around your white throat, coming up behind\n To say I did it.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Madam, I wait.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, no, you cannot: you do not understand,\n I have less power in Padua to-night\n Than any common woman; they will kill you.\n I saw the scaffold as I crossed the square,\n Already the low rabble throng about it\n With fearful jests, and horrid merriment,\n As though it were a morris-dancer’s platform,\n And not Death’s sable throne. O Guido, Guido,\n You must escape!\n\nGUIDO\n\n Madam, I tarry here.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Guido, you shall not: it would be a thing\n So terrible that the amazed stars\n Would fall from heaven, and the palsied moon\n Be in her sphere eclipsed, and the great sun\n Refuse to shine upon the unjust earth\n Which saw thee die.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Be sure I shall not stir.\n\nDUCHESS [_wringing her hands_]\n\n Is one sin not enough, but must it breed\n A second sin more horrible again\n Than was the one that bare it? O God, God,\n Seal up sin’s teeming womb, and make it barren,\n I will not have more blood upon my hand\n Than I have now.\n\nGUIDO [_seizing her hand_]\n\n What! am I fallen so low\n That I may not have leave to die for you?\n\nDUCHESS [_tearing her hand away_]\n\n Die for me?—no, my life is a vile thing,\n Thrown to the miry highways of this world;\n You shall not die for me, you shall not, Guido;\n I am a guilty woman.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Guilty?—let those\n Who know what a thing temptation is,\n Let those who have not walked as we have done,\n In the red fire of passion, those whose lives\n Are dull and colourless, in a word let those,\n If any such there be, who have not loved,\n Cast stones against you. As for me—\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas!\n\nGUIDO [_falling at her feet_]\n\n You are my lady, and you are my love!\n O hair of gold, O crimson lips, O face\n Made for the luring and the love of man!\n Incarnate image of pure loveliness!\n Worshipping thee I do forget the past,\n Worshipping thee my soul comes close to thine,\n Worshipping thee I seem to be a god,\n And though they give my body to the block,\n Yet is my love eternal!\n\n [DUCHESS _puts her hands over her face_: GUIDO _draws them down_.]\n\n Sweet, lift up\n The trailing curtains that overhang your eyes\n That I may look into those eyes, and tell you\n I love you, never more than now when Death\n Thrusts his cold lips between us: Beatrice,\n I love you: have you no word left to say?\n Oh, I can bear the executioner,\n But not this silence: will you not say you love me?\n Speak but that word and Death shall lose his sting,\n But speak it not, and fifty thousand deaths\n Are, in comparison, mercy. Oh, you are cruel,\n And do not love me.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Alas! I have no right\n For I have stained the innocent hands of love\n With spilt-out blood: there is blood on the ground;\n I set it there.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Sweet, it was not yourself,\n It was some devil tempted you.\n\nDUCHESS [_rising suddenly_]\n\n No, no,\n We are each our own devil, and we make\n This world our hell.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Then let high Paradise\n Fall into Tartarus! for I shall make\n This world my heaven for a little space.\n The sin was mine, if any sin there was.\n ’Twas I who nurtured murder in my heart,\n Sweetened my meats, seasoned my wine with it,\n And in my fancy slew the accursed Duke\n A hundred times a day. Why, had this man\n Died half so often as I wished him to,\n Death had been stalking ever through the house,\n And murder had not slept.\n But you, fond heart,\n Whose little eyes grew tender over a whipt hound,\n You whom the little children laughed to see\n Because you brought the sunlight where you passed,\n You the white angel of God’s purity,\n This which men call your sin, what was it?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Ay!\n What was it? There are times it seems a dream,\n An evil dream sent by an evil god,\n And then I see the dead face in the coffin\n And know it is no dream, but that my hand\n Is red with blood, and that my desperate soul\n Striving to find some haven for its love\n From the wild tempest of this raging world,\n Has wrecked its bark upon the rocks of sin.\n What was it, said you?—murder merely? Nothing\n But murder, horrible murder.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Nay, nay, nay,\n ’Twas but the passion-flower of your love\n That in one moment leapt to terrible life,\n And in one moment bare this gory fruit,\n Which I had plucked in thought a thousand times.\n My soul was murderous, but my hand refused;\n Your hand wrought murder, but your soul was pure.\n And so I love you, Beatrice, and let him\n Who has no mercy for your stricken head,\n Lack mercy up in heaven! Kiss me, sweet.\n\n [_Tries to kiss her_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, no, your lips are pure, and mine are soiled,\n For Guilt has been my paramour, and Sin\n Lain in my bed: O Guido, if you love me\n Get hence, for every moment is a worm\n Which gnaws your life away: nay, sweet, get hence,\n And if in after time you think of me,\n Think of me as of one who loved you more\n Than anything on earth; think of me, Guido,\n As of a woman merely, one who tried\n To make her life a sacrifice to love,\n And slew love in the trial: Oh, what is that?\n The bell has stopped from ringing, and I hear\n The feet of armed men upon the stair.\n\nGUIDO [_aside_]\n\n That is the signal for the guard to come.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Why has the bell stopped ringing?\n\nGUIDO\n\n If you must know,\n That stops my life on this side of the grave,\n But on the other we shall meet again.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, no, ’tis not too late: you must get hence;\n The horse is by the bridge, there is still time.\n Away, away, you must not tarry here!\n\n [_Noise of Soldiers in the passage_.]\n\nA VOICE OUTSIDE\n\n Room for the Lord Justice of Padua!\n\n[_The_ LORD JUSTICE _is seen through the grated window passing down the\ncorridor preceded by men bearing torches_.]\n\nDUCHESS\n\n It is too late.\n\nA VOICE OUTSIDE\n\n Room for the headsman.\n\nDUCHESS [_sinks down_]\n\n Oh!\n\n[_The Headsman with his axe on his shoulder is seen passing the\ncorridor_, _followed by Monks bearing candles_.]\n\nGUIDO\n\n Farewell, dear love, for I must drink this poison.\n I do not fear the headsman, but I would die\n Not on the lonely scaffold.\n But here,\n Here in thine arms, kissing thy mouth: farewell!\n\n [_Goes to the table and takes the goblet up_.]\n\n What, art thou empty?\n\n [_Throws it to the ground_.]\n\n O thou churlish gaoler,\n Even of poisons niggard!\n\nDUCHESS [_faintly_]\n\n Blame him not.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God! you have not drunk it, Beatrice?\n Tell me you have not?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Were I to deny it,\n There is a fire eating at my heart\n Which would find utterance.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O treacherous love,\n Why have you not left a drop for me?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, no, it held but death enough for one.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Is there no poison still upon your lips,\n That I may draw it from them?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Why should you die?\n You have not spilt blood, and so need not die:\n I have spilt blood, and therefore I must die.\n Was it not said blood should be spilt for blood?\n Who said that? I forget.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Tarry for me,\n Our souls will go together.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Nay, you must live.\n There are many other women in the world\n Who will love you, and not murder for your sake.\n\nGUIDO\n\n I love you only.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n You need not die for that.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ah, if we die together, love, why then\n Can we not lie together in one grave?\n\nDUCHESS\n\n A grave is but a narrow wedding-bed.\n\nGUIDO\n\n It is enough for us\n\nDUCHESS\n\n And they will strew it\n With a stark winding-sheet, and bitter herbs:\n I think there are no roses in the grave,\n Or if there are, they all are withered now\n Since my Lord went there.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Ah! dear Beatrice,\n Your lips are roses that death cannot wither.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Nay, if we lie together, will not my lips\n Fall into dust, and your enamoured eyes\n Shrivel to sightless sockets, and the worms,\n Which are our groomsmen, eat away your heart?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I do not care: Death has no power on love.\n And so by Love’s immortal sovereignty\n I will die with you.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n But the grave is black,\n And the pit black, so I must go before\n To light the candles for your coming hither.\n No, no, I will not die, I will not die.\n Love, you are strong, and young, and very brave;\n Stand between me and the angel of death,\n And wrestle with him for me.\n\n [_Thrusts_ GUIDO _in front of her with his back to the audience_.]\n\n I will kiss you,\n When you have thrown him. Oh, have you no cordial,\n To stay the workings of this poison in me?\n Are there no rivers left in Italy\n That you will not fetch me one cup of water\n To quench this fire?\n\nGUIDO\n\n O God!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n You did not tell me\n There was a drought in Italy, and no water:\n Nothing but fire.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O Love!\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Send for a leech,\n Not him who stanched my husband, but another\n We have no time: send for a leech, I say:\n There is an antidote against each poison,\n And he will sell it if we give him money.\n Tell him that I will give him Padua,\n For one short hour of life: I will not die.\n Oh, I am sick to death; no, do not touch me,\n This poison gnaws my heart: I did not know\n It was such pain to die: I thought that life\n Had taken all the agonies to itself;\n It seems it is not so.\n\nGUIDO\n\n O damnéd stars\n Quench your vile cresset-lights in tears, and bid\n The moon, your mistress, shine no more to-night.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Guido, why are we here? I think this room\n Is poorly furnished for a marriage chamber.\n Let us get hence at once. Where are the horses?\n We should be on our way to Venice now.\n How cold the night is! We must ride faster.\n\n [_The Monks begin to chant outside_.]\n\n Music! It should be merrier; but grief\n Is of the fashion now—I know not why.\n You must not weep: do we not love each other?—\n That is enough. Death, what do you here?\n You were not bidden to this table, sir;\n Away, we have no need of you: I tell you\n It was in wine I pledged you, not in poison.\n They lied who told you that I drank your poison.\n It was spilt upon the ground, like my Lord’s blood;\n You came too late.\n\nGUIDO\n\n Sweet, there is nothing there:\n These things are only unreal shadows.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Death,\n Why do you tarry, get to the upper chamber;\n The cold meats of my husband’s funeral feast\n Are set for you; this is a wedding feast.\n You are out of place, sir; and, besides, ’tis summer.\n We do not need these heavy fires now,\n You scorch us.\n Oh, I am burned up,\n Can you do nothing? Water, give me water,\n Or else more poison. No: I feel no pain—\n Is it not curious I should feel no pain?—\n And Death has gone away, I am glad of that.\n I thought he meant to part us. Tell me, Guido,\n Are you not sorry that you ever saw me?\n\nGUIDO\n\n I swear I would not have lived otherwise.\n Why, in this dull and common world of ours\n Men have died looking for such moments as this\n And have not found them.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Then you are not sorry?\n How strange that seems.\n\nGUIDO\n\n What, Beatrice, have I not\n Stood face to face with beauty? That is enough\n For one man’s life. Why, love, I could be merry;\n I have been often sadder at a feast,\n But who were sad at such a feast as this\n When Love and Death are both our cup-bearers?\n We love and die together.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n Oh, I have been\n Guilty beyond all women, and indeed\n Beyond all women punished. Do you think—\n No, that could not be—Oh, do you think that love\n Can wipe the bloody stain from off my hands,\n Pour balm into my wounds, heal up my hurts,\n And wash my scarlet sins as white as snow?—\n For I have sinned.\n\nGUIDO\n\n They do not sin at all\n Who sin for love.\n\nDUCHESS\n\n No, I have sinned, and yet\n Perchance my sin will be forgiven me.\n I have loved much\n\n[_They kiss each other now for the first time in this Act_, _when\nsuddenly the_ DUCHESS _leaps up in the dreadful spasm of death_, _tears\nin agony at her dress_, _and finally_, _with face twisted and distorted\nwith pain_, _falls back dead in a chair_. GUIDO _seizing her dagger from\nher belt_, _kills himself_; _and_, _as he falls across her knees_,\n_clutches at the cloak which is on the back of the chair_, _and throws it\nentirely over her_. _There is a little pause_. _Then down the passage\ncomes the tramp of Soldiers_; _the door is opened_, _and the_ LORD\nJUSTICE, _the Headsman_, _and the Guard enter and see this figure\nshrouded in black_, _and_ GUIDO _lying dead across her_. _The_ LORD\nJUSTICE _rushes forward and drags the cloak off the_ DUCHESS, _whose face\nis now the marble image of peace_, _the sign of God’s forgiveness_.]\n\n _Tableau_\n\n CURTAIN\n\n * * * * *\n\n Printed by T. and A. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous, by Oscar Wilde,\nEdited by Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: Robert Ross\n\nRelease Date: April 8, 2015 [eBook #1308]\n[This file was first posted on April 3, 1998]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OSCAR WILDE MISCELLANEOUS***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1917 Methuen and Co. edition of Salomé etc. by David\nPrice, email ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nPreface vii\nLa Sainte Courtisane 111\nA Florentine Tragedy 127\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n ‘_As to my personal attitude towards criticism_, _I confess in brief\n the following_:—“_If my works are good and of any importance whatever\n for the further development of art_, _they will maintain their place\n in spite of all adverse criticism and in spite of all hateful\n suspicions attached to my artistic intentions_. _If my works are of\n no account_, _the most gratifying success of the moment and the most\n enthusiastic approval of as augurs cannot make them endure_. _The\n waste-paper press can devour them as it has devoured many others_,\n _and I will not shed a tear . . . and the world will move on just the\n same_.”’—RICHARD STRAUSS.\n\nTHE contents of this volume require some explanation of an historical\nnature. It is scarcely realised by the present generation that Wilde’s\nworks on their first appearance, with the exception of _De Profundis_,\nwere met with almost general condemnation and ridicule. The plays on\ntheir first production were grudgingly praised because their obvious\nsuccess could not be ignored; but on their subsequent publication in book\nform they were violently assailed. That nearly all of them have held the\nstage is still a source of irritation among certain journalists.\n_Salomé_ however enjoys a singular career. As every one knows, it was\nprohibited by the Censor when in rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the\nPalace Theatre in 1892. On its publication in 1893 it was greeted with\ngreater abuse than any other of Wilde’s works, and was consigned to the\nusual irrevocable oblivion. The accuracy of the French was freely\ncanvassed, and of course it is obvious that the French is not that of a\nFrenchman. The play was passed for press, however, by no less a writer\nthan Marcel Schwob whose letter to the Paris publisher, returning the\nproofs and mentioning two or three slight alterations, is still in my\npossession. Marcel Schwob told me some years afterwards that he thought\nit would have spoiled the spontaneity and character of Wilde’s style if\nhe had tried to harmonise it with the diction demanded by the French\nAcademy. It was never composed with any idea of presentation. Madame\nBernhardt happened to say she wished Wilde would write a play for her; he\nreplied in jest that he had done so. She insisted on seeing the\nmanuscript, and decided on its immediate production, ignorant or\nforgetful of the English law which prohibits the introduction of\nScriptural characters on the stage. With his keen sense of the theatre\nWilde would never have contrived the long speech of Salomé at the end in\na drama intended for the stage, even in the days of long speeches. His\nthreat to change his nationality shortly after the Censor’s interference\ncalled forth a most delightful and good-natured caricature of him by Mr.\nBernard Partridge in _Punch_.\n\nWilde was still in prison in 1896 when _Salomé_ was produced by Lugne Poë\nat the Théàtre de L’Œuvre in Paris, but except for an account in the\n_Daily Telegraph_ the incident was hardly mentioned in England. I gather\nthat the performance was only a qualified success, though Lugne Poë’s\ntriumph as Herod was generally acknowledged. In 1901, within a year of\nthe author’s death, it was produced in Berlin; from that moment it has\nheld the European stage. It has run for a longer consecutive period in\nGermany than any play by any Englishman, not excepting Shakespeare. Its\npopularity has extended to all countries where it is not prohibited. It\nis performed throughout Europe, Asia and America. It is played even in\nYiddish. This is remarkable in view of the many dramas by French and\nGerman writers who treat of the same theme. To none of them, however, is\nWilde indebted. Flaubert, Maeterlinck (some would add Ollendorff) and\nScripture, are the obvious sources on which he has freely drawn for what\nI do not hesitate to call the most powerful and perfect of all his\ndramas. But on such a point a trustee and executor may be prejudiced\nbecause it is the most valuable asset in Wilde’s literary estate. Aubrey\nBeardsley’s illustrations are too well known to need more than a passing\nreference. In the world of art criticism they excited almost as much\nattention as Wilde’s drama has excited in the world of intellect.\n\nDuring May 1905 the play was produced in England for the first time at a\nprivate performance by the New Stage Club. No one present will have\nforgotten the extraordinary tension of the audience on that occasion,\nthose who disliked the play and its author being hypnotised by the\nextraordinary power of Mr. Robert Farquharson’s Herod, one of the finest\npieces of acting ever seen in this country. My friends the dramatic\ncritics (and many of them are personal friends) fell on _Salomé_ with all\nthe vigour of their predecessors twelve years before. Unaware of what\nwas taking place in Germany, they spoke of the play as having been\n‘dragged from obscurity.’ The Official Receiver in Bankruptcy and myself\nwere, however, better informed. And much pleasure has been derived from\nreading those criticisms, all carefully preserved along with the list of\nreceipts which were simultaneously pouring in from the German\nperformances. To do the critics justice they never withdrew any of their\nprinted opinions, which were all trotted out again when the play was\nproduced privately for the second time in England by the Literary Theatre\nSociety in 1906. In the _Speaker_ of July 14th, 1906, however, some of\nthe iterated misrepresentations of fact were corrected. No attempt was\nmade to controvert the opinion of an ignorant critic: his veracity only\nwas impugned. The powers of vaticination possessed by such judges of\ndrama can be fairly tested in the career of _Salomé_ on the European\nstage, apart from the opera. In an introduction to the English\ntranslation published by Mr. John Lane it is pointed out that Wilde’s\nconfusion of Herod Antipas (Matt. xiv. 1) with Herod the Great (Matt. ii.\n1) and Herod Agrippa I. (Acts xii. 23) is intentional, and follows a\nmediæval convention. There is no attempt at historical accuracy or\narchæological exactness. Those who saw the marvellous _décor_ of Mr.\nCharles Ricketts at the second English production can form a complete\nidea of what Wilde intended in that respect; although the stage\nmanagement was clumsy and amateurish. The great opera of Richard Strauss\ndoes not fall within my province; but the fag ends of its popularity on\nthe Continent have been imported here oddly enough through the agency of\nthe Palace Theatre, where _Salomé_ was originally to have been performed.\nOf a young lady’s dancing, or of that of her rivals, I am not qualified\nto speak. I note merely that the critics who objected to the horror of\none incident in the drama lost all self-control on seeing that incident\nrepeated in dumb show and accompanied by fescennine corybantics. Except\nin ‘name and borrowed notoriety’ the music-hall sensation has no relation\nwhatever to the drama which so profoundly moved the whole of Europe and\nthe greatest living musician. The adjectives of contumely are easily\ntransmuted into epithets of adulation, when a prominent ecclesiastic\nsuccumbs, like King Herod, to the fascination of a dancer.\n\nIt is not usually known in England that a young French naval officer,\nunaware that Dr. Strauss was composing an opera on the theme of _Salomé_,\nwrote another music drama to accompany Wilde’s text. The exclusive\nmusical rights having been already secured by Dr. Strauss, Lieutenant\nMarriotte’s work cannot be performed regularly. One presentation,\nhowever, was permitted at Lyons, the composer’s native town, where I am\ntold it made an extraordinary impression. In order to give English\nreaders some faint idea of the world-wide effect of Wilde’s drama, my\nfriend Mr. Walter Ledger has prepared a short bibliography of certain\nEnglish and Continental translations.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAt the time of Wilde’s trial the nearly completed MS. of _La Sainte\nCourtisane_ was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, the well-known novelist, who\nin 1897 went to Paris on purpose to restore it to the author. Wilde\nimmediately left the only copy in a cab. A few days later he laughingly\ninformed me of the loss, and added that a cab was a very proper place for\nit. I have explained elsewhere that he looked on his works with disdain\nin his last years, though he was always full of schemes for writing\nothers. All my attempts to recover the lost work failed. The passages\nhere reprinted are from some odd leaves of a first draft. The play is,\nof course, not unlike _Salomé_, though it was written in English. It\nexpanded Wilde’s favourite theory that when you convert some one to an\nidea, you lose your faith in it; the same motive runs through _Mr. W. H._\nHonorius the hermit, so far as I recollect the story, falls in love with\nthe courtesan who has come to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret\nof the love of God. She immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered\nby robbers. Honorius the hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a life\nof pleasure. Two other similar plays Wilde invented in prison, _Ahab and\nIsabel_ and _Pharaoh_; he would never write them down, though often\nimportuned to do so. _Pharaoh_ was intensely dramatic and perhaps more\noriginal than any of the group. None of these works must be confused\nwith the manuscripts stolen from 16 Tite Street in 1895—namely, the\nenlarged version of _Mr. W. H._, the second draft of _A Florentine\nTragedy_, and _The Duchess of Padua_ (which, existing in a prompt copy,\nwas of less importance than the others); nor with _The Cardinal of\nArragon_, the manuscript of which I never saw. I scarcely think it ever\nexisted, though Wilde used to recite proposed passages for it.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSome years after Wilde’s death I was looking over the papers and letters\nrescued from Tite Street when I came across loose sheets of manuscript\nand typewriting, which I imagined were fragments of _The Duchess of\nPadua_; on putting them together in a coherent form I recognised that\nthey belonged to the lost _Florentine Tragedy_. I assumed that the\nopening scene, though once extant, had disappeared. One day, however,\nMr. Willard wrote that he possessed a typewritten fragment of a play\nwhich Wilde had submitted to him, and this he kindly forwarded for my\ninspection. It agreed in nearly every particular with what I had taken\nso much trouble to put together. This suggests that the opening scene\nhad never been written, as Mr. Willard’s version began where mine did.\nIt was characteristic of the author to finish what he never began.\n\nWhen the Literary Theatre Society produced _Salomé_ in 1906 they asked me\nfor some other short drama by Wilde to present at the same time, as\n_Salomé_ does not take very long to play. I offered them the fragment of\n_A Florentine Tragedy_. By a fortunate coincidence the poet and\ndramatist, Mr. Thomas Sturge Moore, happened to be on the committee of\nthis Society, and to him was entrusted the task of writing an opening\nscene to make the play complete. It is not for me to criticise his work,\nbut there is justification for saying that Wilde himself would have\nenvied, with an artist’s envy, such lines as—\n\n We will sup with the moon,\n Like Persian princes that in Babylon\n Sup in the hanging gardens of the King.\n\nIn a stylistic sense Mr. Sturge Moore has accomplished a feat in\nreconstruction, whatever opinions may be held of _A Florentine Tragedy_\nby Wilde’s admirers or detractors. The achievement is particularly\nremarkable because Mr. Sturge Moore has nothing in common with Wilde\nother than what is shared by all real poets and dramatists: He is a\nlanded proprietor on Parnassus, not a trespasser. In England we are more\nfamiliar with the poachers. Time and Death are of course necessary\nbefore there can come any adequate recognition of one of our most\noriginal and gifted singers. Among his works are _The Vinedresser and\nother Poems_ (1899), _Absalom_, _A Chronicle Play_ (1903), and _The\nCentaur’s Booty_ (1903). Mr. Sturge Moore is also an art critic of\ndistinction, and his learned works on Dürer (1905) and Correggio (1906)\nare more widely known (I am sorry to say) than his powerful and\nenthralling poems.\n\nOnce again I must express my obligations to Mr. Stuart Mason for revising\nand correcting the proofs of this new edition.\n\n ROBERT ROSS\n\n\n\n\nLA SAINTE COURTISANE\nA FRAGMENT\n\n_First Published in Book Form by Methuen and _October_ _1908_\nCo. in_ ‘_Miscellanies_’ (_Limited Editions\non handmade paper and Japanese Vellum_)\n_First F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _November_ _1909_\n_Second F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _October_ _1910_\n_Third F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _December_ _1911_\n_Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _May_ _1915_\n_Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _1917_\n\n\n\n\nLA SAINTE COURTISANE\nOR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS\n\n\n_The scene represents the corner of a valley in the Thebaid_. _On the\nright hand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands a\ngreat crucifix_.\n\n_On the left_ [_sand dunes_].\n\n_The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli_. _The hills\nare of red sand_. _Here and there on the hills there are clumps of\nthorns_.\n\nFIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple cloak and\nher hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the daughter of\nthe Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the Emperor has a\ndaughter who wears a cloak of purple.\n\nSECOND MAN. She has birds’ wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is of\nthe colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she stands\nstill. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of hawks when she\nmoves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons.\n\nFIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the wind\nblows from the hills.\n\nSECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes from\nNubia.\n\nFIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails are\nstained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She has come\nhere to weep for Adonis.\n\nSECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left her\ntemple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks to us\nlet us not answer, and she will pass by.\n\nFIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of the\nEmperor.\n\nMYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who will\nnot look on the face of woman?\n\nFIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman?\n\nSECOND MAN. We do not know.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me?\n\nFIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our eyes.\n\nSECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too bright\nto look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very bright. Many\nof the priests in the temples are blind, and have slaves to lead them.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will not\nlook on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house of burnt\nclay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his bed in the\nrushes?\n\nFIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder.\n\nMYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in!\n\nFIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came the\ncentaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away.\n\nSECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. When it\nsaw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped him. Many\npeople saw it worshipping him.\n\nFIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it.\n\n . . . . .\n\nSECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. But\nthat may not be true.\n\n . . . . .\n\nMYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods?\nThere are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who wear\nlong beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They wrangle with\neach other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them.\n\nFIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It is a\nvery dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one should ever\ntell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise the gods all day\nlong, and eat of their food with them, do not call them by their right\nnames.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship?\n\nFIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show them\nto any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them?\n\nFIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who had\nfound them in a tomb. We served him for seven years.\n\nMYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death.\n\nFIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods.\n\nMYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of the\ngods?\n\nFIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at night\ntime. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the gods at\ndaybreak. They were walking across a plain.\n\nMYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard a\nsophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it before\nmany people.\n\nFIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, though we\nare but common men and of no account. When I saw them I hid myself in a\nbush. They did me no harm.\n\n . . . . .\n\nMYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to me\nabout the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of woman.\nWhat is the story of his days? What mode of life has he?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not understand you.\n\nMYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow or\nreap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he weave\nlinen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough and walk\nbehind the oxen?\n\nSECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common men\nand of no account. We toll all day long in the sun. Sometimes the\nground is very hard.\n\nMYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share their\nbooty with him?\n\nFIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that the\nbirds of the air feed him.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing?\n\nSECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has offended\nhas made him mad. We think he has offended the moon.\n\nMYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria desires\nto speak with him.\n\nFIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his God.\nWe pray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding.\n\nMYRRHINA. Are ye afraid, of him?\n\nFIRST MAN. We are afraid of him.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not know.\n\nMYRRHINA. What is his name?\n\nFIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the cavern\ncalls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name of\nHonorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We\nthink that his name is Honorius.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him?\n\nFIRST MAN. That he might heal them.\n\nMYRRHINA. Did he heal them?\n\nSECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that reason\nthey were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One of them\nwore a mask of linen. He was a king’s son.\n\nMYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in his\ncave?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the voice\nof his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any come forth\nfrom it.\n\n . . . . .\n\nMYRRHINA. Honorius.\n\nHONORIUS (_from within_). Who calls Honorius?\n\nMYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius.\n\n . . . . .\n\nMy chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars of\nmy bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is strewn\nwith purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are sewn with\nsilver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are strewn with\nsaffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round the pillars of my\nhouse. At night time they come with the flute players and the players of\nthe harp. They woo me with apples and on the pavement of my courtyard\nthey write my name in wine.\n\nFrom the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The kings of\nthe earth come to me and bring me presents.\n\nWhen the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry chamber\nand set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches that none might\nknow of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard of me he sent me\nambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are brothers brought me gifts of\namber.\n\nI took the minion of Cæsar from Cæsar and made him my playfellow. He\ncame to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and his\nbody was like honey.\n\nThe son of the Præfect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch of\nCilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves.\n\nThe King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for me to\nwalk on.\n\nSometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. Once\na Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the signal for\nhim to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I pass through the\ngymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in the race. Their bodies\nare bright with oil and their brows are wreathed with willow sprays and\nwith myrtle. They stamp their feet on the sand when they wrestle and\nwhen they run the sand follows them like a little cloud. He at whom I\nsmile leaves his companions and follows me to my home. At other times I\ngo down to the harbour and watch the merchants unloading their vessels.\nThose that come from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald.\nThose that come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings of\nbrass. When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their ships\nand call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little taverns\nwhere the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing with\ndice and I sit down with them.\n\nI made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my lord\nfor the space of a moon.\n\nI put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I have\nwonderful things in my house.\n\nThe dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched with\nthorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, Honorius, and\nI will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear your body with myrrh\nand pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe you in hyacinth and put\nhoney in your mouth. Love—\n\nHONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God.\n\nMYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men?\n\nHONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is the\nSon of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were kings\nbrought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the hills were\nwakened by a great light.\n\nThe Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of Him.\nDavid and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like the love of\nGod nor any love that can be compared to it.\n\nThe body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body which\nwill not know corruption, and thou shalt dwell in the Courts of the Lord\nand see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet are of brass.\n\nMYRRHINA. The beauty . . .\n\nHONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases until it can see God.\nTherefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was crucified\nbeside Him He brought into Paradise.\n\n [_Exit_.\n\nMYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did he\nregard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely.\n\n . . . . .\n\nHONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now\nclearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let me\ntaste of the seven sins.\n\nMYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitter\nwords. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in this\ndesert where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to see\nGod.\n\nHONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria.\n\nMYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria.\n\nHONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina.\n\nMYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go.\n\n . . . . .\n\nI have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder of my\nbody for the evil that it has brought upon you.\n\nLord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming upon\nearth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of Thy death\nalso. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me.\n\nHONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosen\nyour hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy beauty?\n\nMYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might repent\nof my iniquities and know Him as the Lord.\n\nHONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words?\n\nMYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look on\nDeath in its robe of Shame.\n\n\n\n\nA FLORENTINE TRAGEDY\nWITH OPENING SCENE BY T. STURGE MOORE\n\n\n_This play is only a fragment and was never completed_. _For the\npurposes of presentation_, _the well-known poet_, _Mr. T. Sturge Moore_,\n_has written an opening scene which is here included_. _Wilde’s work\nbegins with the entrance of Simone_.\n\n_A private performance was given by the Literary Theatre Club in_ 1906.\n_The first public presentation was given by the New English Players at\nthe Cripplegate Institute_, _Golden Lane_, _E.C._, _in_ 1907. _German_,\n_French and Hungarian translations have been presented on the Continental\nstage_.\n\n_Dramatic and literary rights are the property of Robert Ross_. _The\nAmerican literary and dramatic rights are vested in John Luce and Co._,\n_Boston_, _U.S.A._\n\n_First Published by Methuen and Co._ _February_ _1908_\n(_Limited Editions on handmade paper and\nJapanese vellum_)\n_First F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _November_ _1909_\n_Second F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _October_ _1910_\n_Third F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _December_ _1911_\n_Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _May_ _1915_\n_Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _1917_\n\n\n\n\nCHARACTERS\n\n\nGUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince.\n\nSIMONE, a merchant.\n\nBIANNA, his wife.\n\nMARIA, a tire-woman.\n\n _The action takes place at Florence in the early sixteenth century_.\n\n\n\nA FLORENTINE TRAGEDY\n\n\n[_The scene represents a tapestried upper room giving on to a balcony or\nloggia in an old house at Florence_. _A table laid for a frugal meal_,\n_a spinning-wheel_, _distaff_, _etc._, _chests_, _chairs and stools_.]\n\n _As the Curtain rises enter_ BIANCA, _with her Servant_, MARIA.\n\n MARIA. Certain and sure, the sprig is Guido Bardi,\n A lovely lord, a lord whose blood is blue!\n\n BIANCA. But where did he receive you?\n\n MARIA. Where, but there\n In yonder palace, in a painted hall!—\n Painted with naked women on the walls,—\n Would make a common man or blush or smile\n But he seemed not to heed them, being a lord.\n\n BIANCA. But how know you ’tis not a chamberlayne,\n A lackey merely?\n\n MARIA. Why, how know I there is a God in heaven?\n Because the angels have a master surely.\n So to this lord they bowed, all others bowed,\n And swept the marble flags, doffing their caps,\n With the gay plumes. Because he stiffly said,\n And seemed to see me as those folk are seen\n That will be never seen again by you,\n ‘Woman, your mistress then returns this purse\n Of forty thousand crowns, is it fifty thousand?\n Come name the sum will buy me grace of her.’\n\n BIANCA. What, were there forty thousand crowns therein?\n\n MARIA. I know it was all gold; heavy with gold.\n\n BIANCA. It must be he, none else could give so much.\n\n MARIA. ’Tis he, ’tis my lord Guido, Guido Bardi.\n\n BIANCA. What said you?\n\n MARIA. I, I said my mistress never\n Looked at the gold, never opened the purse,\n Never counted a coin. But asked again\n What she had asked before, ‘How young you looked?\n How handsome your lordship looked? What doublet\n Your majesty had on? What chains, what hose\n Upon your revered legs?’ And curtseyed\n I, . . .\n\n BIANCA. What said he?\n\n MARIA. Curtseyed I, and he replied,\n ‘Has she a lover then beside that old\n Soured husband or is it him she loves, my God!\n Is it him?’\n\n BIANCA. Well?\n\n MARIA. Curtseyed I low and said\n ‘Not him, my lord, nor you, nor no man else.\n Thou art rich, my lord, and honoured, my lord, and she\n Though not so rich is honoured . . .’\n\n BIANCA. Fool, you fool,\n I never bid you say a word of that.\n\n MARIA. Nor did I say a word of that you said;\n I said, ‘She loves him not, my lord, nor loves\n Any man else. Yet she might like to love,\n If she were loved by one who pleased her well;\n For she is weary of spinning long alone.\n She is not rich and yet she is not poor; but young\n She is, my lord, and you are young.\n\n [_Pauses smiling_.]\n\n BIANCA. Quick, quick!\n\n MARIA. There, there! ’Twas but to show you how I smiled\n Saying the lord was young. It took him too;\n For he said, ‘This will do! If I should call\n To-night to pay respect unto your lovely—\n Our lovely mistress, tell her that I said,\n Our lovely mistress, shall I be received?’\n And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Then say I come and if\n All else is well let her throw down some favour\n When as I pass below.’ He should be there!\n Look from the balcony; he should be there!—\n And there he is, dost see?\n\n BIANCA. Some favour. Yes.\n This ribbon weighted by this brooch will do.\n Maria, be you busy near within, but, till\n I call take care you enter not. Go down\n And let the young lord in, for hark, he knocks.\n\n [_Exit_ MARIA.]\n\n Great ladies might he choose from and yet he\n Is drawn . . . ah, there my fear is! Was he drawn\n By love to me—by love’s young strength alone?\n That’s where it is, if I were sure he loved,\n I then might do what greater dames have done\n And venge me on a husband blind to beauty.\n But if! Ah if! he is a wandering bee,\n Mere gallant taster, who befools poor flowers . . .\n\n [MARIA _opens the door for_ GUIDO BARDI, _and then withdraws_.]\n\n My lord, I learn that we have something here,\n In this poor house, which thou dost wish to buy.\n My husband is from home, but my poor fate\n Has made me perfect in the price of velvets,\n Of silks and gay brocades. I think you offered\n Some forty thousand crowns, or fifty thousand,\n For something we have here? And it must be\n That wonder of the loom, which my Simone\n Has lately home; it is a Lucca damask,\n The web is silver over-wrought with roses.\n Since you did offer fifty thousand crowns\n It must be that. Pray wait, for I will fetch it.\n\n GUIDO. Nay, nay, thou gracious wonder of a loom\n More cunning far than those of Lucca, I\n Had in my thought no damask silver cloth\n By hunch-back weavers woven toilsomely,\n If such are priced at fifty thousand crowns\n It shames me, for I hoped to buy a fabric\n For which a hundred thousand then were little.\n\n BIANCA. A hundred thousand was it that you said?\n Nay, poor Simone for so great a sum\n Would sell you everything the house contains.\n The thought of such a sum doth daze the brains\n Of merchant folk who live such lives as ours.\n\n GUIDO. Would he sell everything this house contains?\n And every one, would he sell every one?\n\n BIANCA. Oh, everything and every one, my lord,\n Unless it were himself; he values not\n A woman as a velvet, or a wife\n At half the price of silver-threaded woof.\n\n GUIDO. Then I would strike a bargain with him straight,\n\n BIANCA. He is from home; may be will sleep from home;\n But I, my lord, can show you all we have;\n Can measure ells and sum their price, my lord.\n\n GUIDO. It is thyself, Bianca, I would buy.\n\n BIANCA. O, then, my lord, it must be with Simone\n You strike your bargain; for to sell myself\n Would be to do what I most truly loathe.\n Good-night, my lord; it is with deep regret\n I find myself unable to oblige\n Your lordship.\n\n GUIDO. Nay, I pray thee let me stay\n And pardon me the sorry part I played,\n As though I were a chapman and intent\n To lower prices, cheapen honest wares.\n\n BIANCA. My lord, there is no reason you should stay.\n\n GUIDO. Thou art my reason, peerless, perfect, thou,\n The reason I am here and my life’s goal,\n For I was born to love the fairest things . . .\n\n BIANCA. To buy the fairest things that can be bought.\n\n GUIDO. Cruel Bianca! Cover me with scorn,\n I answer born to love thy priceless self,\n That never to a market could be brought,\n No more than winged souls that sail and soar\n Among the planets or about the moon.\n\n BIANCA. It is so much thy habit to buy love,\n Or that which is for sale and labelled love,\n Hardly couldst thou conceive a priceless love.\n But though my love has never been for sale\n I have been in a market bought and sold.\n\n GUIDO. This is some riddle which thy sweet wit reads\n To baffle mine and mock me yet again.\n\n BIANCA. My marriage, sir, I speak of marriage now,\n That common market where my husband went\n And prides himself he made a bargain then.\n\n GUIDO. The wretched chapman, how I hate his soul.\n\n BIANCA. He was a better bidder than thyself,\n And knew with whom to deal . . . he did not speak\n Of gold to me, but in my father’s ear\n He made it clink: to me he spoke of love,\n Honest and free and open without price.\n\n GUIDO. O white Bianca, lovely as the moon,\n The light of thy pure soul and shining wit\n Shows me my shame, and makes the thing I was\n Slink like a shadow from the thing I am.\n\n BIANCA. Let that which casts the shadow act, my lord,\n And waste no thought on what its shadow does\n Or has done. Are youth, and strength, and love\n Balked by mere shadows, so that they forget\n Themselves so far they cannot be recalled?\n\n GUIDO. Nobility is here, not in the court.\n There are the tinsel stars, here is the moon,\n Whose tranquil splendour makes a day of night.\n I have been starved by ladies, specks of light,\n And glory drowns me now I see the moon.\n\n BIANCA. I have refused round sums of solid gold\n And shall not be by tinsel phrases bought.\n\n GUIDO. Dispute no more, witty, divine Bianca;\n Dispute no more. See I have brought my lute!\n Close lock the door. We will sup with the moon\n Like Persian princes, that, in Babylon\n Sup in the hanging gardens of the king.\n I know an air that can suspend the soul\n As high in heaven as those towered-gardens hang.\n\n BIANCA. My husband may return, we are not safe.\n\n GUIDO. Didst thou not say that he would sleep from home?\n\n BIANCA. He was not sure, he said it might be so.\n He was not sure—and he would send my aunt\n To sleep with me, if he did so decide,\n And she has not yet come.\n\n GUIDO [_starting_] Hark, what’s that?\n\n [_They listen_, _the sound of_ MARIA’S _voice in anger with some one is\n faintly heard_.]\n\n BIANCA. It is Maria scolds some gossip crone.\n\n GUIDO. I thought the other voice had been a man’s.\n\n BIANCA. All still again, old crones are often gruff.\n You should be gone, my lord.\n\n GUIDO. O, sweet Bianca!\n How can I leave thee now! Thy beauty made\n Two captives of my eyes, and they were mad\n To feast them on thy form, but now thy wit,\n The liberated perfume of a bud,\n Which while a bud seemed perfect, but now is\n That which can make its former self forgot:\n How can I leave the flower who loved the leaf?\n Till now I was the richest prince in Florence,\n I am a lover now would shun its throngs,\n And put away all state and seek retreat\n At Bellosguardo or Fiesole,\n Where roses in their fin’st profusion hide\n Some marble villa whose cool walls have rung\n A laughing echo to Decameron,\n And where thy laughter shall as gaily sound.\n Say thou canst love or with a silent kiss\n Instil that balmy knowledge on my soul.\n\n BIANCA. Canst tell me what love is?\n\n GUIDO. It is consent,\n The union of two minds, two souls, two hearts,\n In all they think and hope and feel.\n\n BIANCA. Such lovers might as well be dumb, for those\n Who think and hope and feel alike can never\n Have anything for one another’s ear.\n\n GUIDO. Love is? Love is the meeting of two worlds\n In never-ending change and counter-change.\n\n BIANCA. Thus will my husband praise the mercer’s mart,\n Where the two worlds of East and West exchange.\n\n GUIDO. Come. Love is love, a kiss, a close embrace.\n It is . . .\n\n BIANCA. My husband calls that love\n When he hath slammed his weekly ledger to.\n\n GUIDO. I find my wit no better match for thine\n Than thou art match for an old crabbed man;\n But I am sure my youth and strength and blood\n Keep better tune with beauty gay and bright\n As thine is, than lean age and miser toil.\n\n BIANCA. Well said, well said, I think he would not dare\n To face thee, more than owls dare face the sun;\n He’s the bent shadow such a form as thine\n Might cast upon a dung heap by the road,\n Though should it fall upon a proper floor\n Twould be at once a better man than he.\n\n GUIDO. Your merchant living in the dread of loss\n Becomes perforce a coward, eats his heart.\n Dull souls they are, who, like caged prisoners watch\n And envy others’ joy; they taste no food\n But what its cost is present to their thought.\n\n BIANCA. I am my father’s daughter, in his eyes\n A home-bred girl who has been taught to spin.\n He never seems to think I have a face\n Which makes you gallants turn where’er I pass.\n\n GUIDO. Thy night is darker than I dreamed, bright Star.\n\n BIANCA. He waits, stands by, and mutters to himself,\n And never enters with a frank address\n To any company. His eyes meet mine\n And with a shudder I am sure he counts\n The cost of what I wear.\n\n GUIDO. Forget him quite.\n Come, come, escape from out this dismal life,\n As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web,\n And nest with me among those rosy bowers,\n Where we will love, as though the lives we led\n Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed\n By the great dawn of limpid joyous life.\n\n BIANCA. Will I not come?\n\n GUIDO. O, make no question, come.\n They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams.\n We will away to hills, red roses clothe,\n And though the persons who did haunt that dream\n Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem\n No bigger than the smallest ear of corn\n That cowers at the passing of a bird,\n And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot,\n Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back\n From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open,\n And ask ourselves if what we see is not\n A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives\n Continue there to choke themselves with malice.\n Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not?\n\n [_A sound on the stair_.]\n\n GUIDO. What’s that?\n\n [_The door opens_, _they separate guiltily_, _and the husband enters_.]\n\n SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better\n To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak.\n Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing:\n Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son,\n Who hopes to wear it when his father dies,\n And hopes that will be soon.\n\n But who is this?\n Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless,\n Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen\n Upon a house without a host to greet him?\n I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house\n Lacking a host is but an empty thing\n And void of honour; a cup without its wine,\n A scabbard without steel to keep it straight,\n A flowerless garden widowed of the sun.\n Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin.\n\n BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither.\n\n SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me.\n Who is it then who with such courtly grace\n Deigns to accept our hospitalities?\n\n GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi.\n\n SIMONE. What! The son\n Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers\n Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon\n I see from out my casement every night!\n Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here,\n Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife,\n Most honest if uncomely to the eye,\n Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you,\n As is the wont of women.\n\n GUIDO. Your gracious lady,\n Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars\n And robs Diana’s quiver of her beams\n Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies\n That if it be her pleasure, and your own,\n I will come often to your simple house.\n And when your business bids you walk abroad\n I will sit here and charm her loneliness\n Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch.\n What say you, good Simone?\n\n SIMONE. My noble Lord,\n You bring me such high honour that my tongue\n Like a slave’s tongue is tied, and cannot say\n The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks\n Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you,\n From my heart’s core.\n\n It is such things as these\n That knit a state together, when a Prince\n So nobly born and of such fair address,\n Forgetting unjust Fortune’s differences,\n Comes to an honest burgher’s honest home\n As a most honest friend.\n\n And yet, my Lord,\n I fear I am too bold. Some other night\n We trust that you will come here as a friend;\n To-night you come to buy my merchandise.\n Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will,\n I doubt not but I have some dainty wares\n Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late,\n But we poor merchants toil both night and day\n To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high,\n And every city levies its own toll,\n And prentices are unskilful, and wives even\n Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here\n Has brought me a rich customer to-night.\n Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time.\n Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say?\n Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords.\n Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so.\n Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch!\n Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes.\n We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! ’tis that,\n Give it to me; with care. It is most costly.\n Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord—\n Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask,\n The very web of silver and the roses\n So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely\n To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord.\n Is it not soft as water, strong as steel?\n And then the roses! Are they not finely woven?\n I think the hillsides that best love the rose,\n At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole,\n Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring,\n Or if they do their blossoms droop and die.\n Such is the fate of all the dainty things\n That dance in wind and water. Nature herself\n Makes war on her own loveliness and slays\n Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord,\n Look closer still. Why in this damask here\n It is summer always, and no winter’s tooth\n Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell\n I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good,\n The fruit of careful thrift.\n\n GUIDO. Honest Simone,\n Enough, I pray you. I am well content;\n To-morrow I will send my servant to you,\n Who will pay twice your price.\n\n SIMONE. My generous Prince!\n I kiss your hands. And now I do remember\n Another treasure hidden in my house\n Which you must see. It is a robe of state:\n Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet:\n The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed\n Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls,\n As thick as moths in summer streets at night,\n And whiter than the moons that madmen see\n Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby\n Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp\n The Holy Father has not such a stone,\n Nor could the Indies show a brother to it.\n The brooch itself is of most curious art,\n Cellini never made a fairer thing\n To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it.\n There is none worthier in our city here,\n And it will suit you well. Upon one side\n A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold\n To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other\n Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand,\n No bigger than the smallest ear of corn,\n That wavers at the passing of a bird,\n And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say,\n It breathed, or held its breath.\n\n Worthy Bianca,\n Would not this noble and most costly robe\n Suit young Lord Guido well?\n\n Nay, but entreat him;\n He will refuse you nothing, though the price\n Be as a prince’s ransom. And your profit\n Shall not be less than mine.\n\n BIANCA. Am I your prentice?\n Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe?\n\n GUIDO. Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the robe,\n And all things that the honest merchant has\n I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed,\n And fortunate are all high lords who fall\n Into the white hands of so fair a foe.\n\n SIMONE. I stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares?\n Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns\n Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them\n For forty thousand. Is that price too high?\n Name your own price. I have a curious fancy\n To see you in this wonder of the loom\n Amidst the noble ladies of the court,\n A flower among flowers.\n\n They say, my lord,\n These highborn dames do so affect your Grace\n That where you go they throng like flies around you,\n Each seeking for your favour.\n\n I have heard also\n Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely,\n A fashion most fantastical.\n\n GUIDO. Simone,\n Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides,\n You do forget this gracious lady here\n Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned\n To such coarse music.\n\n SIMONE. True: I had forgotten,\n Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord,\n You’ll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it?\n But forty thousand crowns—’tis but a trifle,\n To one who is Giovanni Bardi’s heir.\n\n GUIDO. Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward,\n Antonio Costa. He will come to you.\n And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns\n If that will serve your purpose.\n\n SIMONE. A hundred thousand!\n Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure\n That will for all time and in everything\n Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth\n My house, with everything my house contains\n Is yours, and only yours.\n\n A hundred thousand!\n My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far\n Than all the other merchants. I will buy\n Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom\n From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine,\n And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas\n Store in their silent caverns.\n\n Generous Prince,\n This night shall prove the herald of my love,\n Which is so great that whatsoe’er you ask\n It will not be denied you.\n\n GUIDO. What if I asked\n For white Bianca here?\n\n SIMONE. You jest, my Lord;\n She is not worthy of so great a Prince.\n She is but made to keep the house and spin.\n Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look!\n Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin.\n Women should not be idle in their homes,\n For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart.\n Sit down, I say.\n\n BIANCA. What shall I spin?\n\n SIMONE. Oh! spin\n Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear\n For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth\n In which a new-born and unwelcome babe\n Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet\n Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs,\n Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will;\n I care not, I.\n\n BIANCA. The brittle thread is broken,\n The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round,\n The duller distaff sickens of its load;\n I will not spin to-night.\n\n SIMONE. It matters not.\n To-morrow you shall spin, and every day\n Shall find you at your distaff. So Lucretia\n Was found by Tarquin. So, perchance, Lucretia\n Waited for Tarquin. Who knows? I have heard\n Strange things about men’s wives. And now, my lord,\n What news abroad? I heard to-day at Pisa\n That certain of the English merchants there\n Would sell their woollens at a lower rate\n Than the just laws allow, and have entreated\n The Signory to hear them.\n\n Is this well?\n Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf?\n And should the stranger living in our land\n Seek by enforced privilege or craft\n To rob us of our profits?\n\n GUIDO. What should I do\n With merchants or their profits? Shall I go\n And wrangle with the Signory on your count?\n And wear the gown in which you buy from fools,\n Or sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone,\n Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you.\n My wits have other quarries.\n\n BIANCA. Noble Lord,\n I pray you pardon my good husband here,\n His soul stands ever in the market-place,\n And his heart beats but at the price of wool.\n Yet he is honest in his common way.\n\n [_To_ SIMONE]\n\n And you, have you no shame? A gracious Prince\n Comes to our house, and you must weary him\n With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon.\n\n SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night\n Of other things. I hear the Holy Father\n Has sent a letter to the King of France\n Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps,\n And make a peace in Italy, which will be\n Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody\n Than civil rapine or intestine feuds.\n\n GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France,\n Who never comes, but ever talks of coming.\n What are these things to me? There are other things\n Closer, and of more import, good Simone.\n\n BIANCA [_To Simone_]. I think you tire our most gracious guest.\n What is the King of France to us? As much\n As are your English merchants with their wool.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world\n Narrowed into the confines of this room\n With but three souls for poor inhabitants?\n Ay! there are times when the great universe,\n Like cloth in some unskilful dyer’s vat,\n Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance\n That time is now! Well! let that time be now.\n Let this mean room be as that mighty stage\n Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives\n Become the stakes God plays for.\n\n I do not know\n Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me.\n And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen\n That bodes not good to any.\n\n Alas! my lord,\n How poor a bargain is this life of man,\n And in how mean a market are we sold!\n When we are born our mothers weep, but when\n We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one.\n\n [_Passes to back of stage_.]\n\n BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak!\n I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice\n Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands\n Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs,\n Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth\n Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words\n Like water from a conduit.\n\n GUIDO. Sweet Bianca,\n He is not worthy of your thought or mine.\n The man is but a very honest knave\n Full of fine phrases for life’s merchandise,\n Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap,\n A windy brawler in a world of words.\n I never met so eloquent a fool.\n\n BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands!\n\n SIMONE [_turning round_]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of\n Death.\n What should Death do in such a merry house,\n With but a wife, a husband, and a friend\n To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses\n Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives\n Who growing weary of their noble lords\n Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds,\n And in polluted and dishonoured sheets\n Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! ’tis so\n Strange, and yet so. _You_ do not know the world.\n _You_ are too single and too honourable.\n I know it well. And would it were not so,\n But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey,\n And youth has left my body. Enough of that.\n To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed,\n I would be merry as beseems a host\n Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest\n Waiting to greet him. [_Takes up a lute_.]\n But what is this, my lord?\n Why, you have brought a lute to play to us.\n Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold,\n Pardon, but play.\n\n GUIDO. I will not play to-night.\n Some other night, Simone.\n\n [_To_ BIANCA] You and I\n Together, with no listeners but the stars,\n Or the more jealous moon.\n\n SIMONE. Nay, but my lord!\n Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard\n That by the simple fingering of a string,\n Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds,\n Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze,\n Those who are curious in this art can draw\n Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also\n How such strange magic lurks within these shells\n That at their bidding casements open wide\n And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair,\n And wantons like a mænad. Let that pass.\n Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play:\n Ravish my ears with some sweet melody;\n My soul is in a prison-house, and needs\n Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca,\n Entreat our guest to play.\n\n BIANCA. Be not afraid,\n Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment:\n That moment is not now. You weary him\n With your uncouth insistence.\n\n GUIDO. Honest Simone,\n Some other night. To-night I am content\n With the low music of Bianca’s voice,\n Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air,\n And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix\n His cycle round her beauty.\n\n SIMONE. You flatter her.\n She has her virtues as most women have,\n But beauty in a gem she may not wear.\n It is better so, perchance.\n\n Well, my dear lord,\n If you will not draw melodies from your lute\n To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul\n You’ll drink with me at least?\n\n [_Motioning_ GUIDO _to his own place_.]\n\n Your place is laid.\n Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters.\n Set the great bar across. I would not have\n The curious world with its small prying eyes\n To peer upon our pleasure.\n\n Now, my lord,\n Give us a toast from a full brimming cup.\n\n [_Starts back_.]\n\n What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks\n As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side.\n Wine merely is it? I have heard it said\n When wine is spilt blood is spilt also,\n But that’s a foolish tale.\n\n My lord, I trust\n My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples\n Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards\n Yield a more wholesome juice.\n\n GUIDO. I like it well,\n Honest Simone; and, with your good leave,\n Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips\n Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup\n And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca.\n\n [BIANCA _drinks_.]\n\n Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees,\n Matched with this draught were bitter!\n Good Simone,\n You do not share the feast.\n\n SIMONE. It is strange, my lord,\n I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night.\n Some humour, or some fever in my blood,\n At other seasons temperate, or some thought\n That like an adder creeps from point to point,\n That like a madman crawls from cell to cell,\n Poisons my palate and makes appetite\n A loathing, not a longing.\n\n [_Goes aside_.]\n\n GUIDO. Sweet Bianca,\n This common chapman wearies me with words.\n I must go hence. To-morrow I will come.\n Tell me the hour.\n\n BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn!\n Until I see you all my life is vain.\n\n GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair,\n And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold\n Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca,\n Though it be but a shadow, keep me there,\n Nor gaze at anything that does not show\n Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous\n Of what your vision feasts on.\n\n BIANCA. Oh! be sure\n Your image will be with me always. Dear\n Love can translate the very meanest thing\n Into a sign of sweet remembrances.\n But come before the lark with its shrill song\n Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand\n Upon the balcony.\n\n GUIDO. And by a ladder\n Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls\n Will come to meet me. White foot after foot,\n Like snow upon a rose-tree.\n\n BIANCA. As you will.\n You know that I am yours for love or Death.\n\n GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house.\n\n SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo’s bell\n Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen\n Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon,\n Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.\n I fear we may not see you here again,\n And that fear saddens my too simple heart.\n\n GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand\n Most constant in my friendship, But to-night\n I go to mine own home, and that at once.\n To-morrow, sweet Bianca.\n\n SIMONE. Well, well, so be it.\n I would have wished for fuller converse with you,\n My new friend, my honourable guest,\n But that it seems may not be.\n\n And besides\n I do not doubt your father waits for you,\n Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think,\n Are his one child? He has no other child.\n You are the gracious pillar of his house,\n The flower of a garden full of weeds.\n Your father’s nephews do not love him well\n So run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but that.\n Men say they envy your inheritance\n And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes\n As Ahab looked on Naboth’s goodly field.\n But that is but the chatter of a town\n Where women talk too much.\n\n Good-night, my lord.\n Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase\n Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon\n Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams,\n And hides her face behind a muslin mask\n As harlots do when they go forth to snare\n Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get\n Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,\n It is but meet that I should wait on you\n Who have so honoured my poor burgher’s house,\n Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made\n Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes\n My wife and I will talk of this fair night\n And its great issues.\n\n Why, what a sword is this.\n Ferrara’s temper, pliant as a snake,\n And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel,\n One need fear nothing in the moil of life.\n I never touched so delicate a blade.\n I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.\n We men of peace are taught humility,\n And to bear many burdens on our backs,\n And not to murmur at an unjust world,\n And to endure unjust indignities.\n We are taught that, and like the patient Jew\n Find profit in our pain.\n\n Yet I remember\n How once upon the road to Padua\n A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,\n I slit his throat and left him. I can bear\n Dishonour, public insult, many shames,\n Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he\n Who filches from me something that is mine,\n Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate\n From which I feed mine appetite—oh! he\n Perils his soul and body in the theft\n And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay\n We men are moulded!\n\n GUIDO. Why do you speak like this?\n\n SIMONE. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword\n Is better tempered than this steel of yours?\n Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low\n For you to cross your rapier against mine,\n In jest, or earnest?\n\n GUIDO. Naught would please me better\n Than to stand fronting you with naked blade\n In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.\n Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue\n Whether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steel\n Is better tempered. Was not that your word?\n Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?\n\n SIMONE. My lord, of all the gracious courtesies\n That you have showered on my barren house\n This is the highest.\n\n Bianca, fetch my sword.\n Thrust back that stool and table. We must have\n An open circle for our match at arms,\n And good Bianca here shall hold the torch\n Lest what is but a jest grow serious.\n\n BIANCA [_To Guido_]. Oh! kill him, kill him!\n\n SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca.\n\n [_They begin to fight_.]\n\n SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you?\n\n [_He is wounded by_ GUIDO.]\n\n A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes.\n Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing.\n Your husband bleeds, ’tis nothing. Take a cloth,\n Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight.\n More softly, my good wife. And be not sad,\n I pray you be not sad. No; take it off.\n What matter if I bleed?\n\n [_Tears bandage off_.]\n\n Again! again!\n\n [SIMONE _disarms_ GUIDO]\n\n My gentle Lord, you see that I was right\n My sword is better tempered, finer steel,\n But let us match our daggers.\n\n BIANCA [_to_ GUIDO]\n Kill him! kill him!\n\n SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca.\n\n [BIANCA _puts out torch_.]\n\n Now, my good Lord,\n Now to the death of one, or both of us,\n Or all three it may be. [_They fight_.]\n\n There and there.\n Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip?\n\n [SIMONE _overpowers Guido and throws him down over table_.]\n\n GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat.\n I am my father’s only son; the State\n Has but one heir, and that false enemy France\n Waits for the ending of my father’s line\n To fall upon our city.\n\n SIMONE. Hush! your father\n When he is childless will be happier.\n As for the State, I think our state of Florence\n Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm.\n Your life would soil its lilies.\n\n GUIDO. Take off your hands\n Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say!\n\n SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice\n That nothing will avail you, and your life\n Narrowed into a single point of shame\n Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully.\n\n GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die!\n\n SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins\n To God, whom thou shalt see this very night\n And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins\n To Him who is most just, being pitiless,\n Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . .\n\n GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca,\n Thou knowest I am innocent of harm.\n\n SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips?\n Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die!\n And the dumb river shall receive your corse\n And wash it all unheeded to the sea.\n\n GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night!\n\n SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other.\n\n [_He dies_. SIMONE _rises and looks at_ BIANCA. _She comes towards him\n as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms_.]\n\n BIANCA. Why\n Did you not tell me you were so strong?\n\n SIMONE. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: The Ballad of Reading Gaol\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nPosting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #301]\nRelease Date: July, 1995\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Faith Knowles and an Anonymous Volunteer\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL\n\nBy Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\n\n In Memoriam\n C.T.W.\n Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.\n Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,\n July 7th, 1896\n Presented by Project Gutenberg on the 99th Anniversary.\n\n\n\nContents:\n\nVersion One\n\nVersion Two\n\n\n\n\n\nVersion One\n\n\n\n I.\n\n He did not wear his scarlet coat,\n For blood and wine are red,\n And blood and wine were on his hands\n When they found him with the dead,\n The poor dead woman whom he loved,\n And murdered in her bed.\n\n He walked amongst the Trial Men\n In a suit of shabby grey;\n A cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay;\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every drifting cloud that went\n With sails of silver by.\n\n I walked, with other souls in pain,\n Within another ring,\n And was wondering if the man had done\n A great or little thing,\n When a voice behind me whispered low,\n "That fellow\'s got to swing."\n\n Dear Christ! the very prison walls\n Suddenly seemed to reel,\n And the sky above my head became\n Like a casque of scorching steel;\n And, though I was a soul in pain,\n My pain I could not feel.\n\n I only knew what hunted thought\n Quickened his step, and why\n He looked upon the garish day\n With such a wistful eye;\n The man had killed the thing he loved\n And so he had to die.\n\n Yet each man kills the thing he loves\n By each let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n Some kill their love when they are young,\n And some when they are old;\n Some strangle with the hands of Lust,\n Some with the hands of Gold:\n The kindest use a knife, because\n The dead so soon grow cold.\n\n Some love too little, some too long,\n Some sell, and others buy;\n Some do the deed with many tears,\n And some without a sigh:\n For each man kills the thing he loves,\n Yet each man does not die.\n\n He does not die a death of shame\n On a day of dark disgrace,\n Nor have a noose about his neck,\n Nor a cloth upon his face,\n Nor drop feet foremost through the floor\n Into an empty place\n\n He does not sit with silent men\n Who watch him night and day;\n Who watch him when he tries to weep,\n And when he tries to pray;\n Who watch him lest himself should rob\n The prison of its prey.\n\n He does not wake at dawn to see\n Dread figures throng his room,\n The shivering Chaplain robed in white,\n The Sheriff stern with gloom,\n And the Governor all in shiny black,\n With the yellow face of Doom.\n\n He does not rise in piteous haste\n To put on convict-clothes,\n While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes\n Each new and nerve-twitched pose,\n Fingering a watch whose little ticks\n Are like horrible hammer-blows.\n\n He does not know that sickening thirst\n That sands one\'s throat, before\n The hangman with his gardener\'s gloves\n Slips through the padded door,\n And binds one with three leathern thongs,\n That the throat may thirst no more.\n\n He does not bend his head to hear\n The Burial Office read,\n Nor, while the terror of his soul\n Tells him he is not dead,\n Cross his own coffin, as he moves\n Into the hideous shed.\n\n He does not stare upon the air\n Through a little roof of glass;\n He does not pray with lips of clay\n For his agony to pass;\n Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek\n The kiss of Caiaphas.\n\n\n\n II.\n\n Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,\n In a suit of shabby grey:\n His cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay,\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every wandering cloud that trailed\n Its raveled fleeces by.\n\n He did not wring his hands, as do\n Those witless men who dare\n To try to rear the changeling Hope\n In the cave of black Despair:\n He only looked upon the sun,\n And drank the morning air.\n\n He did not wring his hands nor weep,\n Nor did he peek or pine,\n But he drank the air as though it held\n Some healthful anodyne;\n With open mouth he drank the sun\n As though it had been wine!\n\n And I and all the souls in pain,\n Who tramped the other ring,\n Forgot if we ourselves had done\n A great or little thing,\n And watched with gaze of dull amaze\n The man who had to swing.\n\n And strange it was to see him pass\n With a step so light and gay,\n And strange it was to see him look\n So wistfully at the day,\n And strange it was to think that he\n Had such a debt to pay.\n\n For oak and elm have pleasant leaves\n That in the spring-time shoot:\n But grim to see is the gallows-tree,\n With its adder-bitten root,\n And, green or dry, a man must die\n Before it bears its fruit!\n\n The loftiest place is that seat of grace\n For which all worldlings try:\n But who would stand in hempen band\n Upon a scaffold high,\n And through a murderer\'s collar take\n His last look at the sky?\n\n It is sweet to dance to violins\n When Love and Life are fair:\n To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes\n Is delicate and rare:\n But it is not sweet with nimble feet\n To dance upon the air!\n\n So with curious eyes and sick surmise\n We watched him day by day,\n And wondered if each one of us\n Would end the self-same way,\n For none can tell to what red Hell\n His sightless soul may stray.\n\n At last the dead man walked no more\n Amongst the Trial Men,\n And I knew that he was standing up\n In the black dock\'s dreadful pen,\n And that never would I see his face\n In God\'s sweet world again.\n\n Like two doomed ships that pass in storm\n We had crossed each other\'s way:\n But we made no sign, we said no word,\n We had no word to say;\n For we did not meet in the holy night,\n But in the shameful day.\n\n A prison wall was round us both,\n Two outcast men were we:\n The world had thrust us from its heart,\n And God from out His care:\n And the iron gin that waits for Sin\n Had caught us in its snare.\n\n In Debtors\' Yard the stones are hard,\n And the dripping wall is high,\n So it was there he took the air\n Beneath the leaden sky,\n And by each side a Warder walked,\n For fear the man might die.\n\n Or else he sat with those who watched\n His anguish night and day;\n Who watched him when he rose to weep,\n And when he crouched to pray;\n Who watched him lest himself should rob\n Their scaffold of its prey.\n\n The Governor was strong upon\n The Regulations Act:\n The Doctor said that Death was but\n A scientific fact:\n And twice a day the Chaplain called\n And left a little tract.\n\n And twice a day he smoked his pipe,\n And drank his quart of beer:\n His soul was resolute, and held\n No hiding-place for fear;\n He often said that he was glad\n The hangman\'s hands were near.\n\n But why he said so strange a thing\n No Warder dared to ask:\n For he to whom a watcher\'s doom\n Is given as his task,\n Must set a lock upon his lips,\n And make his face a mask.\n\n Or else he might be moved, and try\n To comfort or console:\n And what should Human Pity do\n Pent up in Murderers\' Hole?\n What word of grace in such a place\n Could help a brother\'s soul?\n\n With slouch and swing around the ring\n We trod the Fool\'s Parade!\n We did not care: we knew we were\n The Devil\'s Own Brigade:\n And shaven head and feet of lead\n Make a merry masquerade.\n\n We tore the tarry rope to shreds\n With blunt and bleeding nails;\n We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,\n And cleaned the shining rails:\n And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,\n And clattered with the pails.\n\n We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,\n We turned the dusty drill:\n We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,\n And sweated on the mill:\n But in the heart of every man\n Terror was lying still.\n\n So still it lay that every day\n Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:\n And we forgot the bitter lot\n That waits for fool and knave,\n Till once, as we tramped in from work,\n We passed an open grave.\n\n With yawning mouth the yellow hole\n Gaped for a living thing;\n The very mud cried out for blood\n To the thirsty asphalte ring:\n And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair\n Some prisoner had to swing.\n\n Right in we went, with soul intent\n On Death and Dread and Doom:\n The hangman, with his little bag,\n Went shuffling through the gloom\n And each man trembled as he crept\n Into his numbered tomb.\n\n That night the empty corridors\n Were full of forms of Fear,\n And up and down the iron town\n Stole feet we could not hear,\n And through the bars that hide the stars\n White faces seemed to peer.\n\n He lay as one who lies and dreams\n In a pleasant meadow-land,\n The watcher watched him as he slept,\n And could not understand\n How one could sleep so sweet a sleep\n With a hangman close at hand?\n\n But there is no sleep when men must weep\n Who never yet have wept:\n So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--\n That endless vigil kept,\n And through each brain on hands of pain\n Another\'s terror crept.\n\n Alas! it is a fearful thing\n To feel another\'s guilt!\n For, right within, the sword of Sin\n Pierced to its poisoned hilt,\n And as molten lead were the tears we shed\n For the blood we had not spilt.\n\n The Warders with their shoes of felt\n Crept by each padlocked door,\n And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,\n Grey figures on the floor,\n And wondered why men knelt to pray\n Who never prayed before.\n\n All through the night we knelt and prayed,\n Mad mourners of a corpse!\n The troubled plumes of midnight were\n The plumes upon a hearse:\n And bitter wine upon a sponge\n Was the savior of Remorse.\n\n The cock crew, the red cock crew,\n But never came the day:\n And crooked shape of Terror crouched,\n In the corners where we lay:\n And each evil sprite that walks by night\n Before us seemed to play.\n\n They glided past, they glided fast,\n Like travelers through a mist:\n They mocked the moon in a rigadoon\n Of delicate turn and twist,\n And with formal pace and loathsome grace\n The phantoms kept their tryst.\n\n With mop and mow, we saw them go,\n Slim shadows hand in hand:\n About, about, in ghostly rout\n They trod a saraband:\n And the damned grotesques made arabesques,\n Like the wind upon the sand!\n\n With the pirouettes of marionettes,\n They tripped on pointed tread:\n But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,\n As their grisly masque they led,\n And loud they sang, and loud they sang,\n For they sang to wake the dead.\n\n "Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,\n But fettered limbs go lame!\n And once, or twice, to throw the dice\n Is a gentlemanly game,\n But he does not win who plays with Sin\n In the secret House of Shame."\n No things of air these antics were\n That frolicked with such glee:\n To men whose lives were held in gyves,\n And whose feet might not go free,\n Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,\n Most terrible to see.\n Around, around, they waltzed and wound;\n Some wheeled in smirking pairs:\n With the mincing step of demirep\n Some sidled up the stairs:\n And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,\n Each helped us at our prayers.\n\n The morning wind began to moan,\n But still the night went on:\n Through its giant loom the web of gloom\n Crept till each thread was spun:\n And, as we prayed, we grew afraid\n Of the Justice of the Sun.\n\n The moaning wind went wandering round\n The weeping prison-wall:\n Till like a wheel of turning-steel\n We felt the minutes crawl:\n O moaning wind! what had we done\n To have such a seneschal?\n\n At last I saw the shadowed bars\n Like a lattice wrought in lead,\n Move right across the whitewashed wall\n That faced my three-plank bed,\n And I knew that somewhere in the world\n God\'s dreadful dawn was red.\n\n At six o\'clock we cleaned our cells,\n At seven all was still,\n But the sough and swing of a mighty wing\n The prison seemed to fill,\n For the Lord of Death with icy breath\n Had entered in to kill.\n\n He did not pass in purple pomp,\n Nor ride a moon-white steed.\n Three yards of cord and a sliding board\n Are all the gallows\' need:\n So with rope of shame the Herald came\n To do the secret deed.\n\n We were as men who through a fen\n Of filthy darkness grope:\n We did not dare to breathe a prayer,\n Or give our anguish scope:\n Something was dead in each of us,\n And what was dead was Hope.\n\n For Man\'s grim Justice goes its way,\n And will not swerve aside:\n It slays the weak, it slays the strong,\n It has a deadly stride:\n With iron heel it slays the strong,\n The monstrous parricide!\n\n We waited for the stroke of eight:\n Each tongue was thick with thirst:\n For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate\n That makes a man accursed,\n And Fate will use a running noose\n For the best man and the worst.\n\n We had no other thing to do,\n Save to wait for the sign to come:\n So, like things of stone in a valley lone,\n Quiet we sat and dumb:\n But each man\'s heart beat thick and quick\n Like a madman on a drum!\n\n With sudden shock the prison-clock\n Smote on the shivering air,\n And from all the gaol rose up a wail\n Of impotent despair,\n Like the sound that frightened marshes hear\n From a leper in his lair.\n\n And as one sees most fearful things\n In the crystal of a dream,\n We saw the greasy hempen rope\n Hooked to the blackened beam,\n And heard the prayer the hangman\'s snare\n Strangled into a scream.\n\n And all the woe that moved him so\n That he gave that bitter cry,\n And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,\n None knew so well as I:\n For he who live more lives than one\n More deaths than one must die.\n\n\n\n IV.\n\n There is no chapel on the day\n On which they hang a man:\n The Chaplain\'s heart is far too sick,\n Or his face is far to wan,\n Or there is that written in his eyes\n Which none should look upon.\n\n So they kept us close till nigh on noon,\n And then they rang the bell,\n And the Warders with their jingling keys\n Opened each listening cell,\n And down the iron stair we tramped,\n Each from his separate Hell.\n\n Out into God\'s sweet air we went,\n But not in wonted way,\n For this man\'s face was white with fear,\n And that man\'s face was grey,\n And I never saw sad men who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw sad men who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n We prisoners called the sky,\n And at every careless cloud that passed\n In happy freedom by.\n\n But there were those amongst us all\n Who walked with downcast head,\n And knew that, had each got his due,\n They should have died instead:\n He had but killed a thing that lived\n Whilst they had killed the dead.\n\n For he who sins a second time\n Wakes a dead soul to pain,\n And draws it from its spotted shroud,\n And makes it bleed again,\n And makes it bleed great gouts of blood\n And makes it bleed in vain!\n\n Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb\n With crooked arrows starred,\n Silently we went round and round\n The slippery asphalte yard;\n Silently we went round and round,\n And no man spoke a word.\n\n Silently we went round and round,\n And through each hollow mind\n The memory of dreadful things\n Rushed like a dreadful wind,\n An Horror stalked before each man,\n And terror crept behind.\n\n The Warders strutted up and down,\n And kept their herd of brutes,\n Their uniforms were spick and span,\n And they wore their Sunday suits,\n But we knew the work they had been at\n By the quicklime on their boots.\n\n For where a grave had opened wide,\n There was no grave at all:\n Only a stretch of mud and sand\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n And a little heap of burning lime,\n That the man should have his pall.\n\n For he has a pall, this wretched man,\n Such as few men can claim:\n Deep down below a prison-yard,\n Naked for greater shame,\n He lies, with fetters on each foot,\n Wrapt in a sheet of flame!\n\n And all the while the burning lime\n Eats flesh and bone away,\n It eats the brittle bone by night,\n And the soft flesh by the day,\n It eats the flesh and bones by turns,\n But it eats the heart alway.\n\n For three long years they will not sow\n Or root or seedling there:\n For three long years the unblessed spot\n Will sterile be and bare,\n And look upon the wondering sky\n With unreproachful stare.\n\n They think a murderer\'s heart would taint\n Each simple seed they sow.\n It is not true! God\'s kindly earth\n Is kindlier than men know,\n And the red rose would but blow more red,\n The white rose whiter blow.\n\n Out of his mouth a red, red rose!\n Out of his heart a white!\n For who can say by what strange way,\n Christ brings his will to light,\n Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore\n Bloomed in the great Pope\'s sight?\n\n But neither milk-white rose nor red\n May bloom in prison air;\n The shard, the pebble, and the flint,\n Are what they give us there:\n For flowers have been known to heal\n A common man\'s despair.\n\n So never will wine-red rose or white,\n Petal by petal, fall\n On that stretch of mud and sand that lies\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n To tell the men who tramp the yard\n That God\'s Son died for all.\n\n Yet though the hideous prison-wall\n Still hems him round and round,\n And a spirit may not walk by night\n That is with fetters bound,\n And a spirit may but weep that lies\n In such unholy ground,\n\n He is at peace--this wretched man--\n At peace, or will be soon:\n There is no thing to make him mad,\n Nor does Terror walk at noon,\n For the lampless Earth in which he lies\n Has neither Sun nor Moon.\n\n They hanged him as a beast is hanged:\n They did not even toll\n A requiem that might have brought\n Rest to his startled soul,\n But hurriedly they took him out,\n And hid him in a hole.\n\n They stripped him of his canvas clothes,\n And gave him to the flies;\n They mocked the swollen purple throat\n And the stark and staring eyes:\n And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud\n In which their convict lies.\n\n The Chaplain would not kneel to pray\n By his dishonored grave:\n Nor mark it with that blessed Cross\n That Christ for sinners gave,\n Because the man was one of those\n Whom Christ came down to save.\n\n Yet all is well; he has but passed\n To Life\'s appointed bourne:\n And alien tears will fill for him\n Pity\'s long-broken urn,\n For his mourner will be outcast men,\n And outcasts always mourn.\n\n\n\n V.\n\n I know not whether Laws be right,\n Or whether Laws be wrong;\n All that we know who lie in gaol\n Is that the wall is strong;\n And that each day is like a year,\n A year whose days are long.\n\n But this I know, that every Law\n That men have made for Man,\n Since first Man took his brother\'s life,\n And the sad world began,\n But straws the wheat and saves the chaff\n With a most evil fan.\n\n This too I know--and wise it were\n If each could know the same--\n That every prison that men build\n Is built with bricks of shame,\n And bound with bars lest Christ should see\n How men their brothers maim.\n\n With bars they blur the gracious moon,\n And blind the goodly sun:\n And they do well to hide their Hell,\n For in it things are done\n That Son of God nor son of Man\n Ever should look upon!\n\n The vilest deeds like poison weeds\n Bloom well in prison-air:\n It is only what is good in Man\n That wastes and withers there:\n Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,\n And the Warder is Despair\n\n For they starve the little frightened child\n Till it weeps both night and day:\n And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,\n And gibe the old and grey,\n And some grow mad, and all grow bad,\n And none a word may say.\n\n Each narrow cell in which we dwell\n Is a foul and dark latrine,\n And the fetid breath of living Death\n Chokes up each grated screen,\n And all, but Lust, is turned to dust\n In Humanity\'s machine.\n\n The brackish water that we drink\n Creeps with a loathsome slime,\n And the bitter bread they weigh in scales\n Is full of chalk and lime,\n And Sleep will not lie down, but walks\n Wild-eyed and cries to Time.\n\n But though lean Hunger and green Thirst\n Like asp with adder fight,\n We have little care of prison fare,\n For what chills and kills outright\n Is that every stone one lifts by day\n Becomes one\'s heart by night.\n\n With midnight always in one\'s heart,\n And twilight in one\'s cell,\n We turn the crank, or tear the rope,\n Each in his separate Hell,\n And the silence is more awful far\n Than the sound of a brazen bell.\n\n And never a human voice comes near\n To speak a gentle word:\n And the eye that watches through the door\n Is pitiless and hard:\n And by all forgot, we rot and rot,\n With soul and body marred.\n\n And thus we rust Life\'s iron chain\n Degraded and alone:\n And some men curse, and some men weep,\n And some men make no moan:\n But God\'s eternal Laws are kind\n And break the heart of stone.\n\n And every human heart that breaks,\n In prison-cell or yard,\n Is as that broken box that gave\n Its treasure to the Lord,\n And filled the unclean leper\'s house\n With the scent of costliest nard.\n\n Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break\n And peace of pardon win!\n How else may man make straight his plan\n And cleanse his soul from Sin?\n How else but through a broken heart\n May Lord Christ enter in?\n\n And he of the swollen purple throat.\n And the stark and staring eyes,\n Waits for the holy hands that took\n The Thief to Paradise;\n And a broken and a contrite heart\n The Lord will not despise.\n\n The man in red who reads the Law\n Gave him three weeks of life,\n Three little weeks in which to heal\n His soul of his soul\'s strife,\n And cleanse from every blot of blood\n The hand that held the knife.\n\n And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,\n The hand that held the steel:\n For only blood can wipe out blood,\n And only tears can heal:\n And the crimson stain that was of Cain\n Became Christ\'s snow-white seal.\n\n\n\n VI.\n\n In Reading gaol by Reading town\n There is a pit of shame,\n And in it lies a wretched man\n Eaten by teeth of flame,\n In burning winding-sheet he lies,\n And his grave has got no name.\n\n And there, till Christ call forth the dead,\n In silence let him lie:\n No need to waste the foolish tear,\n Or heave the windy sigh:\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n And all men kill the thing they love,\n By all let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n\n\n\n\nVersion Two\n\n\n I\n\n He did not wear his scarlet coat,\n For blood and wine are red,\n And blood and wine were on his hands\n When they found him with the dead,\n The poor dead woman whom he loved,\n And murdered in her bed.\n\n He walked amongst the Trial Men\n In a suit of shabby gray;\n A cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step seemed light and gay;\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every drifting cloud that went\n With sails of silver by.\n\n I walked, with other souls in pain,\n Within another ring,\n And was wondering if the man had done\n A great or little thing,\n When a voice behind me whispered low,\n "That fellow\'s got to swing."\n\n Dear Christ! the very prison walls\n Suddenly seemed to reel,\n And the sky above my head became\n Like a casque of scorching steel;\n And, though I was a soul in pain,\n My pain I could not feel.\n\n I only knew what haunted thought\n Quickened his step, and why\n He looked upon the garish day\n With such a wistful eye;\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n Yet each man kills the thing he loves,\n By each let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n Some kill their love when they are young,\n And some when they are old;\n Some strangle with the hands of Lust,\n Some with the hands of Gold:\n The kindest use a knife, because\n The dead so soon grow cold.\n\n Some love too little, some too long,\n Some sell, and others buy;\n Some do the deed with many tears,\n And some without a sigh:\n For each man kills the thing he loves,\n Yet each man does not die.\n\n He does not die a death of shame\n On a day of dark disgrace,\n Nor have a noose about his neck,\n Nor a cloth upon his face,\n Nor drop feet foremost through the floor\n Into an empty space.\n\n He does not sit with silent men\n Who watch him night and day;\n Who watch him when he tries to weep,\n And when he tries to pray;\n Who watch him lest himself should rob\n The prison of its prey.\n\n He does not wake at dawn to see\n Dread figures throng his room,\n The shivering Chaplain robed in white,\n The Sheriff stern with gloom,\n And the Governor all in shiny black,\n With the yellow face of Doom.\n\n He does not rise in piteous haste\n To put on convict-clothes,\n While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes\n Each new and nerve-twitched pose,\n Fingering a watch whose little ticks\n Are like horrible hammer-blows.\n\n He does not feel that sickening thirst\n That sands one\'s throat, before\n The hangman with his gardener\'s gloves\n Comes through the padded door,\n And binds one with three leathern thongs,\n That the throat may thirst no more.\n\n He does not bend his head to hear\n The Burial Office read,\n Nor, while the anguish of his soul\n Tells him he is not dead,\n Cross his own coffin, as he moves\n Into the hideous shed.\n\n He does not stare upon the air\n Through a little roof of glass:\n He does not pray with lips of clay\n For his agony to pass;\n Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek\n The kiss of Caiaphas.\n\n\n\n II\n\n Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard,\n In the suit of shabby gray:\n His cricket cap was on his head,\n And his step was light and gay,\n But I never saw a man who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw a man who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n Which prisoners call the sky,\n And at every wandering cloud that trailed\n Its ravelled fleeces by.\n\n He did not wring his hands, as do\n Those witless men who dare\n To try to rear the changeling Hope\n In the cave of black Despair:\n He only looked upon the sun,\n And drank the morning air.\n\n He did not wring his hands nor weep,\n Nor did he peek or pine,\n But he drank the air as though it held\n Some healthful anodyne;\n With open mouth he drank the sun\n As though it had been wine!\n\n And I and all the souls in pain,\n Who tramped the other ring,\n Forgot if we ourselves had done\n A great or little thing,\n And watched with gaze of dull amaze\n The man who had to swing.\n\n For strange it was to see him pass\n With a step so light and gay,\n And strange it was to see him look\n So wistfully at the day,\n And strange it was to think that he\n Had such a debt to pay.\n\n The oak and elm have pleasant leaves\n That in the spring-time shoot:\n But grim to see is the gallows-tree,\n With its alder-bitten root,\n And, green or dry, a man must die\n Before it bears its fruit!\n\n The loftiest place is the seat of grace\n For which all worldlings try:\n But who would stand in hempen band\n Upon a scaffold high,\n And through a murderer\'s collar take\n His last look at the sky?\n\n It is sweet to dance to violins\n When Love and Life are fair:\n To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes\n Is delicate and rare:\n But it is not sweet with nimble feet\n To dance upon the air!\n\n So with curious eyes and sick surmise\n We watched him day by day,\n And wondered if each one of us\n Would end the self-same way,\n For none can tell to what red Hell\n His sightless soul may stray.\n\n At last the dead man walked no more\n Amongst the Trial Men,\n And I knew that he was standing up\n In the black dock\'s dreadful pen,\n And that never would I see his face\n For weal or woe again.\n\n Like two doomed ships that pass in storm\n We had crossed each other\'s way:\n But we made no sign, we said no word,\n We had no word to say;\n For we did not meet in the holy night,\n But in the shameful day.\n\n A prison wall was round us both,\n Two outcast men we were:\n The world had thrust us from its heart,\n And God from out His care:\n And the iron gin that waits for Sin\n Had caught us in its snare.\n III\n\n In Debtors\' Yard the stones are hard,\n And the dripping wall is high,\n So it was there he took the air\n Beneath the leaden sky,\n And by each side a warder walked,\n For fear the man might die.\n\n Or else he sat with those who watched\n His anguish night and day;\n Who watched him when he rose to weep,\n And when he crouched to pray;\n Who watched him lest himself should rob\n Their scaffold of its prey.\n\n The Governor was strong upon\n The Regulations Act:\n The Doctor said that Death was but\n A scientific fact:\n And twice a day the Chaplain called,\n And left a little tract.\n\n And twice a day he smoked his pipe,\n And drank his quart of beer:\n His soul was resolute, and held\n No hiding-place for fear;\n He often said that he was glad\n The hangman\'s day was near.\n\n But why he said so strange a thing\n No warder dared to ask:\n For he to whom a watcher\'s doom\n Is given as his task,\n Must set a lock upon his lips,\n And make his face a mask.\n\n Or else he might be moved, and try\n To comfort or console:\n And what should Human Pity do\n Pent up in Murderers\' Hole?\n What word of grace in such a place\n Could help a brother\'s soul?\n\n With slouch and swing around the ring\n We trod the Fools\' Parade!\n We did not care: we knew we were\n The Devils\' Own Brigade:\n And shaven head and feet of lead\n Make a merry masquerade.\n\n We tore the tarry rope to shreds\n With blunt and bleeding nails;\n We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,\n And cleaned the shining rails:\n And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,\n And clattered with the pails.\n\n We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,\n We turned the dusty drill:\n We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,\n And sweated on the mill:\n But in the heart of every man\n Terror was lying still.\n\n So still it lay that every day\n Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:\n And we forgot the bitter lot\n That waits for fool and knave,\n Till once, as we tramped in from work,\n We passed an open grave.\n\n With yawning mouth the horrid hole\n Gaped for a living thing;\n The very mud cried out for blood\n To the thirsty asphalte ring:\n And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair\n The fellow had to swing.\n\n Right in we went, with soul intent\n On Death and Dread and Doom:\n The hangman, with his little bag,\n Went shuffling through the gloom:\n And I trembled as I groped my way\n Into my numbered tomb.\n\n That night the empty corridors\n Were full of forms of Fear,\n And up and down the iron town\n Stole feet we could not hear,\n And through the bars that hide the stars\n White faces seemed to peer.\n\n He lay as one who lies and dreams\n In a pleasant meadow-land,\n The watchers watched him as he slept,\n And could not understand\n How one could sleep so sweet a sleep\n With a hangman close at hand.\n\n But there is no sleep when men must weep\n Who never yet have wept:\n So we- the fool, the fraud, the knave-\n That endless vigil kept,\n And through each brain on hands of pain\n Another\'s terror crept.\n\n Alas! it is a fearful thing\n To feel another\'s guilt!\n For, right within, the sword of Sin\n Pierced to its poisoned hilt,\n And as molten lead were the tears we shed\n For the blood we had not spilt.\n\n The warders with their shoes of felt\n Crept by each padlocked door,\n And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,\n Gray figures on the floor,\n And wondered why men knelt to pray\n Who never prayed before.\n\n All through the night we knelt and prayed,\n Mad mourners of a corse!\n The troubled plumes of midnight shook\n Like the plumes upon a hearse:\n And as bitter wine upon a sponge\n Was the savour of Remorse.\n\n The gray cock crew, the red cock crew,\n But never came the day:\n And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,\n In the corners where we lay:\n And each evil sprite that walks by night\n Before us seemed to play.\n\n They glided past, the glided fast,\n Like travellers through a mist:\n They mocked the moon in a rigadoon\n Of delicate turn and twist,\n And with formal pace and loathsome grace\n The phantoms kept their tryst.\n\n With mop and mow, we saw them go,\n Slim shadows hand in hand:\n About, about, in ghostly rout\n They trod a saraband:\n And the damned grotesques made arabesques,\n Like the wind upon the sand!\n\n With the pirouettes of marionettes,\n They tripped on pointed tread:\n But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,\n As their grisly masque they led,\n And loud they sang, and long they sang,\n For they sang to wake the dead.\n\n "Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide,\n But fettered limbs go lame!\n And once, or twice, to throw the dice\n Is a gentlemanly game,\n But he does not win who plays with Sin\n In the secret House of Shame."\n\n No things of air these antics were,\n That frolicked with such glee:\n To men whose lives were held in gyves,\n And whose feet might not go free,\n Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,\n Most terrible to see.\n\n Around, around, they waltzed and wound;\n Some wheeled in smirking pairs;\n With the mincing step of a demirep\n Some sidled up the stairs:\n And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,\n Each helped us at our prayers.\n\n The morning wind began to moan,\n But still the night went on:\n Through its giant loom the web of gloom\n Crept till each thread was spun:\n And, as we prayed, we grew afraid\n Of the Justice of the Sun.\n\n The moaning wind went wandering round\n The weeping prison wall:\n Till like a wheel of turning steel\n We felt the minutes crawl:\n O moaning wind! what had we done\n To have such a seneschal?\n\n At last I saw the shadowed bars,\n Like a lattice wrought in lead,\n Move right across the whitewashed wall\n That faced my three-plank bed,\n And I knew that somewhere in the world\n God\'s dreadful dawn was red.\n\n At six o\'clock we cleaned our cells,\n At seven all was still,\n But the sough and swing of a mighty wing\n The prison seemed to fill,\n For the Lord of Death with icy breath\n Had entered in to kill.\n\n He did not pass in purple pomp,\n Nor ride a moon-white steed.\n Three yards of cord and a sliding board\n Are all the gallows\' need:\n So with rope of shame the Herald came\n To do the secret deed.\n\n We were as men who through a fen\n Of filthy darkness grope:\n We did not dare to breathe a prayer,\n Or to give our anguish scope:\n Something was dead in each of us,\n And what was dead was Hope.\n\n For Man\'s grim Justice goes its way\n And will not swerve aside:\n It slays the weak, it slays the strong,\n It has a deadly stride:\n With iron heel it slays the strong\n The monstrous parricide!\n\n We waited for the stroke of eight:\n Each tongue was thick with thirst:\n For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate\n That makes a man accursed,\n And Fate will use a running noose\n For the best man and the worst.\n\n We had no other thing to do,\n Save to wait for the sign to come:\n So, like things of stone in a valley lone,\n Quiet we sat and dumb:\n But each man\'s heart beat thick and quick,\n Like a madman on a drum!\n\n With sudden shock the prison-clock\n Smote on the shivering air,\n And from all the gaol rose up a wail\n Of impotent despair,\n Like the sound the frightened marshes hear\n From some leper in his lair.\n\n And as one sees most fearful things\n In the crystal of a dream,\n We saw the greasy hempen rope\n Hooked to the blackened beam,\n And heard the prayer the hangman\'s snare\n Strangled into a scream.\n\n And all the woe that moved him so\n That he gave that bitter cry,\n And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,\n None knew so well as I:\n For he who lives more lives than one\n More deaths that one must die.\n IV\n\n There is no chapel on the day\n On which they hang a man:\n The Chaplain\'s heart is far too sick,\n Or his face is far too wan,\n Or there is that written in his eyes\n Which none should look upon.\n\n So they kept us close till nigh on noon,\n And then they rang the bell,\n And the warders with their jingling keys\n Opened each listening cell,\n And down the iron stair we tramped,\n Each from his separate Hell.\n\n Out into God\'s sweet air we went,\n But not in wonted way,\n For this man\'s face was white with fear,\n And that man\'s face was gray,\n And I never saw sad men who looked\n So wistfully at the day.\n\n I never saw sad men who looked\n With such a wistful eye\n Upon that little tent of blue\n We prisoners called the sky,\n And at every happy cloud that passed\n In such strange freedom by.\n\n But there were those amongst us all\n Who walked with downcast head,\n And knew that, had each got his due,\n They should have died instead:\n He had but killed a thing that lived,\n Whilst they had killed the dead.\n\n For he who sins a second time\n Wakes a dead soul to pain,\n And draws it from its spotted shroud\n And makes it bleed again,\n And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\n And makes it bleed in vain!\n\n Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb\n With crooked arrows starred,\n Silently we went round and round\n The slippery asphalte yard;\n Silently we went round and round,\n And no man spoke a word.\n\n Silently we went round and round,\n And through each hollow mind\n The Memory of dreadful things\n Rushed like a dreadful wind,\n And Horror stalked before each man,\n And Terror crept behind.\n\n The warders strutted up and down,\n And watched their herd of brutes,\n Their uniforms were spick and span,\n And they wore their Sunday suits,\n But we knew the work they had been at,\n By the quicklime on their boots.\n\n For where a grave had opened wide,\n There was no grave at all:\n Only a stretch of mud and sand\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n And a little heap of burning lime,\n That the man should have his pall.\n\n For he has a pall, this wretched man,\n Such as few men can claim:\n Deep down below a prison-yard,\n Naked, for greater shame,\n He lies, with fetters on each foot,\n Wrapt in a sheet of flame!\n\n And all the while the burning lime\n Eats flesh and bone away,\n It eats the brittle bones by night,\n And the soft flesh by day,\n It eats the flesh and bone by turns,\n But it eats the heart alway.\n\n For three long years they will not sow\n Or root or seedling there:\n For three long years the unblessed spot\n Will sterile be and bare,\n And look upon the wondering sky\n With unreproachful stare.\n\n They think a murderer\'s heart would taint\n Each simple seed they sow.\n It is not true! God\'s kindly earth\n Is kindlier than men know,\n And the red rose would but glow more red,\n The white rose whiter blow.\n\n Out of his mouth a red, red rose!\n Out of his heart a white!\n For who can say by what strange way,\n Christ brings His will to light,\n Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore\n Bloomed in the great Pope\'s sight?\n\n But neither milk-white rose nor red\n May bloom in prison air;\n The shard, the pebble, and the flint,\n Are what they give us there:\n For flowers have been known to heal\n A common man\'s despair.\n\n So never will wine-red rose or white,\n Petal by petal, fall\n On that stretch of mud and sand that lies\n By the hideous prison-wall,\n To tell the men who tramp the yard\n That God\'s Son died for all.\n\n Yet though the hideous prison-wall\n Still hems him round and round,\n And a spirit may not walk by night\n That is with fetters bound,\n And a spirit may but weep that lies\n In such unholy ground,\n\n He is at peace- this wretched man-\n At peace, or will be soon:\n There is no thing to make him mad,\n Nor does Terror walk at noon,\n For the lampless Earth in which he lies\n Has neither Sun nor Moon.\n\n They hanged him as a beast is hanged:\n They did not even toll\n A requiem that might have brought\n Rest to his startled soul,\n But hurriedly they took him out,\n And hid him in a hole.\n\n The warders stripped him of his clothes,\n And gave him to the flies:\n They mocked the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes:\n And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud\n In which the convict lies.\n\n The Chaplain would not kneel to pray\n By his dishonoured grave:\n Nor mark it with that blessed Cross\n That Christ for sinners gave,\n Because the man was one of those\n Whom Christ came down to save.\n\n Yet all is well; he has but passed\n To Life\'s appointed bourne:\n And alien tears will fill for him\n Pity\'s long-broken urn,\n For his mourners be outcast men,\n And outcasts always mourn.\n V\n\n I know not whether Laws be right,\n Or whether Laws be wrong;\n All that we know who lie in gaol\n Is that the wall is strong;\n And that each day is like a year,\n A year whose days are long.\n\n But this I know, that every Law\n That men have made for Man,\n Since first Man took His brother\'s life,\n And the sad world began,\n But straws the wheat and saves the chaff\n With a most evil fan.\n\n This too I know- and wise it were\n If each could know the same-\n That every prison that men build\n Is built with bricks of shame,\n And bound with bars lest Christ should see\n How men their brothers maim.\n\n With bars they blur the gracious moon,\n And blind the goodly sun:\n And they do well to hide their Hell,\n For in it things are done\n That Son of God nor son of Man\n Ever should look upon!\n\n The vilest deeds like poison weeds\n Bloom well in prison-air:\n It is only what is good in Man\n That wastes and withers there:\n Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,\n And the warder is Despair.\n\n For they starve the little frightened child\n Till it weeps both night and day:\n And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,\n And gibe the old and gray,\n And some grow mad, and all grow bad,\n And none a word may say.\n\n Each narrow cell in which we dwell\n Is a foul and dark latrine,\n And the fetid breath of living Death\n Chokes up each grated screen,\n And all, but Lust, is turned to dust\n In Humanity\'s machine.\n\n The brackish water that we drink\n Creeps with a loathsome slime,\n And the bitter bread they weigh in scales\n Is full of chalk and lime,\n And Sleep will not lie down, but walks\n Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.\n\n But though lean Hunger and green Thirst\n Like asp with adder fight,\n We have little care of prison fare,\n For what chills and kills outright\n Is that every stone one lifts by day\n Becomes one\'s heart by night.\n\n With midnight always in one\'s heart,\n And twilight in one\'s cell,\n We turn the crank, or tear the rope,\n Each in his separate Hell,\n And the silence is more awful far\n Than the sound of a brazen bell.\n\n And never a human voice comes near\n To speak a gentle word:\n And the eye that watches through the door\n Is pitiless and hard:\n And by all forgot, we rot and rot,\n With soul and body marred.\n\n And thus we rust Life\'s iron chain\n Degraded and alone:\n And some men curse, and some men weep,\n And some men make no moan:\n But God\'s eternal Laws are kind\n And break the heart of stone.\n\n And every human heart that breaks,\n In prison-cell or yard,\n Is as that broken box that gave\n Its treasure to the Lord,\n And filled the unclean leper\'s house\n With the scent of costliest nard.\n\n Ah! happy they whose hearts can break\n And peace of pardon win!\n How else may man make straight his plan\n And cleanse his soul from Sin?\n How else but through a broken heart\n May Lord Christ enter in?\n\n And he of the swollen purple throat,\n And the stark and staring eyes,\n Waits for the holy hands that took\n The Thief to Paradise;\n And a broken and a contrite heart\n The Lord will not despise.\n\n The man in red who reads the Law\n Gave him three weeks of life,\n Three little weeks in which to heal\n His soul of his soul\'s strife,\n And cleanse from every blot of blood\n The hand that held the knife.\n\n And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,\n The hand that held the steel:\n For only blood can wipe out blood,\n And only tears can heal:\n And the crimson stain that was of Cain\n Became Christ\'s snow-white seal.\n VI\n\n In Reading gaol by Reading town\n There is a pit of shame,\n And in it lies a wretched man\n Eaten by teeth of flame,\n In a burning winding-sheet he lies,\n And his grave has got no name.\n\n And there, till Christ call forth the dead,\n In silence let him lie:\n No need to waste the foolish tear,\n Or heave the windy sigh:\n The man had killed the thing he loved,\n And so he had to die.\n\n And all men kill the thing they love,\n By all let this be heard,\n Some do it with a bitter look,\n Some with a flattering word,\n The coward does it with a kiss,\n The brave man with a sword!\n\n\n THE END\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg\'s The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL ***\n\n***** This file should be named 301.txt or 301.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/301/\n\nProduced by Faith Knowles and an Anonymous Volunteer\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*\n\n\n\n\n\nThis etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk\n\n\n\n\n\nOSCAR WILDE--SHORTER PROSE PIECES\n\n\n\n\nContents:\n\nPhrases And Philosophies for the Use of The Young\nMrs. Langtry as Hester Grazebrook\nSlaves of Fashion\nWoman\'s Dress\nMore Radical Ideas upon Dress Reform\nCostume\nThe American Invasion\nSermons in Stones at Bloomsbury\nL\'Envoi\n\n\n\n\nPHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG\n\n\n\nThe first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What\nthe second duty is no one has as yet discovered.\n\nWickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the\ncurious attractiveness of others.\n\nIf the poor only had profiles there would be no difficulty in\nsolving the problem of poverty.\n\nThose who see any difference between soul and body have neither.\n\nA really well-made buttonhole is the only link between Art and\nNature.\n\nReligions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the\nrecord of dead religions.\n\nThe well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict\nthemselves.\n\nNothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance.\n\nDulness is the coming of age of seriousness.\n\nIn all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential.\nIn all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential.\n\nIf one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found\nout.\n\nPleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing ages like\nhappiness.\n\nIt is only by not paying one\'s bills that one can hope to live in\nthe memory of the commercial classes.\n\nNo crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is the\nconduct of others.\n\nOnly the shallow know themselves.\n\nTime is waste of money.\n\nOne should always be a little improbable.\n\nThere is a fatality about all good resolutions. They are\ninvariably made too soon.\n\nThe only way to atone for being occasionally a little overdressed\nis by being always absolutely overeducated.\n\nTo be premature is to be perfect.\n\nAny preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct\nshows an arrested intellectual development.\n\nAmbition is the last refuge of the failure.\n\nA truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it.\n\nIn examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot\nanswer.\n\nGreek dress was in its essence inartistic. Nothing should reveal\nthe body but the body.\n\nOne should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.\n\nIt is only the superficial qualities that last. Man\'s deeper\nnature is soon found out.\n\nIndustry is the root of all ugliness.\n\nThe ages live in history through their anachronisms.\n\nIt is only the gods who taste of death. Apollo has passed away,\nbut Hyacinth, whom men say he slew, lives on. Nero and Narcissus\nare always with us.\n\nThe old believe everything: the middle-aged suspect everything;\nthe young know everything.\n\nThe condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is\nyouth.\n\nOnly the great masters of style ever succeeded in being obscure.\n\nThere is something tragic about the enormous number of young men\nthere are in England at the present moment who start life with\nperfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession.\n\nTo love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.\n\n\n\nMRS. LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK\n\n\n\nIt is only in the best Greek gems, on the silver coins of Syracuse,\nor among the marble figures of the Parthenon frieze, that one can\nfind the ideal representation of the marvellous beauty of that face\nwhich laughed through the leaves last night as Hester Grazebrook.\n\nPure Greek it is, with the grave low forehead, the exquisitely\narched brow; the noble chiselling of the mouth, shaped as if it\nwere the mouthpiece of an instrument of music; the supreme and\nsplendid curve of the cheek; the augustly pillared throat which\nbears it all: it is Greek, because the lines which compose it are\nso definite and so strong, and yet so exquisitely harmonized that\nthe effect is one of simple loveliness purely: Greek, because its\nessence and its quality, as is the quality of music and of\narchitecture, is that of beauty based on absolutely mathematical\nlaws.\n\nBut while art remains dumb and immobile in its passionless\nserenity, with the beauty of this face it is different: the grey\neyes lighten into blue or deepen into violet as fancy succeeds\nfancy; the lips become flower-like in laughter or, tremulous as a\nbird\'s wing, mould themselves at last into the strong and bitter\nmoulds of pain or scorn. And then motion comes, and the statue\nwakes into life. But the life is not the ordinary life of common\ndays; it is life with a new value given to it, the value of art:\nand the charm to me of Hester Grazebrook\'s acting in the first\nscene of the play last night was that mingling of classic grace\nwith absolute reality which is the secret of all beautiful art, of\nthe plastic work of the Greeks and of the pictures of Jean Francois\nMillet equally.\n\nI do not think that the sovereignty and empire of women\'s beauty\nhas at all passed away, though we may no longer go to war for them\nas the Greeks did for the daughter of Leda. The greatest empire\nstill remains for them--the empire of art. And, indeed, this\nwonderful face, seen last night for the first time in America, has\nfilled and permeated with the pervading image of its type the whole\nof our modern art in England. Last century it was the romantic\ntype which dominated in art, the type loved by Reynolds and\nGainsborough, of wonderful contrasts of colour, of exquisite and\nvarying charm of expression, but without that definite plastic\nfeeling which divides classic from romantic work. This type\ndegenerated into mere facile prettiness in the hands of lesser\nmasters, and, in protest against it, was created by the hands of\nthe Pre-Raphaelites a new type, with its rare combination of Greek\nform with Florentine mysticism. But this mysticism becomes over-\nstrained and a burden, rather than an aid to expression, and a\ndesire for the pure Hellenic joy and serenity came in its place;\nand in all our modern work, in the paintings of such men as Albert\nMoore and Leighton and Whistler, we can trace the influence of this\nsingle face giving fresh life and inspiration in the form of a new\nartistic ideal.\n\n\n\nSLAVES OF FASHION\n\n\n\nMiss Leffler-Arnim\'s statement, in a lecture delivered recently at\nSt. Saviour\'s Hospital, that "she had heard of instances where\nladies were so determined not to exceed the fashionable measurement\nthat they had actually held on to a cross-bar while their maids\nfastened the fifteen-inch corset," has excited a good deal of\nincredulity, but there is nothing really improbable in it. From\nthe sixteenth century to our own day there is hardly any form of\ntorture that has not been inflicted on girls, and endured by women,\nin obedience to the dictates of an unreasonable and monstrous\nFashion. "In order to obtain a real Spanish figure," says\nMontaigne, "what a Gehenna of suffering will not women endure,\ndrawn in and compressed by great coches entering the flesh; nay,\nsometimes they even die thereof!" "A few days after my arrival at\nschool," Mrs. Somerville tells us in her memoirs, "although\nperfectly straight and well made, I was enclosed in stiff stays,\nwith a steel busk in front; while above my frock, bands drew my\nshoulders back till the shoulder-blades met. Then a steel rod with\na semi-circle, which went under my chin, was clasped to the steel\nbusk in my stays. In this constrained state I and most of the\nyounger girls had to prepare our lessons"; and in the life of Miss\nEdgeworth we read that, being sent to a certain fashionable\nestablishment, "she underwent all the usual tortures of back-\nboards, iron collars and dumbs, and also (because she was a very\ntiny person) the unusual one of being hung by the neck to draw out\nthe muscles and increase the growth," a signal failure in her case.\nIndeed, instances of absolute mutilation and misery are so common\nin the past that it is unnecessary to multiply them; but it is\nreally sad to think that in our own day a civilized woman can hang\non to a cross-bar while her maid laces her waist into a fifteen-\ninch circle. To begin with, the waist is not a circle at all, but\nan oval; nor can there be any greater error than to imagine that an\nunnaturally small waist gives an air of grace, or even of\nslightness, to the whole figure. Its effect, as a rule, is simply\nto exaggerate the width of the shoulders and the hips; and those\nwhose figures possess that stateliness which is called stoutness by\nthe vulgar, convert what is a quality into a defect by yielding to\nthe silly edicts of Fashion on the subject of tight-lacing. The\nfashionable English waist, also, is not merely far too small, and\nconsequently quite out of proportion to the rest of the figure, but\nit is worn far too low down. I use the expression "worn"\nadvisedly, for a waist nowadays seems to be regarded as an article\nof apparel to be put on when and where one likes. A long waist\nalways implies shortness of the lower limbs, and, from the artistic\npoint of view, has the effect of diminishing the height; and I am\nglad to see that many of the most charming women in Paris are\nreturning to the idea of the Directoire style of dress. This style\nis not by any means perfect, but at least it has the merit of\nindicating the proper position of the waist. I feel quite sure\nthat all English women of culture and position will set their faces\nagainst such stupid and dangerous practices as are related by Miss\nLeffler-Arnim. Fashion\'s motto is: Il faut souffrir pour etre\nbelle; but the motto of art and of common-sense is: Il faut etre\nbete pour souffrir.\n\nTalking of Fashion, a critic in the Pall Mall Gazelle expresses his\nsurprise that I should have allowed an illustration of a hat,\ncovered with "the bodies of dead birds," to appear in the first\nnumber of the Woman\'s World; and as I have received many letters on\nthe subject, it is only right that I should state my exact position\nin the matter. Fashion is such an essential part of the mundus\nmuliebris of our day, that it seems to me absolutely necessary that\nits growth, development, and phases should be duly chronicled; and\nthe historical and practical value of such a record depends\nentirely upon its perfect fidelity to fact. Besides, it is quite\neasy for the children of light to adapt almost any fashionable form\nof dress to the requirements of utility and the demands of good\ntaste. The Sarah Bernhardt tea-gown, for instance, figured in the\npresent issue, has many good points about it, and the gigantic\ndress-improver does not appear to me to be really essential to the\nmode; and though the Postillion costume of the fancy dress ball is\nabsolutely detestable in its silliness and vulgarity, the so-called\nLate Georgian costume in the same plate is rather pleasing. I\nmust, however, protest against the idea that to chronicle the\ndevelopment of Fashion implies any approval of the particular forms\nthat Fashion may adopt.\n\n\n\nWOMAN\'S DRESS\n\n\n\nThe "Girl Graduate" must of course have precedence, not merely for\nher sex but for her sanity: her letter is extremely sensible. She\nmakes two points: that high heels are a necessity for any lady who\nwishes to keep her dress clean from the Stygian mud of our streets,\nand that without a tight corset the ordinary number of petticoats\nand etceteras\' cannot be properly or conveniently held up. Now, it\nis quite true that as long as the lower garments are suspended from\nthe hips a corset is an absolute necessity; the mistake lies in not\nsuspending all apparel from the shoulders. In the latter case a\ncorset becomes useless, the body is left free and unconfined for\nrespiration and motion, there is more health, and consequently more\nbeauty. Indeed all the most ungainly and uncomfortable articles of\ndress that fashion has ever in her folly prescribed, not the tight\ncorset merely, but the farthingale, the vertugadin, the hoop, the\ncrinoline, and that modern monstrosity the so-called "dress\nimprover" also, all of them have owed their origin to the same\nerror, the error of not seeing that it is from the shoulders, and\nfrom the shoulders only, that all garments should be hung.\n\nAnd as regards high heels, I quite admit that some additional\nheight to the shoe or boot is necessary if long gowns are to be\nworn in the street; but what I object to is that the height should\nbe given to the heel only, and not to the sole of the foot also.\nThe modern high-heeled boot is, in fact, merely the clog of the\ntime of Henry VI., with the front prop left out, and its inevitable\neffect is to throw the body forward, to shorten the steps, and\nconsequently to produce that want of grace which always follows\nwant of freedom.\n\nWhy should clogs be despised? Much art has been expended on clogs.\nThey have been made of lovely woods, and delicately inlaid with\nivory, and with mother-of-pearl. A clog might be a dream of\nbeauty, and, if not too high or too heavy, most comfortable also.\nBut if there be any who do not like clogs, let them try some\nadaptation of the trouser of the Turkish lady, which is loose round\nthe limb and tight at the ankle.\n\nThe "Girl Graduate," with a pathos to which I am not insensible,\nentreats me not to apotheosize "that awful, befringed, beflounced,\nand bekilted divided skirt." Well, I will acknowledge that the\nfringes, the flounces, and the kilting do certainly defeat the\nwhole object of the dress, which is that of ease and liberty; but I\nregard these things as mere wicked superfluities, tragic proofs\nthat the divided skirt is ashamed of its own division. The\nprinciple of the dress is good, and, though it is not by any means\nperfection, it is a step towards it.\n\nHere I leave the "Girl Graduate," with much regret, for Mr.\nWentworth Huyshe. Mr. Huyshe makes the old criticism that Greek\ndress is unsuited to our climate, and, to me the somewhat new\nassertion, that the men\'s dress of a hundred years ago was\npreferable to that of the second part of the seventeenth century,\nwhich I consider to have been the exquisite period of English\ncostume.\n\nNow, as regards the first of these two statements, I will say, to\nbegin with, that the warmth of apparel does not depend really on\nthe number of garments worn, but on the material of which they are\nmade. One of the chief faults of modern dress is that it is\ncomposed of far too many articles of clothing, most of which are of\nthe wrong substance; but over a substratum of pure wool, such as is\nsupplied by Dr. Jaeger under the modern German system, some\nmodification of Greek costume is perfectly applicable to our\nclimate, our country and our century. This important fact has\nalready been pointed out by Mr. E. W. Godwin in his excellent,\nthough too brief handbook on Dress, contributed to the Health\nExhibition. I call it an important fact because it makes almost\nany form of lovely costume perfectly practicable in our cold\nclimate. Mr. Godwin, it is true, points out that the English\nladies of the thirteenth century abandoned after some time the\nflowing garments of the early Renaissance in favour of a tighter\nmode, such as Northern Europe seems to demand. This I quite admit,\nand its significance; but what I contend, and what I am sure Mr.\nGodwin would agree with me in, is that the principles, the laws of\nGreek dress may be perfectly realized, even in a moderately tight\ngown with sleeves: I mean the principle of suspending all apparel\nfrom the shoulders, and of relying for beauty of effect not on the\nstiff ready-made ornaments of the modern milliner--the bows where\nthere should be no bows, and the flounces where there should be no\nflounces--but on the exquisite play of light and line that one gets\nfrom rich and rippling folds. I am not proposing any antiquarian\nrevival of an ancient costume, but trying merely to point out the\nright laws of dress, laws which are dictated by art and not by\narchaeology, by science and not by fashion; and just as the best\nwork of art in our days is that which combines classic grace with\nabsolute reality, so from a continuation of the Greek principles of\nbeauty with the German principles of health will come, I feel\ncertain, the costume of the future.\n\nAnd now to the question of men\'s dress, or rather to Mr. Huyshe\'s\nclaim of the superiority, in point of costume, of the last quarter\nof the eighteenth century over the second quarter of the\nseventeenth. The broad-brimmed hat of 1640 kept the rain of winter\nand the glare of summer from the face; the same cannot be said of\nthe hat of one hundred years ago, which, with its comparatively\nnarrow brim and high crown, was the precursor of the modern\n"chimney-pot": a wide turned-down collar is a healthier thing than\na strangling stock, and a short cloak much more comfortable than a\nsleeved overcoat, even though the latter may have had "three\ncapes"; a cloak is easier to put on and off, lies lightly on the\nshoulder in summer, and wrapped round one in winter keeps one\nperfectly warm. A doublet, again, is simpler than a coat and\nwaistcoat; instead of two garments one has one; by not being open\nalso it protects the chest better.\n\nShort loose trousers are in every way to be preferred to the tight\nknee-breeches which often impede the proper circulation of the\nblood; and finally, the soft leather boots which could be worn\nabove or below the knee, are more supple, and give consequently\nmore freedom, than the stiff Hessian which Mr. Huyshe so praises.\nI say nothing about the question of grace and picturesqueness, for\nI suppose that no one, not even Mr. Huyshe, would prefer a\nmaccaroni to a cavalier, a Lawrence to a Vandyke, or the third\nGeorge to the first Charles; but for ease, warmth and comfort this\nseventeenth-century dress is infinitely superior to anything that\ncame after it, and I do not think it is excelled by any preceding\nform of costume. I sincerely trust that we may soon see in England\nsome national revival of it.\n\n\n\nMORE RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM\n\n\n\nI have been much interested at reading the large amount of\ncorrespondence that has been called forth by my recent lecture on\nDress. It shows me that the subject of dress reform is one that is\noccupying many wise and charming people, who have at heart the\nprinciples of health, freedom, and beauty in costume, and I hope\nthat "H. B. T." and "Materfamilias" will have all the real\ninfluence which their letters--excellent letters both of them--\ncertainly deserve.\n\nI turn first to Mr. Huyshe\'s second letter, and the drawing that\naccompanies it; but before entering into any examination of the\ntheory contained in each, I think I should state at once that I\nhave absolutely no idea whether this gentleman wears his hair long\nor short, or his cuffs back or forward, or indeed what he is like\nat all. I hope he consults his own comfort and wishes in\neverything which has to do with his dress, and is allowed to enjoy\nthat individualism in apparel which he so eloquently claims for\nhimself, and so foolishly tries to deny to others; but I really\ncould not take Mr. Wentworth Huyshe\'s personal appearance as any\nintellectual basis for an investigation of the principles which\nshould guide the costume of a nation. I am not denying the force,\nor even the popularity, of the "\'Eave arf a brick" school of\ncriticism, but I acknowledge it does not interest me. The gamin in\nthe gutter may be a necessity, but the gamin in discussion is a\nnuisance. So I will proceed at once to the real point at issue,\nthe value of the late eighteenth-century costume over that worn in\nthe second quarter of the seventeenth: the relative merits, that\nis, of the principles contained in each. Now, as regards the\neighteenth-century costume, Mr. Wentworth Huyshe acknowledges that\nhe has had no practical experience of it at all; in fact he makes a\npathetic appeal to his friends to corroborate him in his assertion,\nwhich I do not question for a moment, that he has never been\n"guilty of the eccentricity" of wearing himself the dress which he\nproposes for general adoption by others. There is something so\nnaive and so amusing about this last passage in Mr. Huyshe\'s letter\nthat I am really in doubt whether I am not doing him a wrong in\nregarding him as having any serious, or sincere, views on the\nquestion of a possible reform in dress; still, as irrespective of\nany attitude of Mr. Huyshe\'s in the matter, the subject is in\nitself an interesting one, I think it is worth continuing,\nparticularly as I have myself worn this late eighteenth-century\ndress many times, both in public and in private, and so may claim\nto have a very positive right to speak on its comfort and\nsuitability. The particular form of the dress I wore was very\nsimilar to that given in Mr. Godwin\'s handbook, from a print of\nNorthcote\'s, and had a certain elegance and grace about it which\nwas very charming; still, I gave it up for these reasons:- After a\nfurther consideration of the laws of dress I saw that a doublet is\na far simpler and easier garment than a coat and waistcoat, and, if\nbuttoned from the shoulder, far warmer also, and that tails have no\nplace in costume, except on some Darwinian theory of heredity; from\nabsolute experience in the matter I found that the excessive\ntightness of knee-breeches is not really comfortable if one wears\nthem constantly; and, in fact, I satisfied myself that the dress is\nnot one founded on any real principles. The broad-brimmed hat and\nloose cloak, which, as my object was not, of course, historical\naccuracy but modern ease, I had always worn with the costume in\nquestion, I have still retained, and find them most comfortable.\n\nWell, although Mr. Huyshe has no real experience of the dress he\nproposes, he gives us a drawing of it, which he labels, somewhat\nprematurely, "An ideal dress." An ideal dress of course it is not;\n"passably picturesque," he says I may possibly think it; well,\npassably picturesque it may be, but not beautiful, certainly,\nsimply because it is not founded on right principles, or, indeed,\non any principles at all. Picturesqueness one may get in a variety\nof ways; ugly things that are strange, or unfamiliar to us, for\ninstance, may be picturesque, such as a late sixteenth-century\ncostume, or a Georgian house. Ruins, again, may be picturesque,\nbut beautiful they never can be, because their lines are\nmeaningless. Beauty, in fact, is to be got only from the\nperfection of principles; and in "the ideal dress" of Mr. Huyshe\nthere are no ideas or principles at all, much less the perfection\nof either. Let us examine it, and see its faults; they are obvious\nto any one who desires more than a "Fancy-dress ball" basis for\ncostume. To begin with, the hat and boots are all wrong. Whatever\none wears on the extremities, such as the feet and head, should,\nfor the sake of comfort, be made of a soft material, and for the\nsake of freedom should take its shape from the way one chooses to\nwear it, and not from any stiff, stereotyped design of hat or boot\nmaker. In a hat made on right principles one should be able to\nturn the brim up or down according as the day is dark or fair, dry\nor wet; but the hat brim of Mr. Huyshe\'s drawing is perfectly\nstiff, and does not give much protection to the face, or the\npossibility of any at all to the back of the head or the ears, in\ncase of a cold east wind; whereas the bycocket, a hat made in\naccordance with the right laws, can be turned down behind and at\nthe sides, and so give the same warmth as a hood. The crown,\nagain, of Mr. Huyshe\'s hat is far too high; a high crown diminishes\nthe stature of a small person, and in the case of any one who is\ntall is a great inconvenience when one is getting in and out of\nhansoms and railway carriages, or passing under a street awning:\nin no case is it of any value whatsoever, and being useless it is\nof course against the principles of dress.\n\nAs regards the boots, they are not quite so ugly or so\nuncomfortable as the hat; still they are evidently made of stiff\nleather, as otherwise they would fall down to the ankle, whereas\nthe boot should be made of soft leather always, and if worn high at\nall must be either laced up the front or carried well over the\nknee: in the latter case one combines perfect freedom for walking\ntogether with perfect protection against rain, neither of which\nadvantages a short stiff boot will ever give one, and when one is\nresting in the house the long soft boot can be turned down as the\nboot of 1640 was. Then there is the overcoat: now, what are the\nright principles of an overcoat? To begin with, it should be\ncapable of being easily put on or off, and worn over any kind of\ndress; consequently it should never have narrow sleeves, such as\nare shown in Mr. Huyshe\'s drawing. If an opening or slit for the\narm is required it should be made quite wide, and may be protected\nby a flap, as in that excellent overall the modern Inverness cape;\nsecondly, it should not be too tight, as otherwise all freedom of\nwalking is impeded. If the young gentleman in the drawing buttons\nhis overcoat he may succeed in being statuesque, though that I\ndoubt very strongly, but he will never succeed in being swift; his\nsuper-totus is made for him on no principle whatsoever; a super-\ntotus, or overall, should be capable of being worn long or short,\nquite loose or moderately tight, just as the wearer wishes; he\nshould be able to have one arm free and one arm covered or both\narms free or both arms covered, just as he chooses for his\nconvenience in riding, walking, or driving; an overall again should\nnever be heavy, and should always be warm: lastly, it should be\ncapable of being easily carried if one wants to take it off; in\nfact, its principles are those of freedom and comfort, and a cloak\nrealizes them all, just as much as an overcoat of the pattern\nsuggested by Mr. Huyshe violates them.\n\nThe knee-breeches are of course far too tight; any one who has worn\nthem for any length of time--any one, in fact, whose views on the\nsubject are not purely theoretical--will agree with me there; like\neverything else in the dress, they are a great mistake. The\nsubstitution of the jacket for the coat and waistcoat of the period\nis a step in the right direction, which I am glad to see; it is,\nhowever, far too tight over the hips for any possible comfort.\nWhenever a jacket or doublet comes below the waist it should be\nslit at each side. In the seventeenth century the skirt of the\njacket was sometimes laced on by points and tags, so that it could\nbe removed at will, sometimes it was merely left open at the sides:\nin each case it exemplified what are always the true principles of\ndress, I mean freedom and adaptability to circumstances.\n\nFinally, as regards drawings of this kind, I would point out that\nthere is absolutely no limit at all to the amount of "passably\npicturesque" costumes which can be either revived or invented for\nus; but that unless a costume is founded on principles and\nexemplified laws, it never can be of any real value to us in the\nreform of dress. This particular drawing of Mr. Huyshe\'s, for\ninstance, proves absolutely nothing, except that our grandfathers\ndid not understand the proper laws of dress. There is not a single\nrule of right costume which is not violated in it, for it gives us\nstiffness, tightness and discomfort instead of comfort, freedom and\nease.\n\nNow here, on the other hand, is a dress which, being founded on\nprinciples, can serve us as an excellent guide and model; it has\nbeen drawn for me, most kindly, by Mr. Godwin from the Duke of\nNewcastle\'s delightful book on horsemanship, a book which is one of\nour best authorities on our best era of costume. I do not of\ncourse propose it necessarily for absolute imitation; that is not\nthe way in which one should regard it; it is not, I mean, a revival\nof a dead costume, but a realization of living laws. I give it as\nan example of a particular application of principles which are\nuniversally right. This rationally dressed young man can turn his\nhat brim down if it rains, and his loose trousers and boots down if\nhe is tired--that is, he can adapt his costume to circumstances;\nthen he enjoys perfect freedom, the arms and legs are not made\nawkward or uncomfortable by the excessive tightness of narrow\nsleeves and knee-breeches, and the hips are left quite\nuntrammelled, always an important point; and as regards comfort,\nhis jacket is not too loose for warmth, nor too close for\nrespiration; his neck is well protected without being strangled,\nand even his ostrich feathers, if any Philistine should object to\nthem, are not merely dandyism, but fan him very pleasantly, I am\nsure, in summer, and when the weather is bad they are no doubt left\nat home, and his cloak taken out. THE VALUE OF THE DRESS IS SIMPLY\nTHAT EVERY SEPARATE ARTICLE OF IT EXPRESSES A LAW. My young man is\nconsequently apparelled with ideas, while Mr. Huyshe\'s young man is\nstiffened with facts; the latter teaches one nothing; from the\nformer one learns everything. I need hardly say that this dress is\ngood, not because it is seventeenth century, but because it is\nconstructed on the true principles of costume, just as a square\nlintel or pointed arch is good, not because one may be Greek and\nthe other Gothic, but because each of them is the best method of\nspanning a certain-sized opening, or resisting a certain weight.\nThe fact, however, that this dress was generally worn in England\ntwo centuries and a half ago shows at least this, that the right\nlaws of dress have been understood and realized in our country, and\nso in our country may be realized and understood again. As regards\nthe absolute beauty of this dress and its meaning, I should like to\nsay a few words more. Mr. Wentworth Huyshe solemnly announces that\n"he and those who think with him" cannot permit this question of\nbeauty to be imported into the question of dress; that he and those\nwho think with him take "practical views on the subject," and so\non. Well, I will not enter here into a discussion as to how far\nany one who does not take beauty and the value of beauty into\naccount can claim to be practical at all. The word practical is\nnearly always the last refuge of the uncivilized. Of all misused\nwords it is the most evilly treated. But what I want to point out\nis that beauty is essentially organic; that is, it comes, not from\nwithout, but from within, not from any added prettiness, but from\nthe perfection of its own being; and that consequently, as the body\nis beautiful, so all apparel that rightly clothes it must be\nbeautiful also in its construction and in its lines.\n\nI have no more desire to define ugliness than I have daring to\ndefine beauty; but still I would like to remind those who mock at\nbeauty as being an unpractical thing of this fact, that an ugly\nthing is merely a thing that is badly made, or a thing that does\nnot serve it purpose; that ugliness is want of fitness; that\nugliness is failure; that ugliness is uselessness, such as ornament\nin the wrong place, while beauty, as some one finely said, is the\npurgation of all superfluities. There is a divine economy about\nbeauty; it gives us just what is needful and no more, whereas\nugliness is always extravagant; ugliness is a spendthrift and\nwastes its material; in fine, ugliness--and I would commend this\nremark to Mr. Wentworth Huyshe--ugliness, as much in costume as in\nanything else, is always the sign that somebody has been\nunpractical. So the costume of the future in England, if it is\nfounded on the true laws of freedom, comfort, and adaptability to\ncircumstances, cannot fail to be most beautiful also, because\nbeauty is the sign always of the rightness of principles, the\nmystical seal that is set upon what is perfect, and upon what is\nperfect only.\n\nAs for your other correspondent, the first principle of dress that\nall garments should be hung from the shoulders and not from the\nwaist seems to me to be generally approved of, although an "Old\nSailor" declares that no sailors or athletes ever suspend their\nclothes from the shoulders, but always from the hips. My own\nrecollection of the river and running ground at Oxford--those two\nhomes of Hellenism in our little Gothic town--is that the best\nrunners and rowers (and my own college turned out many) wore always\na tight jersey, with short drawers attached to it, the whole\ncostume being woven in one piece. As for sailors, it is true, I\nadmit, and the bad custom seems to involve that constant "hitching\nup" of the lower garments which, however popular in transpontine\ndramas, cannot, I think, but be considered an extremely awkward\nhabit; and as all awkwardness comes from discomfort of some kind, I\ntrust that this point in our sailor\'s dress will be looked to in\nthe coming reform of our navy, for, in spite of all protests, I\nhope we are about to reform everything, from torpedoes to top-hats,\nand from crinolettes to cruises.\n\nThen as regards clogs, my suggestion of them seems to have aroused\na great deal of terror. Fashion in her high-heeled boots has\nscreamed, and the dreadful word "anachronism" has been used. Now,\nwhatever is useful cannot be an anachronism. Such a word is\napplicable only to the revival of some folly; and, besides, in the\nEngland of our own day clogs are still worn in many of our\nmanufacturing towns, such as Oldham. I fear that in Oldham they\nmay not be dreams of beauty; in Oldham the art of inlaying them\nwith ivory and with pearl may possibly be unknown; yet in Oldham\nthey serve their purpose. Nor is it so long since they were worn\nby the upper classes of this country generally. Only a few days\nago I had the pleasure of talking to a lady who remembered with\naffectionate regret the clogs of her girlhood; they were, according\nto her, not too high nor too heavy, and were provided, besides,\nwith some kind of spring in the sole so as to make them the more\nsupple for the foot in walking. Personally, I object to all\nadditional height being given to a boot or shoe; it is really\nagainst the proper principles of dress, although, if any such\nheight is to be given it should be by means of two props; not one;\nbut what I should prefer to see is some adaptation of the divided\nskirt or long and moderately loose knickerbockers. If, however,\nthe divided skirt is to be of any positive value, it must give up\nall idea of "being identical in appearance with an ordinary skirt";\nit must diminish the moderate width of each of its divisions, and\nsacrifice its foolish frills and flounces; the moment it imitates a\ndress it is lost; but let it visibly announce itself as what it\nactually is, and it will go far towards solving a real difficulty.\nI feel sure that there will be found many graceful and charming\ngirls ready to adopt a costume founded on these principles, in\nspite of Mr. Wentworth Huyshe\'s terrible threat that he will not\npropose to them as long as they wear it, for all charges of a want\nof womanly character in these forms of dress are really\nmeaningless; every right article of apparel belongs equally to both\nsexes, and there is absolutely no such thing as a definitely\nfeminine garment. One word of warning I should like to be allowed\nto give: The over-tunic should be made full and moderately loose;\nit may, if desired, be shaped more or less to the figure, but in no\ncase should it be confined at the waist by any straight band or\nbelt; on the contrary, it should fall from the shoulder to the\nknee, or below it, in fine curves and vertical lines, giving more\nfreedom and consequently more grace. Few garments are so\nabsolutely unbecoming as a belted tunic that reaches to the knees,\na fact which I wish some of our Rosalinds would consider when they\ndon doublet and hose; indeed, to the disregard of this artistic\nprinciple is due the ugliness, the want of proportion, in the\nBloomer costume, a costume which in other respects is sensible.\n\n\n\nCOSTUME\n\n\n\nAre we not all weary of him, that venerable impostor fresh from the\nsteps of the Piazza di Spagna, who, in the leisure moments that he\ncan spare from his customary organ, makes the round of the studios\nand is waited for in Holland Park? Do we not all recognize him,\nwhen, with the gay insouciance of his nation, he reappears on the\nwalls of our summer exhibitions as everything that he is not, and\nas nothing that he is, glaring at us here as a patriarch of Canaan,\nhere beaming as a brigand from the Abruzzi? Popular is he, this\npoor peripatetic professor of posing, with those whose joy it is to\npaint the posthumous portrait of the last philanthropist who in his\nlifetime had neglected to be photographed,--yet he is the sign of\nthe decadence, the symbol of decay.\n\nFor all costumes are caricatures. The basis of Art is not the\nFancy Ball. Where there is loveliness of dress, there is no\ndressing up. And so, were our national attire delightful in\ncolour, and in construction simple and sincere; were dress the\nexpression of the loveliness that it shields and of the swiftness\nand motion that it does not impede; did its lines break from the\nshoulder instead of bulging from the waist; did the inverted\nwineglass cease to be the ideal of form; were these things brought\nabout, as brought about they will be, then would painting be no\nlonger an artificial reaction against the ugliness of life, but\nbecome, as it should be, the natural expression of life\'s beauty.\nNor would painting merely, but all the other arts also, be the\ngainers by a change such as that which I propose; the gainers, I\nmean, through the increased atmosphere of Beauty by which the\nartists would be surrounded and in which they would grow up. For\nArt is not to be taught in Academies. It is what one looks at, not\nwhat one listens to, that makes the artist. The real schools\nshould be the streets. There is not, for instance, a single\ndelicate line, or delightful proportion, in the dress of the\nGreeks, which is not echoed exquisitely in their architecture. A\nnation arrayed in stove-pipe hats and dress-improvers might have\nbuilt the Pantechnichon possibly, but the Parthenon never. And\nfinally, there is this to be said: Art, it is true, can never have\nany other claim but her own perfection, and it may be that the\nartist, desiring merely to contemplate and to create, is wise in\nnot busying himself about change in others: yet wisdom is not\nalways the best; there are times when she sinks to the level of\ncommon-sense; and from the passionate folly of those--and there are\nmany--who desire that Beauty shall be confined no longer to the\nbric-a-brac of the collector and the dust of the museum, but shall\nbe, as it should be, the natural and national inheritance of all,--\nfrom this noble unwisdom, I say, who knows what new loveliness\nshall be given to life, and, under these more exquisite conditions,\nwhat perfect artist born? Le milieu se renouvelant, l\'art se\nrenouvelle.\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN INVASION\n\n\n\nA terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their\nfuture and their reputation this season depend entirely on the\nsuccess of Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is\ncertain to draw; for English people are far more interested in\nAmerican barbarism than they are in American civilization. When\nthey sight Sandy Hook they look to their rifles and ammunition;\nand, after dining once at Delmonico\'s, start off for Colorado or\nCalifornia, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park. Rocky Mountains\ncharm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been known to\nprefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities of\nAmerica are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their\nlearning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather\nthan an atmosphere; their "Hub," as they call it, is the paradise\nof prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and\nbores. Political life at Washington is like political life in a\nsuburban vestry. Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia\nis dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York one\ncould not dwell there. Better the Far West with its grizzly bears\nand its untamed cowboys, its free open-air life and its free open-\nair manners, its boundless prairie and its boundless mendacity!\nThis is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to London; and we have\nno doubt that London will fully appreciate his show.\n\nWith regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered\nabsolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is\nreally no reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all\nlast June by her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not--\nto borrow an expression from her native language--make a big boom\nand paint the town red. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the\nwhole, the American invasion has done English society a great deal\nof good. American women are bright, clever, and wonderfully\ncosmopolitan. Their patriotic feelings are limited to an\nadmiration for Niagara and a regret for the Elevated Railway; and,\nunlike the men, they never bore us with Bunkers Hill. They take\ntheir dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly, and\nwear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a delightful\nconceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid\ncompliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen\neloquent. For our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they\nadore titles and are a permanent blow to Republican principles. In\nthe art of amusing men they are adepts, both by nature and\neducation, and can actually tell a story without forgetting the\npoint--an accomplishment that is extremely rare among the women of\nother countries. It is true that they lack repose and that their\nvoices are somewhat harsh and strident when they land first at\nLiverpool; but after a time one gets to love those pretty\nwhirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society\nand are so agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is\nsomething fascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and\ntheir petulant way of tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic\nnor mystery in them, but they challenge us for combat; and when we\nengage we are always worsted. Their lips seem made for laughter\nand yet they never grimace. As for their voices they soon get them\ninto tune. Some of them have been known to acquire a fashionable\ndrawl in two seasons; and after they have been presented to Royalty\nthey all roll their R\'s as vigorously as a young equerry or an old\nlady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their accent; it\nkeeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter together\nthey are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing than to\nwatch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room or\nin the Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato\ncries of wonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation\nsounds like a series of exploding crackers; they are exquisitely\nincoherent and use a sort of primitive, emotional language. After\nfive minutes they are left beautifully breathless and look at each\nother half in amusement and half in affection. If a stolid young\nEnglishman is fortunate enough to be introduced to them he is\namazed at their extraordinary vivacity, their electric quickness of\nrepartee, their inexhaustible store of curious catchwords. He\nnever really understands them, for their thoughts flutter about\nwith the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased\nand amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole,\nAmerican girls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the chief\nsecret of their charm is that they never talk seriously except\nabout amusements. They have, however, one grave fault--their\nmothers. Dreary as were those old Pilgrim Fathers who left our\nshores more than two centuries ago to found a New England beyond\nthe seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to us in the\nnineteenth century are drearier still.\n\nHere and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class\nthey are either dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the\nrising generation of America to state that they are not to blame\nfor this. Indeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their\nparents properly and to give them a suitable, if somewhat late,\neducation. From its earliest years every American child spends\nmost of its time in correcting the faults of its father and mother;\nand no one who has had the opportunity of watching an American\nfamily on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in the refined\nseclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail to have been\nstruck by this characteristic of their civilization. In America\nthe young are always ready to give to those who are older than\nthemselves the full benefits of their inexperience. A boy of only\neleven or twelve years of age will firmly but kindly point out to\nhis father his defects of manner or temper; will never weary of\nwarning him against extravagance, idleness, late hours,\nunpunctuality, and the other temptations to which the aged are so\nparticularly exposed; and sometimes, should he fancy that he is\nmonopolizing too much of the conversation at dinner, will remind\nhim, across the table, of the new child\'s adage, "Parents should be\nseen, not heard." Nor does any mistaken idea of kindness prevent\nthe little American girl from censuring her mother whenever it is\nnecessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed in the\npresence of others is more truly efficacious than one merely\nwhispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention\nof perfect strangers to her mother\'s general untidiness, her want\nof intellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water\nand green corn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the\nusages of the best Baltimore Society, bodily ailments, and the\nlike. In fact, it may be truly said that no American child is ever\nblind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter how much it may\nlove them.\n\nYet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as\nit deserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the\nchildren had to deal was crude and incapable of real development;\nbut the fact remains that the American mother is a tedious person.\nThe American father is better, for he is never seen in London. He\npasses his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his\nfamily once a month by means of a telegram in cipher. The mother,\nhowever, is always with us, and, lacking the quick imitative\nfaculty of the younger generation, remains uninteresting and\nprovincial to the last. In spite of her, however, the American\ngirl is always welcome. She brightens our dull dinner parties for\nus and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. In the race for\ncoronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she has gained\nthe victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivals\neverything, even their beauty.\n\nWarned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow\nold gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often\nsucceeds. She has exquisite feet and hands, is always bien\nchaussee et bien gantee and can talk brilliantly upon any subject,\nprovided that she knows nothing about it.\n\nHer sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy of a grande passion,\nand, as there is neither romance nor humility in her love, she\nmakes an excellent wife. What her ultimate influence on English\nlife will be it is difficult to estimate at present; but there can\nbe no doubt that, of all the factors that have contributed to the\nsocial revolution of London, there are few more important, and none\nmore delightful, than the American Invasion.\n\n\n\nSERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY\nTHE NEW SCULPTURE ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM\n\n\n\nThrough the exertions of Sir Charles Newton, to whom every student\nof classic art should be grateful, some of the wonderful treasures\nso long immured in the grimy vaults of the British Museum have at\nlast been brought to light, and the new Sculpture Room now opened\nto the public will amply repay the trouble of a visit, even from\nthose to whom art is a stumbling-block and a rock of offence. For\nsetting aside the mere beauty of form, outline and mass, the grace\nand loveliness of design and the delicacy of technical treatment,\nhere we have shown to us what the Greeks and Romans thought about\ndeath; and the philosopher, the preacher, the practical man of the\nworld, and even the Philistine himself, cannot fail to be touched\nby these "sermons in stones," with their deep significance, their\nfertile suggestion, their plain humanity. Common tombstones they\nare, most of them, the work not of famous artists but of simple\nhandicraftsmen, only they were wrought in days when every\nhandicraft was an art. The finest specimens, from the purely\nartistic point of view, are undoubtedly the two stelai found at\nAthens. They are both the tombstones of young Greek athletes. In\none the athlete is represented handing his strigil to his slave, in\nthe other the athlete stands alone, strigil in hand. They do not\nbelong to the greatest period of Greek art, they have not the grand\nstyle of the Phidian age, but they are beautiful for all that, and\nit is impossible not to be fascinated by their exquisite grace and\nby the treatment which is so simple in its means, so subtle in its\neffect. All the tombstones, however, are full of interest. Here\nis one of two ladies of Smyrna who were so remarkable in their day\nthat the city voted them honorary crowns; here is a Greek doctor\nexamining a little boy who is suffering from indigestion; here is\nthe memorial of Xanthippus who, probably, was a martyr to gout, as\nhe is holding in his hand the model of a foot, intended, no doubt,\nas a votive offering to some god. A lovely stele from Rhodes gives\nus a family group. The husband is on horseback and is bidding\nfarewell to his wife, who seems as if she would follow him but is\nbeing held back by a little child. The pathos of parting from\nthose we love is the central motive of Greek funeral art. It is\nrepeated in every possible form, and each mute marble stone seems\nto murmur [Greek text]. Roman art is different. It introduces\nvigorous and realistic portraiture and deals with pure family life\nfar more frequently than Greek art does. They are very ugly, those\nstern-looking Roman men and women whose portraits are exhibited on\ntheir tombs, but they seem to have been loved and respected by\ntheir children and their servants. Here is the monument of\nAphrodisius and Atilia, a Roman gentleman and his wife, who died in\nBritain many centuries ago, and whose tombstone was found in the\nThames; and close by it stands a stele from Rome with the busts of\nan old married couple who are certainly marvellously ill-favoured.\nThe contrast between the abstract Greek treatment of the idea of\ndeath and the Roman concrete realization of the individuals who\nhave died is extremely curious.\n\nBesides the tombstones, the new Sculpture Room contains some most\nfascinating examples of Roman decorative art under the Emperors.\nThe most wonderful of all, and this alone is worth a trip to\nBloomsbury, is a bas-relief representing a marriage scene, Juno\nPronuba is joining the hands of a handsome young noble and a very\nstately lady. There is all the grace of Perugino in this marble,\nall the grace of Raphael even. The date of it is uncertain, but\nthe particular cut of the bridegroom\'s beard seems to point to the\ntime of the Emperor Hadrian. It is clearly the work of Greek\nartists and is one of the most beautiful bas-reliefs in the whole\nMuseum. There is something in it which reminds one of the music\nand the sweetness of Propertian verse. Then we have delightful\nfriezes of children. One representing children playing on musical\ninstruments might have suggested much of the plastic art of\nFlorence. Indeed, as we view these marbles it is not difficult to\nsee whence the Renaissance sprang and to what we owe the various\nforms of Renaissance art. The frieze of the Muses, each of whom\nwears in her hair a feather plucked from the wings of the\nvanquished sirens, is extremely fine; there is a lovely little bas-\nrelief of two cupids racing in chariots; and the frieze of\nrecumbent Amazons has some splendid qualities of design. A frieze\nof children playing with the armour of the god Mars should also be\nmentioned. It is full of fancy and delicate humour.\n\n We hope that some more of the hidden treasures will shortly be\ncatalogued and shown. In the vaults at present there is a very\nremarkable bas-relief of the marriage of Cupid and Psyche, and\nanother representing the professional mourners weeping over the\nbody of the dead. The fine cast of the Lion of Chaeronea should\nalso be brought up, and so should the stele with the marvellous\nportrait of the Roman slave. Economy is an excellent public\nvirtue, but the parsimony that allows valuable works of art to\nremain in the grim and gloom of a damp cellar is little short of a\ndetestable public vice.\n\n\n\nL\'ENVOI\n\n\n\nAmongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me\nto continue and to perfect the English Renaissance--jeunes\nguerriers du drapeau romantique, as Gautier would have called us--\nthere is none whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose\nartistic sense of beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none,\nindeed, who is dearer to myself--than the young poet whose verses I\nhave brought with me to America; verses full of sweet sadness, and\nyet full of joy; for the most joyous poet is not he who sows the\ndesolate highways of this world with the barren seed of laughter,\nbut he who makes his sorrow most musical, this indeed being the\nmeaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element of artistic\ndelight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what Keats\ncalled "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the\nsinging, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which\noften has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to\nbe sought for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm\nonly--the scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty\nof the design: so that the ultimate expression of our artistic\nmovement in painting has been, not in the spiritual vision of the\nPre-Raphaelites, for all their marvel of Greek legend and their\nmystery of Italian song, but in the work of such men as Whistler\nand Albert Moore, who have raised design and colour to the ideal\nlevel of poetry and music. For the quality of their exquisite\npainting comes from the mere inventive and creative handling of\nline and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful\nworkmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all\nmetaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the\naesthetic sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the\neffect of their work being like the effect given to us by music;\nfor music is the art in which form and matter are always one--the\nart whose subject cannot be separated from the method of its\nexpression; the art which most completely realizes for us the\nartistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts\nare constantly aspiring.\n\nNow, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of\nbeautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance\nof the sensuous element in art, this love of art for art\'s sake, is\nthe point in which we of the younger school have made a departure\nfrom the teaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and\ndifferent and decisive.\n\nMaster indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the\nwisdom of all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that\nit was he who by the magic of his presence and the music of his\nlips taught us at Oxford that enthusiasm for beauty which is the\nsecret of Hellenism, and that desire for creation which is the\nsecret of life, and filled some of us, at least, with the lofty and\npassionate ambition to go forth into far and fair lands with some\nmessage for the nations and some mission for the world, and yet in\nhis art criticism, his estimate of the joyous element of art, his\nwhole method of approaching art, we are no longer with him; for the\nkeystone to his aesthetic system is ethical always. He would judge\nof a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it expresses; but\nto us the channels by which all noble work in painting can touch,\nand does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or\nmetaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but\nthe symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the\nimage of an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of\nform its complete expression, or of love too simple not to stammer\nin its tale. But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals.\nIn an ethical system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions\nwill, one is fain to fancy, have their recognition; but of those\nthat would enter the serene House of Beauty the question that we\nask is not what they had ever meant to do, but what they have done.\nTheir pathetic intentions are of no value to us, but their realized\ncreations only. Pour moi je prefere les poetes qui font des vers,\nles medecins qui sachent guerir, les peintres qui sanchent peindre.\n\nNor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it\nsymbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the\ntranscendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The\nmetaphysical mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and\nmany-breasted idol, but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is\nmost instinct with spiritual life which conforms most closely to\nthe perfect facts of physical life also. Nor, in its primary\naspect, has a painting, for instance, any more spiritual message or\nmeaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of Damascus, or a\nHitzen vase. It is a beautifully coloured surface, nothing more,\nand affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no pathos\npilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by\nits own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth\nwhich we call style, and that relation of values which is the\ndraughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the\nworkmanship, the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the\ncolour, for these things are enough to stir the most divine and\nremote of the chords which make music in our soul, and colour,\nindeed, is of itself a mystical presence on things, and tone a kind\nof sentiment . . . all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a\npurely artistic effect, and have the rare and exquisite quality\nthat belongs to work of that kind; and I feel that the entire\nsubordination in our aesthetic movement of all merely emotional and\nintellectual motives to the vital informing poetic principle is the\nsurest sign of our strength.\n\nBut it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the\naesthetic demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it\nis to give us any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct\nindividuality. Whatever work we have in the nineteenth century\nmust rest on the two poles of personality and perfection. And so\nin this little volume, by separating the earlier and more simple\nwork from the work that is later and stronger and possesses\nincreased technical power and more artistic vision, one might weave\nthese disconnected poems, these stray and scattered threads, into\none fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first a boy\'s mere\ngladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field and\nflower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden\nsorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful\nfriendships of one\'s youth, with all those unanswered lodgings and\nquestionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble\nface of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented\nincompleteness of the spirit and the complete perfection of the\nstyle that expresses it forming the chief element of the aesthetic\ncharm of these particular poems;--and then the birth of Love, and\nall the wonder and the fear and the perilous delight of one on\nwhose boyish brows the little wings of love have beaten for the\nfirst time; and the love-songs, so dainty and delicate, little\nswallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance and freedom\nthat they might all be sung in the open air and across moving\nwater; and then autumn, coming with its choirless woods and odorous\ndecay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of the\nmere pity of it.\n\nOne might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no\ndeeper chords of life than those that love and friendship make\neternal for us; and the best poems in the volume belong clearly to\na later time, a time when these real experiences become absorbed\nand gathered up into a form which seems from such real experiences\nto be the most alien and the most remote; when the simple\nexpression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer, and lives rather in\nthe stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music and colour of\nthe linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one might\nsay, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the\nfeeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of\nlove in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange\npeople, and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically\nto heal the hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate\ndevotion to Art which one gets when the harsh reality of life has\ntoo suddenly wounded one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring\none\'s youth, just as often, I think, as one gets it from any\nnatural joy of living; and that curious intensity of vision by\nwhich, in moments of overmastering sadness and despair\nungovernable, artistic things will live in one\'s memory with a\nvivid realism caught from the life which they help one to forget--\nan old grey tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making\none think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death; a\nnecklace of blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a\ngirl\'s grave at Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Eros,\nand with the pathetic tradition of a great king\'s sorrow lingering\nabout it like a purple shadow,--over all these the tired spirit\nbroods with that calm and certain joy that one gets when one has\nfound something that the ages never dull and the world cannot harm;\nand with it comes that desire of Greek things which is often an\nartistic method of expressing one\'s desire for perfection; and that\nlonging for the old dead days which is so modern, so incomplete, so\ntouching, being, in a way, the inverted torch of Hope, which burns\nthe hand it should guide; and for many things a little sadness, and\nfor all things a great love; and lastly, in the pinewood by the\nsea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous youth leaping\nand laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom of wave\nand wind waking into fire life\'s burnt-out ashes and into song the\nsilent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long\ncolonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like\na flitting of silver; the open place in the green, deep heart of\nthe wood with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in\nit; and the flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and\nthe stars of the white narcissus lying like snow-flakes over the\ngrass, where the quick, bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and\nthe snake lies coiled lazily in the sun on the hot sand, and\noverhead the gossamer floats from the branches like thin, tremulous\nthreads of gold,--the scene is so perfect for its motive, for\nsurely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life might be\nrevealed to one\'s youth--the gladness that comes, not from the\nrejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like\nthat serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and\nwhich despair and sorrow cannot touch, but intensify only.\n\nIn some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and\nscattered petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet,\nperhaps, in so doing, we might be missing the true quality of the\npoems; one\'s real life is so often the life that one does not lead;\nand beautiful poems, like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven\ninto many patterns and to suit many designs, all wonderful and all\ndifferent: and romantic poetry, too, is essentially the poetry of\nimpressions, being like that latest school of painting, the school\nof Whistler and Albert Moore, in its choice of situation as opposed\nto subject; in its dealing with the exceptions rather than with the\ntypes of life; in its brief intensity; in what one might call its\nfiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed the momentary\nsituations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which poetry\nand painting new seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy\nwill the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is\nmerely that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or\na painting, however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but\nwasted and unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be\nto any definite rule or system of living, but to that principle of\nbeauty only through which the inconstant shadows of his life are in\ntheir most fleeting moment arrested and made permanent. He will\nnot, for instance, in intellectual matters acquiesce in that facile\northodoxy of our day which is so reasonable and so artistically\nuninteresting, nor yet will he desire that fiery faith of the\nantique time which, while it intensified, yet limited the vision;\nstill less will he allow the calm of his culture to be marred by\nthe discordant despair of doubt or the sadness of a sterile\nscepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant armies clash by\nnight, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods have\nassigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit air,--\nrather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,\ntinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some\nbeautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for\nthe fruits of experience; when he has got its secret, he will leave\nwithout regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am\nalways insincere," says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there\nare other moods": "Les emotions," wrote Theophile Gautier once in\na review of Arsene Houssaye, "Les emotions, ne se ressemblent pas,\nmais etre emu--voila l\'important."\n\nNow, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school,\nand gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real\nquality of all work which, like Mr. Rodd\'s, aims, as I said, at a\npurely artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of\nintellectual criticism; it is too intangible for that. One can\nperhaps convey it best in terms of the other arts, and by reference\nto them; and, indeed, some of these poems are as iridescent and as\nexquisite as a lovely fragment of Venetian glass; others as\ndelicate in perfect workmanship and as single in natural motive as\nan etching by Whistler is, or one of those beautiful little Greek\nfigures which in the olive woods round Tanagra men can still find,\nwith the faint gilding and the fading crimson not yet fled from\nhair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one of\nCorot\'s twilights just passing into music; for not merely in\nvisible colour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of\npoetry--may there be a kind of tone.\n\nBut I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young\npoet\'s work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were\nstaying once, he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its\ngrey slate roofs and steep streets and gaunt, grim gateway, where\nthe quiet cottages nestle like white pigeons into the sombre clefts\nof the great bastioned rock, and the stately Renaissance houses\nstand silent and apart--very desolate now, but with some memory of\nthe old days still lingering about the delicately-twisted pillars,\nand the carved doorways, with their grotesque animals, and laughing\nmasks, and quaint heraldic devices, all reminding one of a people\nwho could not think life real till they had made it fantastic. And\nabove the village, and beyond the bend of the river, we used to go\nin the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big barges that bring\nthe wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the sea, or lie\nin the long grass and make plans pour la gloire, et pour ennuyer\nles Philistins, or wander along the low, sedgy banks, "matching our\nreeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian\ndays; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare, too, when\none thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the\nhillsides by Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its\npurple every valley from Florence to Rome; for there was not much\nreal beauty, perhaps, in it, only long, white dusty roads and\nstraight rows of formal poplars; but, now and then, some little\nbreaking gleam of broken light would lend to the grey field and the\nsilent barn a secret and a mystery that were hardly their own,\nwould transfigure for one exquisite moment the peasants passing\ndown through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on the hill,\nwould tip the willows with silver and touch the river into gold;\nand the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the\nmaterial, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of\nthese the verses of my friend.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg\'s Etext of Shorter Prose Pieces by Oscar Wilde\n',
'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Children in Prison and Other Cruelties of\nPrison Life, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license\n\n\nTitle: Children in Prison and Other Cruelties of Prison Life\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #42104]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN IN PRISON ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Dianna Adair, Paul Clark and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Transcriber\'s Note:\n\n Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as\n possible. Some changes of spelling have been made. They are listed\n at the end of the text.\n\n OE ligatures have been expanded.\n Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.\n\n\n\n\n CHILDREN IN PRISON\n AND\n OTHER CRUELTIES\n OF\n PRISON LIFE.\n\n MURDOCH & CO.,\n 26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n LONDON.\n\n\n\n\nPUBLISHERS\' NOTE.\n\n\nThe circumstance which called forth this letter is a woeful one for\nChristian England. Martin, the Reading warder, is found guilty of\nfeeding the hungry, nursing the sick, of being kindly and humane. These\nare his offences in plain unofficial language.\n\nThis pamphlet is tendered to earnest persons as evidence that the prison\nsystem is opposed to all that is kind and helpful. Herein is shown a\nprocess that is dehumanizing, not only to the prisoners, but to every\none connected with it.\n\nMartin was dismissed. It happened in May last year. He is still out of\nemployment and in poor circumstances. Can anyone help him?\n\n _February, 1898._\n\n\n\n\nSOME CRUELTIES OF PRISON LIFE.\n\n\n THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.\n\nSIR,--I learn with great regret, through an extract from the columns of\nyour paper, that the warder Martin, of Reading Prison, has been\ndismissed by the Prison Commissioners for having given some sweet\nbiscuits to a little hungry child. I saw the three children myself on\nthe Monday preceding my release. They had just been convicted, and were\nstanding in a row in the central hall in their prison dress, carrying\ntheir sheets under the arms previous to their being sent to the cells\nallotted to them. I happened to be passing along one of the galleries on\nmy way to the reception room, where I was to have an interview with a\nfriend. They were quite small children, the youngest--the one to whom\nthe warder gave the biscuits--being a tiny little chap, for whom they\nhad evidently been unable to find clothes small enough to fit. I had, of\ncourse, seen many children in prison during the two years during which I\nwas myself confined. Wandsworth Prison, especially, contained always a\nlarge number of children. But the little child I saw on the afternoon of\nMonday, the 17th, at Reading, was tinier than any one of them. I need\nnot say how utterly distressed I was to see these children at Reading,\nfor I knew the treatment in store for them. The cruelty that is\npractised by day and night on children in English prisons is incredible,\nexcept to those who have witnessed it and are aware of the brutality of\nthe system.\n\nPeople nowadays do not understand what cruelty is. They regard it as a\nsort of terrible mediæval passion, and connect it with the race of men\nlike Eccelin da Romano, and others, to whom the deliberate infliction of\npain gave a real madness of pleasure. But men of the stamp of Eccelin\nare merely abnormal types of perverted individualism. Ordinary cruelty\nis simply stupidity. It comes from the entire want of imagination. It is\nthe result in our days of stereotyped systems, of hard-and-fast rules,\nof centralisation, of officialism, and of irresponsible authority.\nWherever there is centralisation there is stupidity. What is inhuman in\nmodern life is officialism. Authority is as destructive to those who\nexercise it as it is to those on whom it is exercised. It is the Prison\nBoard, with the system that it carries out, that is the primary source\nof the cruelty that is exercised on a child in prison. The people who\nuphold the system have excellent intentions. Those who carry it out are\nhumane in intention also. Responsibility is shifted on to the\ndisciplinary regulations. It is supposed that because a thing is the\nrule it is right.\n\nThe present treatment of children is terrible, primarily from people not\nunderstanding the peculiar psychology of a child\'s nature. A child can\nunderstand a punishment inflicted by an individual, such as a parent or\nguardian, and bear it with a certain amount of acquiescence. What it\ncannot understand is a punishment inflicted by Society. It cannot\nrealise what Society is. With grown people it is, of course, the\nreverse. Those of us who are either in prison or have been sent there,\ncan understand, and do understand, what that collective force called\nSociety means, and whatever we may think of its methods or claims, we\ncan force ourselves to accept it. Punishment inflicted on us by an\nindividual, on the other hand, is a thing that no grown person endures\nor is expected to endure.\n\nThe child consequently, being taken away from its parents by people whom\nit has never seen, and of whom it knows nothing, and finding itself in\na lonely and unfamiliar cell, waited on by strange faces, and ordered\nabout and punished by the representatives of a system that it cannot\nunderstand, becomes an immediate prey to the first and most prominent\nemotion produced by modern prison life--the emotion of terror. The\nterror of a child in prison is quite limitless. I remember once in\nReading, as I was going out to exercise, seeing in the dimly-lit cell,\nright opposite my own, a small boy. Two warders, not unkindly men, were\ntalking to him, with some sternness apparently, or perhaps giving him\nsome useful advice about his conduct. One was in the cell with him, the\nother was standing outside. The child\'s face was like a white wedge of\nsheer terror. There was in his eyes the mute appeal of a hunted animal.\nThe next morning I heard him at breakfast-time crying, and calling to be\nlet out. His cry was for his parents. From time to time I could hear the\ndeep voice of the warder on duty warning him to keep quiet. Yet he was\nnot even convicted of whatever little offence he had been charged with.\nHe was simply on remand. That I knew by his wearing his own clothes,\nwhich seemed neat enough. He was, however, wearing prison socks and\nshoes. This showed that he was a very poor boy, whose own shoes, if he\nhad any, were in a bad state. Justices and magistrates, an entirely\nignorant class as a rule, often remand children for a week, and then\nperhaps remit whatever sentence they are entitled to pass. They call\nthis "not sending a child to prison." It is, of course, a stupid view on\ntheir part. To a little child, whether he is in prison on remand or\nafter conviction, is a subtlety of social position he cannot comprehend.\nTo him the horrible thing is to be there at all. In the eyes of humanity\nit should be a horrible thing for him to be there at all.\n\nThis terror that seizes and dominates the child, as it seizes the grown\nman also, is of course intensified beyond power of expression by the\nsolitary cellular system of our prisons. Every child is confined to its\ncell for twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four. This is the\nappalling thing. To shut up a child in a dimly-lit cell for twenty-three\nhours out of the twenty-four is an example of the cruelty of stupidity.\nIf an individual, parent or guardian, did this to a child he would be\nseverely punished. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children\nwould take the matter up at once. There would be on all hands the utmost\ndetestation of whomsoever had been guilty of such cruelty. A heavy\nsentence would undoubtedly follow conviction. But our own actual society\ndoes worse itself, and to the child to be so treated by a strange\nabstract force, of whose claims it has no cognizance, is much worse than\nit would be to receive the same treatment from its father or mother, or\nsomeone it knew. The inhuman treatment of a child is always inhuman, by\nwhomsoever it is inflicted. But inhuman treatment by Society is to the\nchild the more terrible because there is no appeal. A parent or guardian\ncan be moved, and let out the child from the dark lonely room in which\nit is confined. But a warder cannot. Most warders are very fond of\nchildren. But the system prohibits them from rendering the child any\nassistance. Should they do so, as Warder Martin did, they are dismissed.\n\nThe second thing from which a child suffers in prison is hunger. The\nfood that is given to it consists of a piece of usually badly-baked\nprison bread and a tin of water for breakfast at half-past seven. At\ntwelve o\'clock it gets dinner, composed of a tin of coarse Indian meal\nstirabout, and at half-past five it gets a piece of dry bread and a tin\nof water for its supper. This diet in the case of a strong grown man is\nalways productive of illness of some kind, chiefly of course\ndiarrhoea, with its attendant weakness. In fact in a big prison\nastringent medicines are served out regularly by the warders as a matter\nof course. In the case of a child, the child is, as a rule, incapable of\neating the food at all. Anyone who knows anything about children knows\nhow easily a child\'s digestion is upset by a fit of crying, or trouble\nand mental distress of any kind. A child who has been crying all day\nlong, and perhaps half the night, in a lonely dimly-lit cell, and is\npreyed upon by terror, simply cannot eat food of this coarse, horrible\nkind. In the case of the little child to whom Warder Martin gave the\nbiscuits, the child was crying with hunger on Tuesday morning, and\nutterly unable to eat the bread and water served to it for its\nbreakfast. Martin went out after the breakfasts had been served and\nbought the few sweet biscuits for the child rather than see it starving.\nIt was a beautiful action on his part, and was so recognised by the\nchild, who, utterly unconscious of the regulation of the Prison Board,\ntold one of the senior warders how kind this junior warder had been to\nhim. The result was, of course, a report and a dismissal.\n\nI know Martin extremely well, and I was under his charge for the last\nseven weeks of my imprisonment. On his appointment at Reading he had\ncharge of Gallery C, in which I was confined, so I saw him constantly. I\nwas struck by the singular kindness and humanity of the way in which he\nspoke to me and to the other prisoners. Kind words are much in prison,\nand a pleasant "Good morning" or "Good evening" will make one as happy\nas one can be in solitary confinement. He was always gentle and\nconsiderate. I happen to know another case in which he showed great\nkindness to one of the prisoners, and I have no hesitation in mentioning\nit. One of the most horrible things in prison is the badness of the\nsanitary arrangements. No prisoner is allowed under any circumstances to\nleave his cell after half-past five p.m. If, consequently, he is\nsuffering from diarrhoea, he has to use his cell as a latrine, and\npass the night in a most fetid and unwholesome atmosphere. Some days\nbefore my release Martin was going the rounds at half-past seven with\none of the senior warders for the purpose of collecting the oakum and\ntools of the prisoners. A man just convicted, and suffering from\nviolent diarrhoea in consequence of the food, as is always the case,\nasked this senior warder to allow him to empty the slops in his cell on\naccount of the horrible odour of the cell and the possibility of illness\nagain in the night. The senior warder refused absolutely; it was against\nthe rules. The man, as far as he was concerned, had to pass the night in\nthis dreadful condition. Martin, however, rather than see this wretched\nman in such a loathsome predicament, said he would empty the man\'s slops\nhimself, and did so. A warder emptying a prisoner\'s slops is, of course,\nagainst the rules, but Martin did this act of kindness to the man out of\nthe simple humanity of his nature, and the man was naturally most\ngrateful.\n\nAs regards the children, a great deal has been talked and written lately\nabout the contaminating influence of prison on young children. What is\nsaid is quite true. A child is utterly contaminated by prison life. But\nthe contaminating influence is not that of the prisoners. It is that of\nthe whole prison system--of the governor, the chaplain, the warders, the\nlonely cell, the isolation, the revolting food, the rules of the Prison\nCommissioners, the mode of discipline as it is termed, of the life.\nEvery care is taken to isolate a child from the sight even of all\nprisoners over sixteen years of age. Children sit behind a curtain in\nchapel, and are sent to take exercise in small sunless yards--sometimes\na stone-yard, sometimes a yard at the back of the mills--rather than\nthat they should see the elder prisoners at exercise. But the only\nreally humanising influence in prison is the influence of the prisoners.\nTheir cheerfulness under terrible circumstances, their sympathy for each\nother, their humility, their gentleness, their pleasant smiles of\ngreeting when they meet each other, their complete acquiescence in their\npunishments, are all quite wonderful, and I myself learnt many sound\nlessons from them. I am not proposing that the children should not sit\nbehind a curtain in chapel, or that they should take exercise in a\ncorner of the common yard. I am merely pointing out that the bad\ninfluence on children is not, and could never be, that of the prisoners,\nbut is, and will always remain, that of the prison system itself. There\nis not a single man in Reading Gaol that would not gladly have done the\nthree children\'s punishment for them. When I saw them last it was on the\nTuesday following their conviction. I was taking exercise at half-past\neleven with about twelve other men, as the three children passed near\nus, in charge of a warder, from the damp, dreary stone-yard in which\nthey had been at their exercise. I saw the greatest pity and sympathy in\nthe eyes of my companions as they looked at them. Prisoners are, as a\nclass, extremely kind and sympathetic to each other. Suffering and the\ncommunity of suffering makes people kind, and day after day as I tramped\nthe yard I used to feel with pleasure and comfort what Carlyle calls\nsomewhere "the silent rhythmic charm of human companionship." In this as\nin all other things, philanthropists and people of that kind are astray.\nIt is not the prisoners who need reformation. It is the prisons.\n\nOf course no child under fourteen years of age should be sent to prison\nat all. It is an absurdity, and, like many absurdities, of absolutely\ntragic results. If, however, they are to be sent to prison, during the\ndaytime they should be in a workshop or schoolroom with a warder. At\nnight they should sleep in a dormitory, with a night-warder to look\nafter them. They should be allowed exercise for at least three hours a\nday. The dark, badly-ventilated, ill-smelling prison cells are dreadful\nfor a child, dreadful indeed for anyone. One is always breathing bad air\nin prison. The food given to children should consist of tea and\nbread-and-butter and soup. Prison soup is very good and wholesome. A\nresolution of the House of Commons could settle the treatment of\nchildren in half an hour. I hope you will use your influence to have\nthis done. The way that children are treated at present is really an\noutrage on humanity and common-sense. It comes from stupidity.\n\nLet me draw attention now to another terrible thing that goes on in\nEnglish prisons, indeed in prisons all over the world where the system\nof silence and cellular confinement is practised. I refer to the large\nnumber of men who become insane or weak-minded in prison. In convict\nprisons this is, of course, quite common; but in ordinary gaols also,\nsuch as that I was confined in, it is to be found.\n\nAbout three months ago, I noticed amongst the prisoners who took\nexercise with me a young man who seemed to me to be silly or\nhalf-witted. Every prison of course has its half-witted clients, who\nreturn again and again, and may be said to live in the prison. But this\nyoung man struck me as being more than usually half-witted on account of\nhis silly grin and idiotic laughter to himself, and the peculiar\nrestlessness of his eternally twitching hands. He was noticed by all the\nother prisoners on account of the strangeness of his conduct. From time\nto time he did not appear at exercise, which showed me that he was being\npunished by confinement to his cell. Finally, I discovered that he was\nunder observation, and being watched night and day by warders. When he\ndid appear at exercise, he always seemed hysterical, and used to walk\nround crying or laughing. At chapel he had to sit right under the\nobservation of two warders, who carefully watched him all the time.\nSometimes he would bury his head in his hands, an offence against the\nchapel regulations, and his head would be immediately struck up by a\nwarder, so that he should keep his eyes fixed permanently in the\ndirection of the Communion-table. Sometimes he would cry--not making any\ndisturbance--but with tears streaming down his face and a hysterical\nthrobbing in the throat. Sometimes he would grin idiot-like to himself\nand make faces. He was on more than one occasion sent out of chapel to\nhis cell, and of course he was continually punished. As the bench on\nwhich I used to sit in chapel was directly behind the bench at the end\nof which this unfortunate man was placed, I had full opportunity of\nobserving him. I also saw him, of course, at exercise continually, and I\nsaw that he was becoming insane, and was being treated as if he was\nshamming.\n\nOn Saturday week last, I was in my cell at about one o\'clock occupied in\ncleaning and polishing the tins I had been using for dinner. Suddenly I\nwas startled by the prison silence being broken by the most horrible and\nrevolting shrieks or rather howls, for at first I thought some animal\nlike a bull or a cow was being unskilfully slaughtered outside the\nprison walls. I soon realised, however, that the howls proceeded from\nthe basement of the prison, and I knew that some wretched man was being\nflogged. I need not say how hideous and terrible it was for me, and I\nbegan to wonder who it was who was being punished in this revolting\nmanner. Suddenly it dawned upon me that they might be flogging this\nunfortunate lunatic. My feelings on the subject need not be chronicled;\nthey have nothing to do with the question.\n\nThe next day, Sunday 16th, I saw the poor fellow at exercise, his weak,\nugly, wretched face bloated by tears and hysteria almost beyond\nrecognition. He walked in the centre ring along with the old men, the\nbeggars and the lame people, so that I was able to observe him the whole\ntime. It was my last Sunday in prison, a perfectly lovely day, the\nfinest day we had had the whole year, and there, in the beautiful\nsunlight, walked this poor creature--made once in the image of\nGod--grinning like an ape, and making with his hands the most fantastic\ngestures, as though he was playing in the air on some invisible stringed\ninstrument, or arranging and dealing counters in some curious game. All\nthe while these hysterical tears, without which none of us ever saw\nhim, were making soiled runnels on his white swollen face. The hideous\nand deliberate grace of his gestures made him like an antic. He was a\nliving grotesque. The other prisoners all watched him, and not one of\nthem smiled. Everybody knew what had happened to him, and that he was\nbeing driven insane--was insane already. After half-an-hour, he was\nordered in by the warder, and, I suppose, punished. At least he was not\nat exercise on Monday, though I think I caught sight of him at the\ncorner of the stone-yard, walking in charge of a warder.\n\nOn the Tuesday--my last day in prison--I saw him at exercise. He was\nworse than before, and again was sent in. Since then I know nothing of\nhim, but I found out from one of the prisoners who walked with me at\nexercise that he had had twenty-four lashes in the cook-house on\nSaturday afternoon, by order of the visiting justices on the report of\nthe doctor. The howls that had horrified us all were his.\n\nThis man is undoubtedly becoming insane. Prison doctors have no\nknowledge of mental disease of any kind. They are as a class ignorant\nmen. The pathology of the mind is unknown to them. When a man grows\ninsane, they treat him as shamming. They have him punished again and\nagain. Naturally the man becomes worse. When ordinary punishments are\nexhausted, the doctor reports the case to the justices. The result is\nflogging. Of course the flogging is not done with a cat-of-nine-tails.\nIt is what is called birching. The instrument is a rod; but the result\non the wretched half-witted man may be imagined.\n\nHis number is, or was, A. 2. 11. I also managed to find out his name. It\nis Prince. Something should be done at once for him. He is a soldier,\nand his sentence is one of court-martial. The term is six months. Three\nhave yet to run.\n\nMay I ask you to use your influence to have this case examined into, and\nto see that the lunatic prisoner is properly treated?\n\nNo report by the Medical Commissioners is of any avail. It is not to be\ntrusted. The medical inspectors do not seem to understand the difference\nbetween idiocy and lunacy--between the entire absence of a function or\norgan and the diseases of a function or organ. This man A. 2. 11, will,\nI have no doubt, be able to tell his name, the nature of his offence,\nthe day of the month, the date of the beginning and expiration of his\nsentence, and answer any ordinary simple question; but that his mind is\ndiseased admits of no doubt. At present it is a horrible duel between\nhimself and the doctor. The doctor is fighting for a theory. The man is\nfighting for his life. I am anxious that the man should win. But let the\nwhole case be examined into by experts who understand brain-disease, and\nby people of humane feelings who have still some common-sense and some\npity. There is no reason that the sentimentalist should be asked to\ninterfere. He always does harm. He culminates at his starting point. His\nend, as his origin, is an emotion.\n\nThe case is a special instance of the cruelty inseparable from a stupid\nsystem, for the present Governor of Reading is a man of gentle and\nhumane character, greatly liked and respected by all the prisoners. He\nwas appointed in July last, and though he cannot alter the rules of the\nprison system, he has altered the spirit in which they used to be\ncarried out under his predecessor. He is very popular with the prisoners\nand with the warders. Indeed he has quite elevated the whole tone of the\nprison-life. Upon the other hand, the system is of course beyond his\nreach as far as altering its rules is concerned. I have no doubt that he\nsees daily much of what he knows to be unjust, stupid, and cruel. But\nhis hands are tied. Of course I have no knowledge of his real views of\nthe case of A. 2. 11, nor, indeed, of any of his views on our present\nsystem. I merely judge him by the complete change he brought about in\nReading Prison. Under his predecessor the system was carried out with\nthe greatest harshness and stupidity.--I remain, Sir, your obedient\nservant,\n\n OSCAR WILDE.\n\nFrance, May 27th, 1897.\n\n\n\n\n Transcriber\'s notes:\n\n The following is a list of changes made to the original.\n The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.\n\n whom Warder Martin gave the buscuits, the child was\n whom Warder Martin gave the biscuits, the child was\n\n sight of him at the corner of the stoneyard, walking in\n sight of him at the corner of the stone-yard, walking in\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Children in Prison and Other Cruelties\nof Prison Life, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN IN PRISON ***\n\n***** This file should be named 42104-8.txt or 42104-8.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/1/0/42104/\n\nProduced by Dianna Adair, Paul Clark and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Reviews, by Oscar Wilde, Edited by Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Reviews\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: December 2, 2004 [eBook #14240]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVIEWS***\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1908 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@coventry.ac.uk\n\n\n\n\n\nREVIEWS\n\n\nTo Mrs. CAREW\n\nThe apparently endless difficulties against which I have contended, and\nam contending, in the management of Oscar Wilde\'s literary and dramatic\nproperty have brought me many valued friends; but only one friendship\nwhich seemed as endless; one friend\'s kindness which seemed to annul the\ndisappointments of eight years. That is why I venture to place your name\non this volume with the assurance of the author himself who bequeathed to\nme his works and something of his indiscretion.\n\nROBERT ROSS\n\nMay 12th, 1908.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe editor of writings by any author not long deceased is censured sooner\nor later for his errors of omission or commission. I have decided to err\non the side of commission and to include in the uniform edition of\nWilde\'s works everything that could be identified as genuine. Wilde\'s\nliterary reputation has survived so much that I think it proof against\nany exhumation of articles which he or his admirers would have preferred\nto forget. As a matter of fact, I believe this volume will prove of\nunusual interest; some of the reviews are curiously prophetic; some are,\nof course, biassed by prejudice hostile or friendly; others are conceived\nin the author\'s wittiest and happiest vein; only a few are colourless.\nAnd if, according to Lord Beaconsfield, the verdict of a continental\nnation may be regarded as that of posterity, Wilde is a much greater\nforce in our literature than even friendly contemporaries ever supposed\nhe would become.\n\nIt should be remembered, however, that at the time when most of these\nreviews were written Wilde had published scarcely any of the works by\nwhich his name has become famous in Europe, though the protagonist of the\naesthetic movement was a well-known figure in Paris and London. Later he\nwas recognised--it would be truer to say he was ignored--as a young man\nwho had never fulfilled the high promise of a distinguished university\ncareer although his volume of Poems had reached its fifth edition, an\nunusual event in those days. He had alienated a great many of his Oxford\ncontemporaries by his extravagant manner of dress and his methods of\ncourting publicity. The great men of the previous generation, Wilde\'s\nintellectual peers, with whom he was in artistic sympathy, looked on him\naskance. Ruskin was disappointed with his former pupil, and Pater did\nnot hesitate to express disapprobation to private friends; while he\naccepted incense from a disciple, he distrusted the thurifer.\n\nFrom a large private correspondence in my possession I gather that it\nwas, oddly enough, in political and social centres that Wilde\'s amazing\npowers were rightly appreciated and where he was welcomed as the most\nbrilliant of living talkers. Before he had published anything except his\nPoems, the literary dovecots regarded him with dislike, and when he began\nto publish essays and fairy stories, the attitude was not changed; it was\nmerely emphasised in the public press. His first dramatic success at the\nSt. James\'s Theatre gave Wilde, of course, a different position, and the\ndislike became qualified with envy. Some of the younger men indeed were\ndazzled, but with few exceptions their appreciation was expressed in an\nunfortunate manner. It is a consolation or a misfortune that the wrong\nkind of people are too often correct in their prognostications of the\nfuture; the far-seeing are also the foolish.\n\nFrom these reviews which illustrate the middle period of Wilde\'s meteoric\ncareer, between the aesthetic period and the production of Lady\nWindermere\'s Fan, we learn _his_ opinion of the contemporaries who\nthought little enough of him. That he revised many of these opinions,\nnotably those that are harsh, I need scarcely say; and after his release\nfrom prison he lost much of his admiration for certain writers. I would\ndraw special attention to those reviews of Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Wilfrid\nBlunt, Mr. Alfred Austin, the Hon. John Collier, Mr. Brander Matthews and\nSir Edwin Arnold, Rossetti, Pater, Henley and Morris; they have more\npermanent value than the others, and are in accord with the wiser\ncritical judgments of to-day.\n\nFor leave to republish the articles from the Pall Mall Gazette I am\nindebted to Mr. William Waldorf Astor, the owner of the copyrights, by\narrangement with whom they are here reprinted. I have to thank most\ncordially Messrs. Cassell and Company for permitting me to reproduce the\neditorial articles and reviews contributed by Wilde to the Woman\'s World;\nthe editor and proprietor of the Nation for leave to include the two\narticles from the Speaker; and the editor of the Saturday Review for a\nsimilar courtesy. For identifying many of the anonymous articles I am\nindebted to Mr. Arthur Humphreys, not the least of his kindnesses in\nassisting the publication of this edition; for the trouble of editing,\narrangement, and collecting of material I am under obligations to Mr.\nStuart Mason for which this acknowledgment is totally inadequate.\n\nROBERT ROSS\nREFORM CLUB,\nMay 12th, 1908\n\n\n\n\nDINNERS AND DISHES\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 7, 1885.)\n\nA man can live for three days without bread, but no man can live for one\nday without poetry, was an aphorism of Baudelaire. You can live without\npictures and music but you cannot live without eating, says the author of\nDinners and Dishes; and this latter view is, no doubt, the more popular.\nWho, indeed, in these degenerate days would hesitate between an ode and\nan omelette, a sonnet and a salmis? Yet the position is not entirely\nPhilistine; cookery is an art; are not its principles the subject of\nSouth Kensington lectures, and does not the Royal Academy give a banquet\nonce a year? Besides, as the coming democracy will, no doubt, insist on\nfeeding us all on penny dinners, it is well that the laws of cookery\nshould be explained: for were the national meal burned, or badly\nseasoned, or served up with the wrong sauce a dreadful revolution might\nfollow.\n\nUnder these circumstances we strongly recommend Dinners and Dishes to\nevery one: it is brief and concise and makes no attempt at eloquence,\nwhich is extremely fortunate. For even on ortolans who could endure\noratory? It also has the advantage of not being illustrated. The\nsubject of a work of art has, of course, nothing to do with its beauty,\nbut still there is always something depressing about the coloured\nlithograph of a leg of mutton.\n\nAs regards the author\'s particular views, we entirely agree with him on\nthe important question of macaroni. \'Never,\' he says, \'ask me to back a\nbill for a man who has given me a macaroni pudding.\' Macaroni is\nessentially a savoury dish and may be served with cheese or tomatoes but\nnever with sugar and milk. There is also a useful description of how to\ncook risotto--a delightful dish too rarely seen in England; an excellent\nchapter on the different kinds of salads, which should be carefully\nstudied by those many hostesses whose imaginations never pass beyond\nlettuce and beetroot; and actually a recipe for making Brussels sprouts\neatable. The last is, of course, a masterpiece.\n\nThe real difficulty that we all have to face in life is not so much the\nscience of cookery as the stupidity of cooks. And in this little\nhandbook to practical Epicureanism the tyrant of the English kitchen is\nshown in her proper light. Her entire ignorance of herbs, her passion\nfor extracts and essences, her total inability to make a soup which is\nanything more than a combination of pepper and gravy, her inveterate\nhabit of sending up bread poultices with pheasants,--all these sins and\nmany others are ruthlessly unmasked by the author. Ruthlessly and\nrightly. For the British cook is a foolish woman who should be turned\nfor her iniquities into a pillar of salt which she never knows how to\nuse.\n\nBut our author is not local merely. He has been in many lands; he has\neaten back-hendl at Vienna and kulibatsch at St. Petersburg; he has had\nthe courage to face the buffalo veal of Roumania and to dine with a\nGerman family at one o\'clock; he has serious views on the right method of\ncooking those famous white truffles of Turin of which Alexandre Dumas was\nso fond; and, in the face of the Oriental Club, declares that Bombay\ncurry is better than the curry of Bengal. In fact he seems to have had\nexperience of almost every kind of meal except the \'square meal\' of the\nAmericans. This he should study at once; there is a great field for the\nphilosophic epicure in the United States. Boston beans may be dismissed\nat once as delusions, but soft-shell crabs, terrapin, canvas-back ducks,\nblue fish and the pompono of New Orleans are all wonderful delicacies,\nparticularly when one gets them at Delmonico\'s. Indeed, the two most\nremarkable bits of scenery in the States are undoubtedly Delmonico\'s and\nthe Yosemite Valley; and the former place has done more to promote a good\nfeeling between England and America than anything else has in this\ncentury.\n\nWe hope the \'Wanderer\' will go there soon and add a chapter to Dinners\nand Dishes, and that his book will have in England the influence it\ndeserves. There are twenty ways of cooking a potato and three hundred\nand sixty-five ways of cooking an egg, yet the British cook, up to the\npresent moment, knows only three methods of sending up either one or the\nother.\n\nDinners and Dishes. By \'Wanderer.\' (Simpkin and Marshall.)\n\n\n\n\nA MODERN EPIC\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 13, 1885.)\n\nIn an age of hurry like ours the appearance of an epic poem more than\nfive thousand lines in length cannot but be regarded as remarkable.\nWhether such a form of art is the one most suited to our century is a\nquestion. Edgar Allan Poe insisted that no poem should take more than an\nhour to read, the essence of a work of art being its unity of impression\nand of effect. Still, it would be difficult to accept absolutely a canon\nof art which would place the Divine Comedy on the shelf and deprive us of\nthe Bothwell of Mr. Swinburne. A work of art is to be estimated by its\nbeauty not by its size, and in Mr. Wills\'s Melchior there is beauty of a\nrich and lofty character.\n\nRemembering the various arts which have yielded up their secrets to Mr.\nWills, it is interesting to note in his poems, here the picturesque\nvision of the painter, here the psychology of the novelist, and here the\nplaywright\'s sense of dramatic situation. Yet these things, which are\nthe elements of his work of art though we arbitrarily separate them in\ncriticism, are in the work itself blended and made one by the true\nimaginative and informing power. For Melchior is not a piece of poetic\nwriting merely; it is that very rare thing, a poem.\n\nIt is dedicated to Mr. Robert Browning, not inappropriately, as it deals\nwith that problem of the possible expression of life through music, the\nvalue of which as a motive in poetry Mr. Browning was the first to see.\nThe story is this. In one of the little Gothic towns of Northern Germany\nlives Melchior, a dreamer and a musician. One night he rescues by chance\na girl from drowning and lodges her in a convent of holy women. He grows\nto love her and to see in her the incarnation of that St. Cecily whom,\nwith mystic and almost mediaeval passion, he had before adored. But a\npriest separates them, and Melchior goes mad. An old doctor, who makes a\nstudy of insanity, determines to try and cure him, and induces the girl\nto appear to him, disguised as St. Cecily herself, while he sits brooding\nat the organ. Thinking her at first to be indeed the Saint he had\nworshipped, Melchior falls in ecstasy at her feet, but soon discovering\nthe trick kills her in a sudden paroxysm of madness. The horror of the\nact restores his reason; but, with the return of sanity, the dreams and\nvisions of the artist\'s nature begin to vanish; the musician sees the\nworld not through a glass but face to face, and he dies just as the world\nis awakening to his music.\n\nThe character of Melchior, who inherits his music from his father, and\nfrom his mother his mysticism, is extremely fascinating as a\npsychological study. Mr. Wills has made a most artistic use of that\nscientific law of heredity which has already strongly influenced the\nliterature of this century, and to which we owe Dr. Holmes\'s fantastic\nElsie Venner, Daniel Deronda--that dullest of masterpieces--and the\ndreadful Rougon-Macquart family with whose misdeeds M. Zola is never\nweary of troubling us.\n\nBlanca, the girl, is a somewhat slight sketch, but then, like Ophelia,\nshe is merely the occasion of a tragedy and not its heroine. The rest of\nthe characters are most powerfully drawn and create themselves simply and\nswiftly before us as the story proceeds, the method of the practised\ndramatist being here of great value.\n\nAs regards the style, we notice some accidental assonances of rhyme which\nin an unrhymed poem are never pleasing; and the unfinished short line of\nfive or six syllables, however legitimate on the stage where the actor\nhimself can make the requisite musical pause, is not a beauty in a blank\nverse poem, and is employed by Mr. Wills far too frequently. Still,\ntaken as a whole, the style has the distinction of noble melody.\n\nThere are many passages which, did space permit us, we would like to\nquote, but we must content ourselves with saying that in Melchior we find\nnot merely pretty gems of rich imagery and delicate fancy, but a fine\nimaginative treatment of many of the most important modern problems,\nnotably of the relation of life to art. It is a pleasure to herald a\npoem which combines so many elements of strength and beauty.\n\nMelchior. By W. G. Wills, author of Charles I., Olivia, etc., and writer\nof Claudian. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSHAKESPEARE ON SCENERY\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, March 14, 1885.)\n\nI have often heard people wonder what Shakespeare would say, could he see\nMr. Irving\'s production of his Much Ado About Nothing, or Mr. Wilson\nBarrett\'s setting of his Hamlet. Would he take pleasure in the glory of\nthe scenery and the marvel of the colour? Would he be interested in the\nCathedral of Messina, and the battlements of Elsinore? Or would he be\nindifferent, and say the play, and the play only, is the thing?\n\nSpeculations like these are always pleasurable, and in the present case\nhappen to be profitable also. For it is not difficult to see what\nShakespeare\'s attitude would be; not difficult, that is to say, if one\nreads Shakespeare himself, instead of reading merely what is written\nabout him.\n\nSpeaking, for instance, directly, as the manager of a London theatre,\nthrough the lips of the chorus in Henry V., he complains of the smallness\nof the stage on which he has to produce the pageant of a big historical\nplay, and of the want of scenery which obliges him to cut out many of its\nmost picturesque incidents, apologises for the scanty number of supers\nwho had to play the soldiers, and for the shabbiness of the properties,\nand, finally, expresses his regret at being unable to bring on real\nhorses.\n\nIn the Midsummer Night\'s Dream, again, he gives us a most amusing picture\nof the straits to which theatrical managers of his day were reduced by\nthe want of proper scenery. In fact, it is impossible to read him\nwithout seeing that he is constantly protesting against the two special\nlimitations of the Elizabethan stage--the lack of suitable scenery, and\nthe fashion of men playing women\'s parts, just as he protests against\nother difficulties with which managers of theatres have still to contend,\nsuch as actors who do not understand their words; actors who miss their\ncues; actors who overact their parts; actors who mouth; actors who gag;\nactors who play to the gallery, and amateur actors.\n\nAnd, indeed, a great dramatist, as he was, could not but have felt very\nmuch hampered at being obliged continually to interrupt the progress of a\nplay in order to send on some one to explain to the audience that the\nscene was to be changed to a particular place on the entrance of a\nparticular character, and after his exit to somewhere else; that the\nstage was to represent the deck of a ship in a storm, or the interior of\na Greek temple, or the streets of a certain town, to all of which\ninartistic devices Shakespeare is reduced, and for which he always amply\napologises. Besides this clumsy method, Shakespeare had two other\nsubstitutes for scenery--the hanging out of a placard, and his\ndescriptions. The first of these could hardly have satisfied his passion\nfor picturesqueness and his feeling for beauty, and certainly did not\nsatisfy the dramatic critic of his day. But as regards the description,\nto those of us who look on Shakespeare not merely as a playwright but as\na poet, and who enjoy reading him at home just as much as we enjoy seeing\nhim acted, it may be a matter of congratulation that he had not at his\ncommand such skilled machinists as are in use now at the Princess\'s and\nat the Lyceum. For had Cleopatra\'s barge, for instance, been a structure\nof canvas and Dutch metal, it would probably have been painted over or\nbroken up after the withdrawal of the piece, and, even had it survived to\nour own day, would, I am afraid, have become extremely shabby by this\ntime. Whereas now the beaten gold of its poop is still bright, and the\npurple of its sails still beautiful; its silver oars are not tired of\nkeeping time to the music of the flutes they follow, nor the Nereid\'s\nflower-soft hands of touching its silken tackle; the mermaid still lies\nat its helm, and still on its deck stand the boys with their coloured\nfans. Yet lovely as all Shakespeare\'s descriptive passages are, a\ndescription is in its essence undramatic. Theatrical audiences are far\nmore impressed by what they look at than by what they listen to; and the\nmodern dramatist, in having the surroundings of his play visibly\npresented to the audience when the curtain rises, enjoys an advantage for\nwhich Shakespeare often expresses his desire. It is true that\nShakespeare\'s descriptions are not what descriptions are in modern\nplays--accounts of what the audience can observe for themselves; they are\nthe imaginative method by which he creates in the mind of the spectators\nthe image of that which he desires them to see. Still, the quality of\nthe drama is action. It is always dangerous to pause for\npicturesqueness. And the introduction of self-explanatory scenery\nenables the modern method to be far more direct, while the loveliness of\nform and colour which it gives us, seems to me often to create an\nartistic temperament in the audience, and to produce that joy in beauty\nfor beauty\'s sake, without which the great masterpieces of art can never\nbe understood, to which, and to which only, are they ever revealed.\n\nTo talk of the passion of a play being hidden by the paint, and of\nsentiment being killed by scenery, is mere emptiness and folly of words.\nA noble play, nobly mounted, gives us double artistic pleasure. The eye\nas well as the ear is gratified, and the whole nature is made exquisitely\nreceptive of the influence of imaginative work. And as regards a bad\nplay, have we not all seen large audiences lured by the loveliness of\nscenic effect into listening to rhetoric posing as poetry, and to\nvulgarity doing duty for realism? Whether this be good or evil for the\npublic I will not here discuss, but it is evident that the playwright, at\nany rate, never suffers.\n\nIndeed, the artist who really has suffered through the modern mounting of\nplays is not the dramatist at all, but the scene-painter proper. He is\nrapidly being displaced by the stage-carpenter. Now and then, at Drury\nLane, I have seen beautiful old front cloths let down, as perfect as\npictures some of them, and pure painter\'s work, and there are many which\nwe all remember at other theatres, in front of which some dialogue was\nreduced to graceful dumb-show through the hammer and tin-tacks behind.\nBut as a rule the stage is overcrowded with enormous properties, which\nare not merely far more expensive and cumbersome than scene-paintings,\nbut far less beautiful, and far less true. Properties kill perspective.\nA painted door is more like a real door than a real door is itself, for\nthe proper conditions of light and shade can be given to it; and the\nexcessive use of built up structures always makes the stage too glaring,\nfor as they have to be lit from behind, as well as from the front, the\ngas-jets become the absolute light of the scene instead of the means\nmerely by which we perceive the conditions of light and shadow which the\npainter has desired to show us.\n\nSo, instead of bemoaning the position of the playwright, it were better\nfor the critics to exert whatever influence they may possess towards\nrestoring the scene-painter to his proper position as an artist, and not\nallowing him to be built over by the property man, or hammered to death\nby the carpenter. I have never seen any reason myself why such artists\nas Mr. Beverley, Mr. Walter Hann, and Mr. Telbin should not be entitled\nto become Academicians. They have certainly as good a claim as have many\nof those R.A.\'s whose total inability to paint we can see every May for a\nshilling.\n\nAnd lastly, let those critics who hold up for our admiration the\nsimplicity of the Elizabethan Stage, remember that they are lauding a\ncondition of things against which Shakespeare himself, in the spirit of a\ntrue artist, always strongly protested.\n\n\n\n\nA BEVY OF POETS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 27, 1885.)\n\nThis spring the little singers are out before the little sparrows and\nhave already begun chirruping. Here are four volumes already, and who\nknows how many more will be given to us before the laburnums blossom? The\nbest-bound volume must, of course, have precedence. It is called Echoes\nof Memory, by Atherton Furlong, and is cased in creamy vellum and tied\nwith ribbons of yellow silk. Mr. Furlong\'s charm is the unsullied\nsweetness of his simplicity. Indeed, we can strongly recommend to the\nSchool-Board the Lines on the Old Town Pump as eminently suitable for\nrecitation by children. Such a verse, for instance, as:\n\n I hear the little children say\n (For the tale will never die)\n How the old pump flowed both night and day\n When the brooks and the wells ran dry,\n\nhas all the ring of Macaulay in it, and is a form of poetry which cannot\npossibly harm anybody, even if translated into French. Any inaccurate\nideas of the laws of nature which the children might get from the passage\nin question could easily be corrected afterwards by a lecture on\nHydrostatics. The poem, however, which gives us most pleasure is the one\ncalled The Dear Old Knocker on the Door. It is appropriately illustrated\nby Mr. Tristram Ellis. We quote the concluding verses of the first and\nlast stanzas:\n\n Blithe voices then so dear\n Send up their shouts once more,\n Then sounds again on mem\'ry\'s ear\n The dear old knocker on the door.\n . . . . .\n When mem\'ry turns the key\n Where time has placed my score,\n Encased \'mid treasured thoughts must be\n The dear old knocker on the door.\n\nThe cynic may mock at the subject of these verses, but we do not. Why\nnot an ode on a knocker? Does not Victor Hugo\'s tragedy of Lucrece\nBorgia turn on the defacement of a doorplate? Mr. Furlong must not be\ndiscouraged. Perhaps he will write poetry some day. If he does we would\nearnestly appeal to him to give up calling a cock \'proud chanticleer.\'\nFew synonyms are so depressing.\n\nHaving been lured by the Circe of a white vellum binding into the region\nof the pump and doormat, we turn to a modest little volume by Mr. Bowling\nof St. John\'s College, Cambridge, entitled Sagittulae. And they are\nindeed delicate little arrows, for they are winged with the lightness of\nthe lyric and barbed daintily with satire. AEsthesis and Athletes is a\nsweet idyll, and nothing can be more pathetic than the Tragedy of the\nXIX. Century, which tells of a luckless examiner condemned in his public\ncapacity to pluck for her Little-go the girl graduate whom he privately\nadores. Girton seems to be having an important influence on the\nCambridge school of poetry. We are not surprised. The Graces are the\nGraces always, even when they wear spectacles.\n\nThen comes Tuberose and Meadowsweet, by Mr. Mark Andre Raffalovich. This\nis really a remarkable little volume, and contains many strange and\nbeautiful poems. To say of these poems that they are unhealthy and bring\nwith them the heavy odours of the hothouse is to point out neither their\ndefect nor their merit, but their quality merely. And though Mr.\nRaffalovich is not a wonderful poet, still he is a subtle artist in\npoetry. Indeed, in his way he is a boyish master of curious music and of\nfantastic rhyme, and can strike on the lute of language so many lovely\nchords that it seems a pity he does not know how to pronounce the title\nof his book and the theme of his songs. For he insists on making\n\'tuberose\' a trisyllable always, as if it were a potato blossom and not a\nflower shaped like a tiny trumpet of ivory. However, for the sake of his\nmeadowsweet and his spring-green binding this must be forgiven him. And\nthough he cannot pronounce \'tuberose\' aright, at least he can sing of it\nexquisitely.\n\nFinally we come to Sturm und Drang, the work of an anonymous writer.\nOpening the volume at hazard we come across these graceful lines:\n\n How sweet to spend in this blue bay\n The close of life\'s disastrous day,\n To watch the morn break faintly free\n Across the greyness of the sea,\n What time Memnonian music fills\n The shadows of the dewy hills.\n\nWell, here is the touch of a poet, and we pluck up heart and read on. The\nbook is a curious but not inartistic combination of the mental attitude\nof Mr. Matthew Arnold with the style of Lord Tennyson. Sometimes, as in\nThe Sicilian Hermit, we get merely the metre of Locksley Hall without its\nmusic, merely its fine madness and not its fine magic. Still, elsewhere\nthere is good work, and Caliban in East London has a great deal of power\nin it, though we do not like the adjective \'knockery\' even in a poem on\nWhitechapel.\n\nOn the whole, to those who watch the culture of the age, the most\ninteresting thing in young poets is not so much what they invent as what\nmasters they follow. A few years ago it was all Mr. Swinburne. That era\nhas happily passed away. The mimicry of passion is the most intolerable\nof all poses. Now, it is all Lord Tennyson, and that is better. For a\nyoung writer can gain more from the study of a literary poet than from\nthe study of a lyrist. He may become the pupil of the one, but he can\nnever be anything but the slave of the other. And so we are glad to see\nin this volume direct and noble praise of him\n\n* * * * *\n\n Who plucked in English meadows flowers fair\n As any that in unforgotten stave\n Vied with the orient gold of Venus\' hair\n Or fringed the murmur of the AEgean wave,\n\nwhich are the fine words in which this anonymous poet pays his tribute to\nthe Laureate.\n\n(1) Echoes of Memory. By Atherton Furlong. (Field and Tuer.)\n\n(2) Sagittulae. By E. W. Bowling. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n(3) Tuberose and Meadowsweet. By Mark Andre Raffalovich. (David Bogue.)\n\n(4) Sturm und Drang. (Elliot Stock.)\n\nIn reply to the review A Bevy of Poets the following letter was published\nin the Pall Mall Gazette on March 30, 1885, under the title of\n\nTHE ROOT OF THE MATTER\n\nSIR,--I am sorry not to be able to accept the graceful etymology of your\nreviewer who calls me to task for not knowing how to pronounce the title\nof my book Tuberose and Meadowsweet. I insist, he fancifully says, \'on\nmaking "tuberose" a trisyllable always, as if it were a potato blossom\nand not a flower shaped like a tiny trumpet of ivory.\' Alas! tuberose is\na trisyllable if properly derived from the Latin tuberosus, the lumpy\nflower, having nothing to do with roses or with trumpets of ivory in name\nany more than in nature. I am reminded by a great living poet that\nanother correctly wrote:\n\n Or as the moonlight fills the open sky\n Struggling with darkness--as a tuberose\n Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie\n\n Like clouds above the flower from which they rose.\n\nIn justice to Shelley, whose lines I quote, your readers will admit that\nI have good authority for making a trisyllable of tuberose.--I am, Sir,\nyour obedient servant,\n\nANDRE RAFFALOVICH.\nMarch 28.\n\n\n\n\nPARNASSUS VERSUS PHILOLOGY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 1, 1885.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.\n\nSIR,--I am deeply distressed to hear that tuberose is so called from its\nbeing a \'lumpy flower.\' It is not at all lumpy, and, even if it were, no\npoet should be heartless enough to say so. Henceforth, there really must\nbe two derivations for every word, one for the poet and one for the\nscientist. And in the present case the poet will dwell on the tiny\ntrumpets of ivory into which the white flower breaks, and leave to the\nman of science horrid allusions to its supposed lumpiness and indiscreet\nrevelations of its private life below ground. In fact, \'tuber\' as a\nderivation is disgraceful. On the roots of verbs Philology may be\nallowed to speak, but on the roots of flowers she must keep silence. We\ncannot allow her to dig up Parnassus. And, as regards the word being a\ntrisyllable, I am reminded by a great living poet that another correctly\nwrote:\n\n And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,\n The sweetest flower for scent that blows;\n And all rare blossoms from every clime\n Grew in that garden in perfect prime.\n\nIn justice to Shelley, whose lines I quote, your readers will admit that\nI have good authority for making a dissyllable of tuberose.--I am, Sir,\nyour obedient servant,\n\nTHE CRITIC,\nWHO HAD TO READ FOUR VOLUMES OF MODERN POETRY.\nMarch 30.\n\n\n\n\nHAMLET AT THE LYCEUM\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, May 9, 1885.)\n\nIt sometimes happens that at a premiere in London the least enjoyable\npart of the performance is the play. I have seen many audiences more\ninteresting than the actors, and have often heard better dialogue in the\nfoyer than I have on the stage. At the Lyceum, however, this is rarely\nthe case, and when the play is a play of Shakespeare\'s, and among its\nexponents are Mr. Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, we turn from the gods in\nthe gallery and from the goddesses in the stalls, to enjoy the charm of\nthe production, and to take delight in the art. The lions are behind the\nfootlights and not in front of them when we have a noble tragedy nobly\nacted. And I have rarely witnessed such enthusiasm as that which greeted\non last Saturday night the two artists I have mentioned. I would like,\nin fact, to use the word ovation, but a pedantic professor has recently\ninformed us, with the Batavian buoyancy of misapplied learning, that this\nexpression is not to be employed except when a sheep has been sacrificed.\nAt the Lyceum last week I need hardly say nothing so dreadful occurred.\nThe only inartistic incident of the evening was the hurling of a bouquet\nfrom a box at Mr. Irving while he was engaged in pourtraying the agony of\nHamlet\'s death, and the pathos of his parting with Horatio. The Dramatic\nCollege might take up the education of spectators as well as that of\nplayers, and teach people that there is a proper moment for the throwing\nof flowers as well as a proper method.\n\nAs regards Mr. Irving\'s own performance, it has been already so\nelaborately criticised and described, from his business with the supposed\npictures in the closet scene down to his use of \'peacock\' for \'paddock,\'\nthat little remains to be said; nor, indeed, does a Lyceum audience\nrequire the interposition of the dramatic critic in order to understand\nor to appreciate the Hamlet of this great actor. I call him a great\nactor because he brings to the interpretation of a work of art the two\nqualities which we in this century so much desire, the qualities of\npersonality and of perfection. A few years ago it seemed to many, and\nperhaps rightly, that the personality overshadowed the art. No such\ncriticism would be fair now. The somewhat harsh angularity of movement\nand faulty pronunciation have been replaced by exquisite grace of gesture\nand clear precision of word, where such precision is necessary. For\ndelightful as good elocution is, few things are so depressing as to hear\na passionate passage recited instead of being acted. The quality of a\nfine performance is its life more than its learning, and every word in a\nplay has a musical as well as an intellectual value, and must be made\nexpressive of a certain emotion. So it does not seem to me that in all\nparts of a play perfect pronunciation is necessarily dramatic. When the\nwords are \'wild and whirling,\' the expression of them must be wild and\nwhirling also. Mr. Irving, I think, manages his voice with singular art;\nit was impossible to discern a false note or wrong intonation in his\ndialogue or his soliloquies, and his strong dramatic power, his realistic\npower as an actor, is as effective as ever. A great critic at the\nbeginning of this century said that Hamlet is the most difficult part to\npersonate on the stage, that it is like the attempt to \'embody a shadow.\'\nI cannot say that I agree with this idea. Hamlet seems to me essentially\na good acting part, and in Mr. Irving\'s performance of it there is that\ncombination of poetic grace with absolute reality which is so eternally\ndelightful. Indeed, if the words easy and difficult have any meaning at\nall in matters of art, I would be inclined to say that Ophelia is the\nmore difficult part. She has, I mean, less material by which to produce\nher effects. She is the occasion of the tragedy, but she is neither its\nheroine nor its chief victim. She is swept away by circumstances, and\ngives the opportunity for situation, of which she is not herself the\nclimax, and which she does not herself command. And of all the parts\nwhich Miss Terry has acted in her brilliant career, there is none in\nwhich her infinite powers of pathos and her imaginative and creative\nfaculty are more shown than in her Ophelia. Miss Terry is one of those\nrare artists who needs for her dramatic effect no elaborate dialogue, and\nfor whom the simplest words are sufficient. \'I love you not,\' says\nHamlet, and all that Ophelia answers is, \'I was the more deceived.\' These\nare not very grand words to read, but as Miss Terry gave them in acting\nthey seemed to be the highest possible expression of Ophelia\'s character.\nBeautiful, too, was the quick remorse she conveyed by her face and\ngesture the moment she had lied to Hamlet and told him her father was at\nhome. This I thought a masterpiece of good acting, and her mad scene was\nwonderful beyond all description. The secrets of Melpomene are known to\nMiss Terry as well as the secrets of Thalia. As regards the rest of the\ncompany there is always a high standard at the Lyceum, but some\nparticular mention should be made of Mr. Alexander\'s brilliant\nperformance of Laertes. Mr. Alexander has a most effective presence, a\ncharming voice, and a capacity for wearing lovely costumes with ease and\nelegance. Indeed, in the latter respect his only rival was Mr. Norman\nForbes, who played either Guildenstern or Rosencrantz very gracefully. I\nbelieve one of our budding Hazlitts is preparing a volume to be entitled\n\'Great Guildensterns and Remarkable Rosencrantzes,\' but I have never been\nable myself to discern any difference between these two characters. They\nare, I think, the only characters Shakespeare has not cared to\nindividualise. Whichever of the two, however, Mr. Forbes acted, he acted\nit well. Only one point in Mr. Alexander\'s performance seemed to me open\nto question, that was his kneeling during the whole of Polonius\'s speech.\nFor this I see no necessity at all, and it makes the scene look less\nnatural than it should--gives it, I mean, too formal an air. However,\nthe performance was most spirited and gave great pleasure to every one.\nMr. Alexander is an artist from whom much will be expected, and I have no\ndoubt he will give us much that is fine and noble. He seems to have all\nthe qualifications for a good actor.\n\nThere is just one other character I should like to notice. The First\nPlayer seemed to me to act far too well. He should act very badly. The\nFirst Player, besides his position in the dramatic evolution of the\ntragedy, is Shakespeare\'s caricature of the ranting actor of his day,\njust as the passage he recites is Shakespeare\'s own parody on the dull\nplays of some of his rivals. The whole point of Hamlet\'s advice to the\nplayers seems to me to be lost unless the Player himself has been guilty\nof the fault which Hamlet reprehends, unless he has sawn the air with his\nhand, mouthed his lines, torn his passion to tatters, and out-Heroded\nHerod. The very sensibility which Hamlet notices in the actor, such as\nhis real tears and the like, is not the quality of a good artist. The\npart should be played after the manner of a provincial tragedian. It is\nmeant to be a satire, and to play it well is to play it badly. The\nscenery and costumes were excellent with the exception of the King\'s\ndress, which was coarse in colour and tawdry in effect. And the Player\nQueen should have come in boy\'s attire to Elsinore.\n\nHowever, last Saturday night was not a night for criticism. The theatre\nwas filled with those who desired to welcome Mr. Irving back to his own\ntheatre, and we were all delighted at his re-appearance among us. I hope\nthat some time will elapse before he and Miss Terry cross again that\ndisappointing Atlantic Ocean.\n\n\n\n\nTWO NEW NOVELS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 15, 1885.)\n\nThe clever authoress of In the Golden Days has chosen for the scene of\nher story the England of two centuries ago, as a relief, she tells us in\nher preface, \'from perpetual nineteenth-centuryism.\' Upon the other\nhand, she makes a pathetic appeal to her readers not to regard her book\nas an \'historical novel,\' on the ground that such a title strikes terror\ninto the public. This seems to us rather a curious position to take up.\nEsmond and Notre Dame are historical novels, both of them, and both of\nthem popular successes. John Inglesant and Romola have gone through many\neditions, and even Salammbo has its enthusiasts. We think that the\npublic is very fond of historical novels, and as for perpetual\n\'nineteenth-centuryism\'--a vile phrase, by the way--we only wish that\nmore of our English novelists studied our age and its society than do so\nat present. However, In the Golden Days must not be judged by its\nfoolish preface. It is really a very charming book, and though Dryden,\nBetterton, and Wills\'s Coffee-House are dragged in rather a propos de\nbottes, still the picture of the time is well painted. Joyce, the little\nPuritan maiden, is an exquisite creation, and Hugo Wharncliffe, her\nlover, makes a fine hero. The sketch of Algernon Sidney is rather\ncolourless, but Charles II. is well drawn. It seems to be a novel with a\nhigh purpose and a noble meaning. Yet it is never dull.\n\nMrs. Macquoid\'s Louisa is modern and the scene is in Italy. Italy, we\nfear, has been a good deal overdone in fiction. A little more Piccadilly\nand a little less Perugia would be a relief. However, the story is\ninteresting. A young English girl marries an Italian nobleman and, after\nsome time, being bored with picturesqueness, falls in love with an\nEnglishman. The story is told with a great deal of power and ends\nproperly and pleasantly. It can safely be recommended to young persons.\n\n(1) In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall, Author of We Two, Donovan, etc.\n(Hurst and Blackett.)\n\n(2) Louisa. By Katherine S. Macquoid. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n\n\n\nHENRY THE FOURTH AT OXFORD\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, May 23, 1885.)\n\nI have been told that the ambition of every Dramatic Club is to act Henry\nIV. I am not surprised. The spirit of comedy is as fervent in this play\nas is the spirit of chivalry; it is an heroic pageant as well as an\nheroic poem, and like most of Shakespeare\'s historical dramas it contains\nan extraordinary number of thoroughly good acting parts, each of which is\nabsolutely individual in character, and each of which contributes to the\nevolution of the plot.\n\nRumour, from time to time, has brought in tidings of a proposed\nproduction by the banks of the Cam, but it seems at the last moment Box\nand Cox has always had to be substituted in the bill.\n\nTo Oxford belongs the honour of having been the first to present on the\nstage this noble play, and the production which I saw last week was in\nevery way worthy of that lovely town, that mother of sweetness and of\nlight. For, in spite of the roaring of the young lions at the Union, and\nthe screaming of the rabbits in the home of the vivisector, in spite of\nKeble College, and the tramways, and the sporting prints, Oxford still\nremains the most beautiful thing in England, and nowhere else are life\nand art so exquisitely blended, so perfectly made one. Indeed, in most\nother towns art has often to present herself in the form of a reaction\nagainst the sordid ugliness of ignoble lives, but at Oxford she comes to\nus as an exquisite flower born of the beauty of life and expressive of\nlife\'s joy. She finds her home by the Isis as once she did by the\nIlissus; the Magdalen walks and the Magdalen cloisters are as dear to her\nas were ever the silver olives of Colonus and the golden gateway of the\nhouse of Pallas: she covers with fanlike tracery the vaulted entrance to\nChrist Church Hall, and looks out from the windows of Merton; her feet\nhave stirred the Cumnor cowslips, and she gathers fritillaries in the\nriver-fields. To her the clamour of the schools and the dulness of the\nlecture-room are a weariness and a vexation of spirit; she seeks not to\ndefine virtue, and cares little for the categories; she smiles on the\nswift athlete whose plastic grace has pleased her, and rejoices in the\nyoung Barbarians at their games; she watches the rowers from the reedy\nbank and gives myrtle to her lovers, and laurel to her poets, and rue to\nthose who talk wisely in the street; she makes the earth lovely to all\nwho dream with Keats; she opens high heaven to all who soar with Shelley;\nand turning away her head from pedant, proctor and Philistine, she has\nwelcomed to her shrine a band of youthful actors, knowing that they have\nsought with much ardour for the stern secret of Melpomene, and caught\nwith much gladness the sweet laughter of Thalia. And to me this ardour\nand this gladness were the two most fascinating qualities of the Oxford\nperformance, as indeed they are qualities which are necessary to any fine\ndramatic production. For without quick and imaginative observation of\nlife the most beautiful play becomes dull in presentation, and what is\nnot conceived in delight by the actor can give no delight at all to\nothers.\n\nI know that there are many who consider that Shakespeare is more for the\nstudy than for the stage. With this view I do not for a moment agree.\nShakespeare wrote the plays to be acted, and we have no right to alter\nthe form which he himself selected for the full expression of his work.\nIndeed, many of the beauties of that work can be adequately conveyed to\nus only through the actor\'s art. As I sat in the Town Hall of Oxford the\nother night, the majesty of the mighty lines of the play seemed to me to\ngain new music from the clear young voices that uttered them, and the\nideal grandeur of the heroism to be made more real to the spectators by\nthe chivalrous bearing, the noble gesture and the fine passion of its\nexponents. Even the dresses had their dramatic value. Their\narchaeological accuracy gave us, immediately on the rise of the curtain,\na perfect picture of the time. As the knights and nobles moved across\nthe stage in the flowing robes of peace and in the burnished steel of\nbattle, we needed no dreary chorus to tell us in what age or land the\nplay\'s action was passing, for the fifteenth century in all the dignity\nand grace of its apparel was living actually before us, and the delicate\nharmonies of colour struck from the first a dominant note of beauty which\nadded to the intellectual realism of archaeology the sensuous charm of\nart.\n\nAs for individual actors, Mr. Mackinnon\'s Prince Hal was a most gay and\ngraceful performance, lit here and there with charming touches of\nprincely dignity and of noble feeling. Mr. Coleridge\'s Falstaff was full\nof delightful humour, though perhaps at times he did not take us\nsufficiently into his confidence. An audience looks at a tragedian, but\na comedian looks at his audience. However, he gave much pleasure to\nevery one, and Mr. Bourchier\'s Hotspur was really most remarkable. Mr.\nBourchier has a fine stage presence, a beautiful voice, and produces his\neffects by a method as dramatically impressive as it is artistically\nright. Once or twice he seemed to me to spoil his last line by walking\nthrough it. The part of Harry Percy is one full of climaxes which must\nnot be let slip. But still there was always a freedom and spirit in his\nstyle which was very pleasing, and his delivery of the colloquial\npassages I thought excellent, notably of that in the first act:\n\n What d\' ye call the place?\n A plague upon\'t--it is in Gloucestershire;\n \'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,\n His uncle York;\n\nlines by the way in which Kemble made a great effect. Mr. Bourchier has\nthe opportunity of a fine career on the English stage, and I hope he will\ntake advantage of it. Among the minor parts in the play Glendower,\nMortimer and Sir Richard Vernon were capitally acted, Worcester was a\nperformance of some subtlety, Mrs. Woods was a charming Lady Percy, and\nLady Edward Spencer Churchill, as Mortimer\'s wife, made us all believe\nthat we understood Welsh. Her dialogue and her song were most pleasing\nbits of artistic realism which fully accounted for the Celtic chair at\nOxford.\n\nBut though I have mentioned particular actors, the real value of the\nwhole representation was to be found in its absolute unity, in its\ndelicate sense of proportion, and in that breadth of effect which is to\nbe got only by the most careful elaboration of detail. I have rarely\nseen a production better stage-managed. Indeed, I hope that the\nUniversity will take some official notice of this delightful work of art.\nWhy should not degrees be granted for good acting? Are they not given to\nthose who misunderstand Plato and who mistranslate Aristotle? And should\nthe artist be passed over? No. To Prince Hal, Hotspur and Falstaff,\nD.C.L.\'s should be gracefully offered. I feel sure they would be\ngracefully accepted. To the rest of the company the crimson or the sheep-\nskin hood might be assigned honoris causa to the eternal confusion of the\nPhilistine, and the rage of the industrious and the dull. Thus would\nOxford confer honour on herself, and the artist be placed in his proper\nposition. However, whether or not Convocation recognises the claims of\nculture, I hope that the Oxford Dramatic Society will produce every\nsummer for us some noble play like Henry IV. For, in plays of this kind,\nplays which deal with bygone times, there is always this peculiar charm,\nthat they combine in one exquisite presentation the passions that are\nliving with the picturesqueness that is dead. And when we have the\nmodern spirit given to us in an antique form, the very remoteness of that\nform can be made a method of increased realism. This was Shakespeare\'s\nown attitude towards the ancient world, this is the attitude we in this\ncentury should adopt towards his plays, and with a feeling akin to this\nit seemed to me that these brilliant young Oxonians were working. If it\nwas so, their aim is the right one. For while we look to the dramatist\nto give romance to realism, we ask of the actor to give realism to\nromance.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN GREEK POETRY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 27, 1885.)\n\nOdysseus, not Achilles, is the type of the modern Greek. Merchandise has\ntaken precedence of the Muses and politics are preferred to Parnassus.\nYet by the Illissus there are sweet singers; the nightingales are not\nsilent in Colonus; and from the garden of Greek nineteenth-century poetry\nMiss Edmonds has made a very pleasing anthology; and in pouring the wine\nfrom the golden into the silver cup she has still kept much of the beauty\nof the original. Even when translated into English, modern Greek lyrics\nare preferable to modern Greek loans.\n\nAs regards the quality of this poetry, if the old Greek spirit can be\ntraced at all, it is the spirit of Tyrtaeus and of Theocritus. The\nwarlike ballads of Rhigas and Aristotle Valaorites have a fine ring of\nmusic and of passion in them, and the folk-songs of George Drosines are\nfull of charming pictures of rustic life and delicate idylls of\nshepherds\' courtships. These we acknowledge that we prefer. The flutes\nof the sheepfold are more delightful than the clarions of battle. Still,\npoetry played such a noble part in the Greek War of Independence that it\nis impossible not to look with reverence on the spirited war-songs that\nmeant so much to those who were righting for liberty and mean so much\neven now to their children.\n\nOther poets besides Drosines have taken the legends that linger among the\npeasants and given to them an artistic form. The song of The Seasons is\nfull of beauty, and there is a delightful poem on The Building of St.\nSophia, which tells how the design of that noble building was suggested\nby the golden honeycomb of a bee which had flown from the king\'s palace\nwith a crumb of blessed bread that had fallen from the king\'s hands. The\nstory is still to be found in Thrace.\n\nOne of the ballads, also, has a good deal of spirit. It is by Kostes\nPalamas and was suggested by an interesting incident which occurred some\nyears ago in Athens. In the summer of 1881 there was borne through the\nstreets the remains of an aged woman in the complete costume of a\nPallikar, which dress she had worn at the siege of Missolonghi and in it\nhad requested to be buried. The life of this real Greek heroine should\nbe studied by those who are investigating the question of wherein\nwomanliness consists. The view the poet takes of her is, we need hardly\nsay, very different from that which Canon Liddon would entertain. Yet it\nis none the less fine on this account, and we are glad that this old lady\nhas been given a place in art. The volume is, on the whole, delightful\nreading, and though not much can be said for lines like these:\n\n There _cometh_ from the West\n The timid starry _bands_,\n\nstill, the translations are in many instances most felicitous and their\nstyle most pleasing.\n\nGreek Lays, Idylls, Legends, etc. Translated by E. M. Edmonds. (Trubner\nand Co.)\n\n\n\n\nOLIVIA AT THE LYCEUM\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, May 30, 1885.)\n\nWhether or not it is an advantage for a novel to be produced in a\ndramatic form is, I think, open to question. The psychological analysis\nof such work as that of Mr. George Meredith, for instance, would probably\nlose by being transmuted into the passionate action of the stage, nor\ndoes M. Zola\'s formule scientifique gain anything at all by theatrical\npresentation. With Goldsmith it is somewhat different. In The Vicar of\nWakefield he seeks simply to please his readers, and desires not to prove\na theory; he looks on life rather as a picture to be painted than as a\nproblem to be solved; his aim is to create men and women more than to\nvivisect them; his dialogue is essentially dramatic, and his novel seems\nto pass naturally into the dramatic form. And to me there is something\nvery pleasurable in seeing and studying the same subject under different\nconditions of art. For life remains eternally unchanged; it is art\nwhich, by presenting it to us under various forms, enables us to realise\nits many-sided mysteries, and to catch the quality of its most\nfiery-coloured moments. The originality, I mean, which we ask from the\nartist, is originality of treatment, not of subject. It is only the\nunimaginative who ever invents. The true artist is known by the use he\nmakes of what he annexes, and he annexes everything.\n\nLooking in this light at Mr. Wills\'s Olivia, it seems to me a very\nexquisite work of art. Indeed, I know no other dramatist who could have\nre-told this beautiful English tale with such tenderness and such power,\nneither losing the charm of the old story nor forgetting the conditions\nof the new form. The sentiment of the poet and the science of the\nplaywright are exquisitely balanced in it. For though in prose it is a\npoem, and while a poem it is also a play.\n\nBut fortunate as Mr. Wills has been in the selection of his subject and\nin his treatment of it, he is no less fortunate in the actors who\ninterpret his work. To whatever character Miss Terry plays she brings\nthe infinite charm of her beauty, and the marvellous grace of her\nmovements and gestures. It is impossible to escape from the sweet\ntyranny of her personality. She dominates her audience by the secret of\nCleopatra. In her Olivia, however, it is not merely her personality that\nfascinates us but her power also, her power over pathos, and her command\nof situation. The scene in which she bade goodbye to her family was\ntouching beyond any scene I remember in any modern play, yet no harsh or\nviolent note was sounded; and when in the succeeding act she struck, in\nnatural and noble indignation, the libertine who had betrayed her, there\nwas, I think, no one in the theatre who did not recognise that in Miss\nTerry our stage possesses a really great artist, who can thrill an\naudience without harrowing it, and by means that seem simple and easy can\nproduce the finest dramatic effect. Mr. Irving, as Dr. Primrose,\nintensified the beautiful and blind idolatry of the old pastor for his\ndaughter till his own tragedy seems almost greater than hers; the scene\nin the third act, where he breaks down in his attempt to reprove the lamb\nthat has strayed from the fold, was a masterpiece of fine acting; and the\nwhole performance, while carefully elaborate in detail, was full of\nbreadth and dignity. I acknowledge that I liked him least at the close\nof the second act. It seems to me that here we should be made to feel\nnot merely the passionate rage of the father, but the powerlessness of\nthe old man. The taking down of the pistols, and the attempt to follow\nthe young duellist, are pathetic because they are useless, and I hardly\nthink that Mr. Irving conveyed this idea. As regards the rest of the\ncharacters, Mr. Terriss\'s Squire Thornhill was an admirable picture of a\nfascinating young rake. Indeed, it was so fascinating that the moral\nequilibrium of the audience was quite disturbed, and nobody seemed to\ncare very much for the virtuous Mr. Burchell. I was not sorry to see\nthis triumph of the artistic over the ethical sympathy. Perfect heroes\nare the monsters of melodramas, and have no place in dramatic art. Life\npossibly contains them, but Parnassus often rejects what Peckham may\nwelcome. I look forward to a reaction in favour of the cultured\ncriminal. Mr. Norman Forbes was a very pleasing Moses, and gave his\nLatin quotations charmingly, Miss Emery\'s Sophy was most winning, and,\nindeed, every part seemed to me well acted except that of the virtuous\nMr. Burchell. This fact, however, rather pleased me than otherwise, as\nit increased the charm of his attractive nephew.\n\nThe scenery and costumes were excellent, as indeed they always are at the\nLyceum when the piece is produced under Mr. Irving\'s direction. The\nfirst scene was really very beautiful, and quite as good as the famous\ncherry orchard of the Theatre Francais. A critic who posed as an\nauthority on field sports assured me that no one ever went out hunting\nwhen roses were in full bloom. Personally, that is exactly the season I\nwould select for the chase, but then I know more about flowers than I do\nabout foxes, and like them much better. If the critic was right, either\nthe roses must wither or Squire Thornhill must change his coat. A more\nserious objection may be brought against the division of the last act\ninto three scenes. There, I think, there was a distinct dramatic loss.\nThe room to which Olivia returns should have been exactly the same room\nshe had left. As a picture of the eighteenth century, however, the whole\nproduction was admirable, and the details, both of acting and of mise-en-\nscene, wonderfully perfect. I wish Olivia would take off her pretty\nmittens when her fortune is being told. Cheiromancy is a science which\ndeals almost entirely with the lines on the palm of the hand, and mittens\nwould seriously interfere with its mysticism. Still, when all is said,\nhow easily does this lovely play, this artistic presentation, survive\ncriticisms founded on cheiromancy and cub-hunting! The Lyceum under Mr.\nIrving\'s management has become a centre of art. We are all of us in his\ndebt. I trust that we may see some more plays by living dramatists\nproduced at his theatre, for Olivia has been exquisitely mounted and\nexquisitely played.\n\n\n\n\nAS YOU LIKE IT AT COOMBE HOUSE\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, June 6, 1885.)\n\nIn Theophile Gautier\'s first novel, that golden book of spirit and sense,\nthat holy writ of beauty, there is a most fascinating account of an\namateur performance of As You Like It in the large orangery of a French\ncountry house. Yet, lovely as Gautier\'s description is, the real\npresentation of the play last week at Coombe seemed to me lovelier still,\nfor not merely were there present in it all those elements of poetry and\npicturesqueness which le maitre impeccable so desired, but to them was\nadded also the exquisite charm of the open woodland and the delightful\nfreedom of the open air. Nor indeed could the Pastoral Players have made\na more fortunate selection of a play. A tragedy under the same\nconditions would have been impossible. For tragedy is the exaggeration\nof the individual, and nature thinks nothing of dwarfing a hero by a\nholly bush, and reducing a heroine to a mere effect of colour. The\nsubtleties also of facial expression are in the open air almost entirely\nlost; and while this would be a serious defect in the presentation of a\nplay which deals immediately with psychology, in the case of a comedy,\nwhere the situations predominate over the characters, we do not feel it\nnearly so much; and Shakespeare himself seems to have clearly recognised\nthis difference, for while he had Hamlet and Macbeth always played by\nartificial light he acted As You Like It and the rest of his comedies en\nplein jour.\n\nThe condition then under which this comedy was produced by Lady Archibald\nCampbell and Mr. Godwin did not place any great limitations on the\nactor\'s art, and increased tenfold the value of the play as a picture.\nThrough an alley of white hawthorn and gold laburnum we passed into the\ngreen pavilion that served as the theatre, the air sweet with odour of\nthe lilac and with the blackbird\'s song; and when the curtain fell into\nits trench of flowers, and the play commenced, we saw before us a real\nforest, and we knew it to be Arden. For with whoop and shout, up through\nthe rustling fern came the foresters trooping, the banished Duke took his\nseat beneath the tall elm, and as his lords lay around him on the grass,\nthe rich melody of Shakespeare\'s blank verse began to reach our ears. And\nall through the performance this delightful sense of joyous woodland life\nwas sustained, and even when the scene was left empty for the shepherd to\ndrive his flock across the sward, or for Rosalind to school Orlando in\nlove-making, far away we could hear the shrill halloo of the hunter, and\ncatch now and then the faint music of some distant horn. One distinct\ndramatic advantage was gained by the mise en scene.\n\nThe abrupt exits and entrances, which are necessitated on the real stage\nby the inevitable limitations of space, were in many cases done away\nwith, and we saw the characters coming gradually towards us through brake\nand underwood, or passing away down the slope till they were lost in some\ndeep recess of the forest; the effect of distance thus gained being\nlargely increased by the faint wreaths of blue mist that floated at times\nacross the background. Indeed I never saw an illustration at once so\nperfect and so practical of the aesthetic value of smoke.\n\nAs for the players themselves, the pleasing naturalness of their method\nharmonised delightfully with their natural surroundings. Those of them\nwho were amateurs were too artistic to be stagey, and those who were\nactors too experienced to be artificial. The humorous sadness of Jaques,\nthat philosopher in search of sensation, found a perfect exponent in Mr.\nHermann Vezin. Touchstone has been so often acted as a low comedy part\nthat Mr. Elliott\'s rendering of the swift sententious fool was a welcome\nchange, and a more graceful and winning Phebe than Mrs. Plowden, a more\ntender Celia than Miss Schletter, a more realistic Audrey than Miss\nFulton, I have never seen. Rosalind suffered a good deal through the\nomission of the first act; we saw, I mean, more of the saucy boy than we\ndid of the noble girl; and though the persiflage always told, the poetry\nwas often lost; still Miss Calhoun gave much pleasure; and Lady Archibald\nCampbell\'s Orlando was a really remarkable performance. Too melancholy\nsome seemed to think it. Yet is not Orlando lovesick? Too dreamy, I\nheard it said. Yet Orlando is a poet. And even admitting that the\nvigour of the lad who tripped up the Duke\'s wrestler was hardly\nsufficiently emphasised, still in the low music of Lady Archibald\nCampbell\'s voice, and in the strange beauty of her movements and\ngestures, there was a wonderful fascination, and the visible presence of\nromance quite consoled me for the possible absence of robustness. Among\nthe other characters should be mentioned Mr. Claude Ponsonby\'s First\nLord, Mr. De Cordova\'s Corin (a bit of excellent acting), and the Silvius\nof Mr. Webster.\n\nAs regards the costumes the colour scheme was very perfect. Brown and\ngreen were the dominant notes, and yellow was most artistically used.\nThere were, however, two distinct discords. Touchstone\'s motley was far\ntoo glaring, and the crude white of Rosalind\'s bridal raiment in the last\nact was absolutely displeasing. A contrast may be striking but should\nnever be harsh. And lovely in colour as Mrs. Plowden\'s dress was, a sort\nof panegyric on a pansy, I am afraid that in Shakespeare\'s Arden there\nwere no Chelsea China Shepherdesses, and I am sure that the romance of\nPhebe does not need to be intensified by any reminiscences of porcelain.\nStill, As You Like It has probably never been so well mounted, nor\ncostumes worn with more ease and simplicity. Not the least charming part\nof the whole production was the music, which was under the direction of\nthe Rev. Arthur Batson. The boys\' voices were quite exquisite, and Mr.\nWalsham sang with much spirit.\n\nOn the whole the Pastoral Players are to be warmly congratulated on the\nsuccess of their representation, and to the artistic sympathies of Lady\nArchibald Campbell, and the artistic knowledge of Mr. Godwin, I am\nindebted for a most delightful afternoon. Few things are so pleasurable\nas to be able by an hour\'s drive to exchange Piccadilly for Parnassus.\n\n\n\n\nA HANDBOOK TO MARRIAGE\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 18, 1885.)\n\nIn spite of its somewhat alarming title this book may be highly\nrecommended to every one. As for the authorities the author quotes, they\nare almost numberless, and range from Socrates down to Artemus Ward. He\ntells us of the wicked bachelor who spoke of marriage as \'a very harmless\namusement\' and advised a young friend of his to \'marry early and marry\noften\'; of Dr. Johnson who proposed that marriage should be arranged by\nthe Lord Chancellor, without the parties concerned having any choice in\nthe matter; of the Sussex labourer who asked, \'Why should I give a woman\nhalf my victuals for cooking the other half?\' and of Lord Verulam who\nthought that unmarried men did the best public work. And, indeed,\nmarriage is the one subject on which all women agree and all men\ndisagree. Our author, however, is clearly of the same opinion as the\nScotch lassie who, on her father warning her what a solemn thing it was\nto get married, answered, \'I ken that, father, but it\'s a great deal\nsolemner to be single.\' He may be regarded as the champion of the\nmarried life. Indeed, he has a most interesting chapter on marriage-made\nmen, and though he dissents, and we think rightly, from the view recently\nput forward by a lady or two on the Women\'s Rights platform that Solomon\nowed all his wisdom to the number of his wives, still he appeals to\nBismarck, John Stuart Mill, Mahommed and Lord Beaconsfield, as instances\nof men whose success can be traced to the influence of the women they\nmarried. Archbishop Whately once defined woman as \'a creature that does\nnot reason and pokes the fire from the top,\' but since his day the higher\neducation of women has considerably altered their position. Women have\nalways had an emotional sympathy with those they love; Girton and Newnham\nhave rendered intellectual sympathy also possible. In our day it is best\nfor a man to be married, and men must give up the tyranny in married life\nwhich was once so dear to them, and which, we are afraid, lingers still,\nhere and there.\n\n\'Do you wish to be my wife, Mabel?\' said a little boy.\n\n\'Yes,\' incautiously answered Mabel.\n\n\'Then pull off my boots.\'\n\nOn marriage vows our author has, too, very sensible views and very\namusing stories. He tells of a nervous bridegroom who, confusing the\nbaptismal and marriage ceremonies, replied when asked if he consented to\ntake the bride for his wife: \'I renounce them all\'; of a Hampshire rustic\nwho, when giving the ring, said solemnly to the bride: \'With my body I\nthee wash up, and with all my hurdle goods I thee and thou\'; of another\nwho, when asked whether he would take his partner to be his wedded wife,\nreplied with shameful indecision: \'Yes, I\'m willin\'; but I\'d a sight\nrather have her sister\'; and of a Scotch lady who, on the occasion of her\ndaughter\'s wedding, was asked by an old friend whether she might\ncongratulate her on the event, and answered: \'Yes, yes, upon the whole it\nis very satisfactory; it is true Jeannie hates her gudeman, but then\nthere\'s always a something!\' Indeed, the good stories contained in this\nbook are quite endless and make it very pleasant reading, while the good\nadvice is on all points admirable.\n\nMost young married people nowadays start in life with a dreadful\ncollection of ormolu inkstands covered with sham onyxes, or with a\nperfect museum of salt-cellars. We strongly recommend this book as one\nof the best of wedding presents. It is a complete handbook to an earthly\nParadise, and its author may be regarded as the Murray of matrimony and\nthe Baedeker of bliss.\n\nHow to be Happy though Married: Being a Handbook to Marriage. By a\nGraduate in the University of Matrimony. (T. Fisher Unwin.)\n\n\n\n\nHALF-HOURS WITH THE WORST AUTHORS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 15, 1886.)\n\nI am very much pleased to see that you are beginning to call attention to\nthe extremely slipshod and careless style of our ordinary\nmagazine-writers. Will you allow me to refer your readers to an article\non Borrow, in the current number of Macmillan, which exemplifies very\nclearly the truth of your remarks? The author of the article is Mr.\nGeorge Saintsbury, a gentleman who has recently written a book on Prose\nStyle, and here are some specimens of the prose of the future according\nto the systeme Saintsbury:\n\n1. He saw the rise, and, _in some instances, the death, of Tennyson_,\nThackeray, Macaulay, Carlyle, Dickens.\n\n2. _See a place_ which Kingsley, _or_ Mr. Ruskin, _or_ some other master\nof our decorative school, _have_ described--_much more_ one which has\nfallen into the hands of the small fry of their imitators--and you are\nalmost sure to find that _it has been overdone_.\n\n3. The great mass of his translations, published and unpublished, and\nthe smaller mass of his early hackwork, no doubt _deserves_ judicious\nexcerption.\n\n4. \'The Romany Rye\' _did not appear_ for six years, _that is to say, in_\n1857.\n\n5. The elaborate apparatus which most prose tellers of fantastic tales\n_use_, and generally _fail in using_.\n\n6. The great writers, whether they try to be like other people or try\nnot to be like them (_and sometimes in the first case most of all_),\nsucceed _only_ in being themselves.\n\n7. If he had a slight _overdose_ of Celtic blood and Celtic-peculiarity,\nit was _more than made up_ by the readiness of literary expression which\nit gave him. He, if any one, bore an English heart, though, _as there\noften has been_, there was something perhaps more than English as well as\nless than it in his fashion of expression.\n\n8. His flashes of ethical reflection, which, though like _all_ ethical\nreflections _often_ one-sided.\n\n9. He certainly was an _unfriend_ to Whiggery.\n\n10. _That it contains_ a great deal of quaint and piquant writing _is\nonly to say_ that its writer wrote it.\n\n11. \'Wild Wales,\' too, because of _its_ easy and direct _opportunity_ of\ncomparing its description with the originals.\n\n12. The capital _and_ full-length portraits.\n\n13. Whose attraction is _one_ neither mainly nor in any very great\ndegree one of pure form.\n\n14. _Constantly right in general_.\n\nThese are merely a few examples of the style of Mr. Saintsbury, a writer\nwho seems quite ignorant of the commonest laws both of grammar and of\nliterary expression, who has apparently no idea of the difference between\nthe pronouns \'this\' and \'that,\' and has as little hesitation in ending\nthe clause of a sentence with a preposition, as he has in inserting a\nparenthesis between a preposition and its object, a mistake of which the\nmost ordinary schoolboy would be ashamed. And why can not our magazine-\nwriters use plain, simple English? _Unfriend_, quoted above, is a quite\nunnecessary archaism, and so is such a phrase as _With this Borrow could\nnot away_, in the sense of \'this Borrow could not endure.\' \'Borrow\'s\n_abstraction_ from general society\' may, I suppose, pass muster. Pope\ntalks somewhere of a hermit\'s \'abstraction,\' but what is the meaning of\nsaying that the author of Lavengro _quartered_ Castile and Leon \'in the\nmost interesting manner, riding everywhere with his servant\'? And what\ndefence can be made for such an expression as \'Scott, and other _black\nbeasts_ of Borrow\'s\'? Black beast for bete noire is really abominable.\n\nThe object of my letter, however, is not to point out the deficiencies of\nMr. Saintsbury\'s style, but to express my surprise that his article\nshould have been admitted into the pages of a magazine like Macmillan\'s.\nSurely it does not require much experience to know that such an article\nis a disgrace even to magazine literature.\n\nGeorge Borrow. By George Saintsbury. (Macmillan\'s Magazine, January\n1886.)\n\n\n\n\nONE OF MR. CONWAY\'S REMAINDERS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 1, 1886.)\n\nMost people know that in the concoction of a modern novel crime is a more\nimportant ingredient than culture. Mr. Hugh Conway certainly knew it,\nand though for cleverness of invention and ingenuity of construction he\ncannot be compared to M. Gaboriau, that master of murder and its\nmysteries, still he fully recognised the artistic value of villainy. His\nlast novel, A Cardinal Sin, opens very well. Mr. Philip Bourchier, M.P.\nfor Westshire and owner of Redhills, is travelling home from London in a\nfirst-class railway carriage when, suddenly, through the window enters a\nrough-looking middle-aged man brandishing a long-lost marriage\ncertificate, the effect of which is to deprive the right honourable\nmember of his property and estate. However, Mr. Bourchier, M.P., is\nquite equal to the emergency. On the arrival of the train at its\ndestination, he invites the unwelcome intruder to drive home with him\nand, reaching a lonely road, shoots him through the head and gives\ninformation to the nearest magistrate that he has rid society of a\ndangerous highwayman.\n\nMr. Bourchier is brought to trial and triumphantly acquitted. So far,\neverything goes well with him. Unfortunately, however, the murdered man,\nwith that superhuman strength which on the stage and in novels always\naccompanies the agony of death, had managed in falling from the dog-cart\nto throw the marriage certificate up a fir tree! There it is found by a\nworthy farmer who talks that conventional rustic dialect which, though\nunknown in the provinces, is such a popular element in every Adelphi\nmelodrama; and it ultimately falls into the hands of an unscrupulous\nyoung man who succeeds in blackmailing Mr. Bourchier and in marrying his\ndaughter. Mr. Bourchier suffers tortures from excess of chloral and of\nremorse; and there is psychology of a weird and wonderful kind, that kind\nwhich Mr. Conway may justly be said to have invented and the result of\nwhich is not to be underrated. For, if to raise a goose skin on the\nreader be the aim of art, Mr. Conway must be regarded as a real artist.\nSo harrowing is his psychology that the ordinary methods of punctuation\nare quite inadequate to convey it. Agony and asterisks follow each other\non every page and, as the murderer\'s conscience sinks deeper into chaos,\nthe chaos of commas increases.\n\nFinally, Mr. Bourchier dies, splendide mendax to the end. A confession,\nhe rightly argued, would break up the harmony of the family circle,\nparticularly as his eldest son had married the daughter of his luckless\nvictim. Few criminals are so thoughtful for others as Mr. Bourchier is,\nand we are not without admiration for the unselfishness of one who can\ngive up the luxury of a death-bed repentance.\n\nA Cardinal Sin, then, on the whole, may be regarded as a crude novel of a\ncommon melodramatic type. What is painful about it is its style, which\nis slipshod and careless. To describe a honeymoon as a _rare occurrence\nin any one person\'s life_ is rather amusing. There is an American story\nof a young couple who had to be married by telephone, as the bridegroom\nlived in Nebraska and the bride in New York, and they had to go on\nseparate honeymoons; though, perhaps, this is not what Mr. Conway meant.\nBut what can be said for a sentence like this?--\'The established\nfavourites in the musical world are never quite sure but the _new comer_\nmay not be _one among the many they have seen fail_\'; or this?--\'As it is\nthe fate of such a very small number of men to marry a prima donna, I\nshall be doing little harm, _or be likely to change plans of life_, by\nenumerating some of the disadvantages.\' The nineteenth century may be a\nprosaic age, but we fear that, if we are to judge by the general run of\nnovels, it is not an age of prose.\n\nA Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Conway. (Remington and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTO READ OR NOT TO READ\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 8, 1886.)\n\nBooks, I fancy, may be conveniently divided into three classes:--\n\n1. Books to read, such as Cicero\'s Letters, Suetonius, Vasari\'s Lives of\nthe Painters, the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, Sir John\nMandeville, Marco Polo, St. Simon\'s Memoirs, Mommsen, and (till we get a\nbetter one) Grote\'s History of Greece.\n\n2. Books to re-read, such as Plato and Keats: in the sphere of poetry,\nthe masters not the minstrels; in the sphere of philosophy, the seers not\nthe savants.\n\n3. Books not to read at all, such as Thomson\'s Seasons, Rogers\'s Italy,\nPaley\'s Evidences, all the Fathers except St. Augustine, all John Stuart\nMill except the essay on Liberty, all Voltaire\'s plays without any\nexception, Butler\'s Analogy, Grant\'s Aristotle, Hume\'s England, Lewes\'s\nHistory of Philosophy, all argumentative books and all books that try to\nprove anything.\n\nThe third class is by far the most important. To tell people what to\nread is, as a rule, either useless or harmful; for, the appreciation of\nliterature is a question of temperament not of teaching; to Parnassus\nthere is no primer and nothing that one can learn is ever worth learning.\nBut to tell people what not to read is a very different matter, and I\nventure to recommend it as a mission to the University Extension Scheme.\n\nIndeed, it is one that is eminently needed in this age of ours, an age\nthat reads so much, that it has no time to admire, and writes so much,\nthat it has no time to think. Whoever will select out of the chaos of\nour modern curricula \'The Worst Hundred Books,\' and publish a list of\nthem, will confer on the rising generation a real and lasting benefit.\n\nAfter expressing these views I suppose I should not offer any suggestions\nat all with regard to \'The Best Hundred Books,\' but I hope you will allow\nme the pleasure of being inconsistent, as I am anxious to put in a claim\nfor a book that has been strangely omitted by most of the excellent\njudges who have contributed to your columns. I mean the Greek Anthology.\nThe beautiful poems contained in this collection seem to me to hold the\nsame position with regard to Greek dramatic literature as do the delicate\nlittle figurines of Tanagra to the Phidian marbles, and to be quite as\nnecessary for the complete understanding of the Greek spirit.\n\nI am also amazed to find that Edgar Allan Poe has been passed over.\nSurely this marvellous lord of rhythmic expression deserves a place? If,\nin order to make room for him, it be necessary to elbow out some one\nelse, I should elbow out Southey, and I think that Baudelaire might be\nmost advantageously substituted for Keble.\n\nNo doubt, both in the Curse of Kehama and in the Christian Year there are\npoetic qualities of a certain kind, but absolute catholicity of taste is\nnot without its dangers. It is only an auctioneer who should admire all\nschools of art.\n\n\n\n\nTWELFTH NIGHT AT OXFORD\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, February 20, 1886.)\n\nOn Saturday last the new theatre at Oxford was opened by the University\nDramatic Society. The play selected was Shakespeare\'s delightful comedy\nof Twelfth Night, a play eminently suitable for performance by a club, as\nit contains so many good acting parts. Shakespeare\'s tragedies may be\nmade for a single star, but his comedies are made for a galaxy of\nconstellations. In the first he deals with the pathos of the individual,\nin the second he gives us a picture of life. The Oxford undergraduates,\nthen, are to be congratulated on the selection of the play, and the\nresult fully justified their choice. Mr. Bourchier as Festa the clown\nwas easy, graceful and joyous, as fanciful as his dress and as funny as\nhis bauble. The beautiful songs which Shakespeare has assigned to this\ncharacter were rendered by him as charmingly as they were dramatically.\nTo act singing is quite as great an art as to sing. Mr. Letchmere Stuart\nwas a delightful Sir Andrew, and gave much pleasure to the audience. One\nmay hate the villains of Shakespeare, but one cannot help loving his\nfools. Mr. Macpherson was, perhaps, hardly equal to such an immortal\npart as that of Sir Toby Belch, though there was much that was clever in\nhis performance. Mr. Lindsay threw new and unexpected light on the\ncharacter of Fabian, and Mr. Clark\'s Malvolio was a most remarkable piece\nof acting. What a difficult part Malvolio is! Shakespeare undoubtedly\nmeant us to laugh all through at the pompous steward, and to join in the\npractical joke upon him, and yet how impossible not to feel a good deal\nof sympathy with him! Perhaps in this century we are too altruistic to\nbe really artistic. Hazlitt says somewhere that poetical justice is done\nhim in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken\nattachment to Orsino, as her insensibility to the violence of the Duke\'s\npassion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola\'s concealed love for him;\nbut it is difficult not to feel Malvolio\'s treatment is unnecessarily\nharsh. Mr. Clark, however, gave a very clever rendering, full of subtle\ntouches. If I ventured on a bit of advice, which I feel most reluctant\nto do, it would be to the effect that while one should always study the\nmethod of a great artist, one should never imitate his manner. The\nmanner of an artist is essentially individual, the method of an artist is\nabsolutely universal. The first is personality, which no one should\ncopy; the second is perfection, which all should aim at. Miss Arnold was\na most sprightly Maria, and Miss Farmer a dignified Olivia; but as Viola\nMrs. Bewicke was hardly successful. Her manner was too boisterous and\nher method too modern. Where there is violence there is no Viola, where\nthere is no illusion there is no Illyria, and where there is no style\nthere is no Shakespeare. Mr. Higgins looked the part of Sebastian to\nperfection, and some of the minor characters were excellently played by\nMr. Adderley, Mr. King-Harman, Mr. Coningsby Disraeli and Lord Albert\nOsborne. On the whole, the performance reflected much credit on the\nDramatic Society; indeed, its excellence was such that I am led to hope\nthat the University will some day have a theatre of its own, and that\nproficiency in scene-painting will be regarded as a necessary\nqualification for the Slade Professorship. On the stage, literature\nreturns to life and archaeology becomes art. A fine theatre is a temple\nwhere all the muses may meet, a second Parnassus, and the dramatic\nspirit, though she has long tarried at Cambridge, seems now to be\nmigrating to Oxford.\n\n Thebes did her green unknowing youth engage;\n She chooses Athens in her riper age.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LETTERS OF A GREAT WOMAN\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 6, 1886.)\n\nOf the many collections of letters that have appeared in this century\nfew, if any, can rival for fascination of style and variety of incident\nthe letters of George Sand which have recently been translated into\nEnglish by M. Ledos de Beaufort. They extend over a space of more than\nsixty years, from 1812 to 1876, in fact, and comprise the first letters\nof Aurore Dupin, a child of eight years old, as well as the last letters\nof George Sand, a woman of seventy-two. The very early letters, those of\nthe child and of the young married woman, possess, of course, merely a\npsychological interest; but from 1831, the date of Madame Dudevant\'s\nseparation from her husband and her first entry into Paris life, the\ninterest becomes universal, and the literary and political history of\nFrance is mirrored in every page.\n\nFor George Sand was an indefatigable correspondent; she longs in one of\nher letters, it is true, for \'a planet where reading and writing are\nabsolutely unknown,\' but still she had a real pleasure in letter-writing.\nHer greatest delight was the communication of ideas, and she is always in\nthe heart of the battle. She discusses pauperism with Louis Napoleon in\nhis prison at Ham, and liberty with Armand Barbes in his dungeon at\nVincennes; she writes to Lamennais on philosophy, to Mazzini on\nsocialism, to Lamartine on democracy, and to Ledru-Rollin on justice. Her\nletters reveal to us not merely the life of a great novelist but the soul\nof a great woman, of a woman who was one with all the noblest movements\nof her day and whose sympathy with humanity was boundless absolutely. For\nthe aristocracy of intellect she had always the deepest veneration, but\nthe democracy of suffering touched her more. She preached the\nregeneration of mankind, not with the noisy ardour of the paid advocate,\nbut with the enthusiasm of the true evangelist. Of all the artists of\nthis century she was the most altruistic; she felt every one\'s\nmisfortunes except her own. Her faith never left her; to the end of her\nlife, as she tells us, she was able to believe without illusions. But\nthe people disappointed her a little. She saw that they followed persons\nnot principles, and for \'the great man theory\' George Sand had no\nrespect. \'Proper names are the enemies of principles\' is one of her\naphorisms.\n\nSo from 1850 her letters are more distinctly literary. She discusses\nmodern realism with Flaubert, and play-writing with Dumas fils; and\nprotests with passionate vehemence against the doctrine of L\'art pour\nl\'art. \'Art for the sake of itself is an idle sentence,\' she writes;\n\'art for the sake of truth, for the sake of what is beautiful and good,\nthat is the creed I seek.\' And in a delightful letter to M. Charles\nPoncy she repeats the same idea very charmingly. \'People say that birds\nsing for the sake of singing, but I doubt it. They sing their loves and\nhappiness, and in that they are in keeping with nature. But man must do\nsomething more, and poets only sing in order to move people and to make\nthem think.\' She wanted M. Poncy to be the poet of the people and, if\ngood advice were all that had been needed, he would certainly have been\nthe Burns of the workshop. She drew out a delightful scheme for a volume\nto be called Songs of all Trades and saw the possibilities of making\nhandicrafts poetic. Perhaps she valued good intentions in art a little\ntoo much, and she hardly understood that art for art\'s sake is not meant\nto express the final cause of art but is merely a formula of creation;\nbut, as she herself had scaled Parnassus, we must not quarrel at her\nbringing Proletarianism with her. For George Sand must be ranked among\nour poetic geniuses. She regarded the novel as still within the domain\nof poetry. Her heroes are not dead photographs; they are great\npossibilities. Modern novels are dissections; hers are dreams. \'I make\npopular types,\' she writes, \'such as I do no longer see, but such as they\nshould and might be.\' For realism, in M. Zola\'s acceptation of the word,\nshe had no admiration. Art to her was a mirror that transfigured truths\nbut did not represent realities. Hence she could not understand art\nwithout personality. \'I am aware,\' she writes to Flaubert, \'that you are\nopposed to the exposition of personal doctrine in literature. Are you\nright? Does not your opposition proceed rather from a want of conviction\nthan from a principle of aesthetics? If we have any philosophy in our\nbrain it must needs break forth in our writings. But you, as soon as you\nhandle literature, you seem anxious, I know not why, to be another man,\nthe one who must disappear, who annihilates himself and is no more. What\na singular mania! What a deficient taste! The worth of our productions\ndepends entirely on our own. Besides, if we withhold our own opinions\nrespecting the personages we create, we naturally leave the reader in\nuncertainty as to the opinion he should himself form of them. That\namounts to wishing not to be understood, and the result of this is that\nthe reader gets weary of us and leaves us.\'\n\nShe herself, however, may be said to have suffered from too dominant a\npersonality, and this was the reason of the failure of most of her plays.\n\nOf the drama in the sense of disinterested presentation she had no idea,\nand what is the strength and life-blood of her novels is the weakness of\nher dramatic works. But in the main she was right. Art without\npersonality is impossible. And yet the aim of art is not to reveal\npersonality, but to please. This she hardly recognised in her aesthetics,\nthough she realised it in her work. On literary style she has some\nexcellent remarks. She dislikes the extravagances of the romantic school\nand sees the beauty of simplicity. \'Simplicity,\' she writes, \'is the\nmost difficult thing to secure in this world: it is the last limit of\nexperience and the last effort of genius.\' She hated the slang and argot\nof Paris life, and loved the words used by the peasants in the provinces.\n\'The provinces,\' she remarks, \'preserve the tradition of the original\ntongue and create but few new words. I feel much respect for the\nlanguage of the peasantry; in my estimation it is the more correct.\'\n\nShe thought Flaubert too much preoccupied with the sense of form, and\nmakes these excellent observations to him--perhaps her best piece of\nliterary criticism. \'You consider the form as the aim, whereas it is but\nthe effect. Happy expressions are only the outcome of emotion and\nemotion itself proceeds from a conviction. We are only moved by that\nwhich we ardently believe in.\' Literary schools she distrusted.\nIndividualism was to her the keystone of art as well as of life. \'Do not\nbelong to any school: do not imitate any model,\' is her advice. Yet she\nnever encouraged eccentricity. \'Be correct,\' she writes to Eugene\nPelletan, \'that is rarer than being eccentric, as the time goes. It is\nmuch more common to please by bad taste than to receive the cross of\nhonour.\'\n\nOn the whole, her literary advice is sound and healthy. She never\nshrieks and she never sneers. She is the incarnation of good sense. And\nthe whole collection of her letters is a perfect treasure-house of\nsuggestions both on art and on politics. The manner of the translation\nis often rather clumsy, but the matter is always so intensely interesting\nthat we can afford to be charitable.\n\nLetters of George Sand. Translated and edited by Raphael Ledos de\nBeaufort. (Ward and Downey.)\n\n\n\n\nNEWS FROM PARNASSUS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 12, 1886.)\n\nThat most delightful of all French critics, M. Edmond Scherer, has\nrecently stated in an article on Wordsworth that the English read far\nmore poetry than any other European nation. We sincerely hope this may\nbe true, not merely for the sake of the public but for the sake of the\npoets also. It would be sad indeed if the many volumes of poems that are\nevery year published in London found no readers but the authors\nthemselves and the authors\' relations; and the real philanthropist should\nrecognise it as part of his duties to buy every new book of verse that\nappears. Sometimes, we acknowledge, he will be disappointed, often he\nwill be bored; still now and then he will be amply rewarded for his\nreckless benevolence.\n\nMr. George Francis Armstrong\'s Stories of Wicklow, for instance, is most\npleasant reading. Mr. Armstrong is already well known as the author of\nUgone, King Saul and other dramas, and his latest volume shows that the\npower and passion of his early work has not deserted him. Most modern\nIrish poetry is purely political and deals with the wickedness of the\nlandlords and the Tories; but Mr. Armstrong sings of the picturesqueness\nof Erin, not of its politics. He tells us very charmingly of the magic\nof its mists and the melody of its colour, and draws a most captivating\npicture of the peasants of the county Wicklow, whom he describes as\n\n A kindly folk in vale and moor,\n Unvexed with rancours, frank and free\n In mood and manners--rich with poor\n Attuned in happiest amity:\n Where still the cottage door is wide,\n The stranger welcomed at the hearth,\n And pleased the humbler hearts confide\n Still in the friend of gentler birth.\n\nThe most ambitious poem in the volume is De Verdun of Darragh. It is at\nonce lyrical and dramatic, and though its manner reminds us of Browning\nand its method of Maud, still all through it there is a personal and\nindividual note. Mr. Armstrong also carefully observes the rules of\ndecorum, and, as he promises his readers in a preface, keeps quite clear\nof \'the seas of sensual art.\' In fact, an elderly maiden lady could read\nthis volume without a blush, a thrill, or even an emotion.\n\nDr. Goodchild does not possess Mr. Armstrong\'s literary touch, but his\nSomnia Medici is distinguished by a remarkable quality of forcible and\ndirect expression. The poem that opens his volume, Myrrha, or A Dialogue\non Creeds, is quite as readable as a metrical dialogue on creeds could\npossibly be; and The Organ Builder is a most romantic story charmingly\ntold. Dr. Goodchild seems to be an ardent disciple of Mr. Browning, and\nthough he may not be able to reproduce the virtues of his master, at\nleast he can echo his defects very cleverly. Such a verse as--\n\n \'Tis the subtle essayal\n Of the Jews and Judas,\n Such lying lisp\n Might hail a will-o\'-the-wisp,\n A thin somebody--Theudas--\n\nis an excellent example of low comedy in poetry. One of the best poems\nin the book is The Ballad of Three Kingdoms. Indeed, if the form were\nequal to the conception, it would be a delightful work of art; but Dr.\nGoodchild, though he may be a master of metres, is not a master of music\nyet. His verse is often harsh and rugged. On the whole, however, his\nvolume is clever and interesting.\n\nMr. Keene has not, we believe, a great reputation in England as yet, but\nin India he seems to be well known. From a collection of criticisms\nappended to his volume it appears that the Overland Mail has christened\nhim the Laureate of Hindostan and that the Allahabad Pioneer once\ncompared him to Keats. He is a pleasant rhymer, as rhymers go, and,\nthough we strongly object to his putting the Song of Solomon into bad\nblank verse, still we are quite ready to admire his translations of the\nPervigilium Veneris and of Omar Khayyam. We wish he would not write\nsonnets with fifteen lines. A fifteen-line sonnet is as bad a\nmonstrosity as a sonnet in dialogue. The volume has the merit of being\nvery small, and contains many stanzas quite suitable for valentines.\n\nFinally we come to Procris and Other Poems, by Mr. W. G. Hole. Mr. Hole\nis apparently a very young writer. His work, at least, is full of\ncrudities, his syntax is defective, and his grammar is questionable. And\nyet, when all is said, in the one poem of Procris it is easy to recognise\nthe true poetic ring. Elsewhere the volume is amateurish and weak. The\nSpanish Main was suggested by a leader in the Daily Telegraph, and bears\nall the traces of its lurid origin. Sir Jocellyn\'s Trust is a sort of\npseudo-Tennysonian idyll in which the damozel says to her gallant\nrescuer, \'Come, come, Sir Knight, I catch my death of cold,\' and\nrecompenses him with\n\n What noble minds\n Regard the first reward,--an orphan\'s thanks.\n\nNunc Dimittis is dull and The Wandering Jew dreadful; but Procris is a\nbeautiful poem. The richness and variety of its metaphors, the music of\nits lines, the fine opulence of its imagery, all seem to point to a new\npoet. Faults, it is true, there are in abundance; but they are faults\nthat come from want of trouble, not from want of taste. Mr. Hole shows\noften a rare and exquisite sense of beauty and a marvellous power of\npoetic vision, and if he will cultivate the technique of his craft a\nlittle more we have no doubt but that he will some day give us work\nworthy to endure. It is true that there is more promise than perfection\nin his verse at present, yet it is a promise that seems likely to be\nfulfilled.\n\n(1) Stories of Wicklow. By George Francis Armstrong, M.A. (Longmans,\nGreen and Co.)\n\n(2) Somnia Medici. By John A. Goodchild. Second Series. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(3) Verses: Translated and Original. By H. E. Keene. (W. H. Allen and\nCo.)\n\n(4) Procris and Other Poems. By W. G. Hole. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME NOVELS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 14, 1886.)\n\nAfter a careful perusal of \'Twixt Love and Duty, by Mr. Tighe Hopkins, we\nconfess ourselves unable to inform anxious inquirers who it is that is\nthus sandwiched, and how he (or she) got into so unpleasant a\npredicament. The curious reader with a taste for enigmas may be advised\nto find out for himself--if he can. Even if he be unsuccessful, his\ntrouble will be repaid by the pleasant writing and clever character\ndrawing of Mr. Hopkins\'s tale. The plot is less praiseworthy. The whole\nMadeira episode seems to lead up to this dilemma, and after all it comes\nto nothing. We brace up our nerves for a tragedy and are treated instead\nto the mildest of marivaudage--which is disappointing. In conclusion,\none word of advice to Mr. Hopkins: let him refrain from apostrophising\nhis characters after this fashion: \'Oh, Gilbert Reade, what are you about\nthat you dally with this golden chance?\' and so forth. This is one of\nthe worst mannerisms of a bygone generation of story tellers.\n\nMr. Gallenga has written, as he says, \'a tale without a murder,\' but\nhaving put a pistol-ball through his hero\'s chest and left him alive and\nhearty notwithstanding, he cannot be said to have produced a tale without\na miracle. His heroine, too, if we may judge by his descriptions of her,\nis \'all a wonder and a wild desire.\' At the age of seventeen she \'was\none of the Great Maker\'s masterpieces . . . a living likeness of the\nDresden Madonna.\' One rather shudders to think of what she may become at\nforty, but this is an impertinent prying into futurity. She hails from\n\'Maryland, my Maryland!\' and has \'received a careful, if not a superior,\neducation.\' Need we add that she marries the heir to an earldom who, as\naforesaid, has had himself perforated by a pistol-bullet on her behalf?\nMr. Gallenga\'s division of this book into acts and scenes is not\njustified by anything specially dramatic either in its structure or its\nmethod. The dialogue, in truth, is somewhat stilted. Nevertheless, its\nfirst-hand sketches of Roman society are not without interest, and one or\ntwo characters seem to be drawn from nature.\n\nThe Life\'s Mistake which forms the theme of Mrs. Lovett Cameron\'s two\nvolumes is not a mistake after all, but results in unmixed felicity; and\nas it is brought about by fraud on the part of the hero, this conclusion\nis not as moral as it might be. For the rest, the tale is a very\nfamiliar one. Its personages are the embarrassed squire with his\ncharming daughter, the wealthy and amorous mortgagee, and the sailor\nlover who is either supposed to be drowned or falsely represented to be\nfickle--in Mrs. Cameron\'s tale he is both in succession. When we add\nthat there is a stanza from Byron on the title-page and a poetical\nquotation at the beginning of each chapter, we have possessed the\ndiscerning reader of all necessary information both as to the matter and\nthe manner of Mrs. Cameron\'s performance.\n\nMr. E. O. Pleydell-Bouverie has endowed the novel-writing fraternity with\na new formula for the composition of titles. After J. S.; or,\nTrivialities there is no reason why we should not have A. B.; or,\nPlatitudes, M.N.; or, Sentimentalisms, Y.Z.; or, Inanities. There are\nmany books which these simple titles would characterise much more aptly\nthan any high-flown phrases--as aptly, in fact, as Mr. Bouverie\'s title\ncharacterises the volume before us. It sets forth the uninteresting\nfortunes of an insignificant person, one John Stiles, a briefless\nbarrister. The said John falls in love with a young lady, inherits a\ncompetence, omits to tell his love, and is killed by the bursting of a\nfowling-piece--that is all. The only point of interest presented by the\nbook is the problem as to how it ever came to be written. We can\nscarcely find the solution in Mr. Bouverie\'s elaborately smart style\nwhich cannot be said to transmute his \'trivialities\' into \'flies in\namber.\'\n\nMr. Swinburne once proposed that it should be a penal offence against\nliterature for any writer to affix a proverb, a phrase or a quotation to\na novel, by way of tag or title. We wonder what he would say to the\ntitle of \'Pen Oliver\'s\' last book! Probably he would empty on it the\nbitter vial of his scorn and satire. All But is certainly an intolerable\nname to give to any literary production. The story, however, is quite an\ninteresting one. At Laxenford Hall live Lord and Lady Arthur Winstanley.\nLady Arthur has two children by her first marriage, the elder of whom,\nWalter Hope-Kennedy by name, is heir to the broad acres. Walter is a\npleasant English boy, fonder of cricket than of culture, healthy, happy\nand susceptible. He falls in love with Fanny Taylor, a pretty village\ngirl; is thrown out of his dog-cart one night through the machinations of\na jealous rival, breaks one of his ribs and gets a violent fever. His\nstepfather tries to murder him by subcutaneous injections of morphia but\nis detected by the local doctor, and Walter recovers. However, he does\nnot marry Fanny after all, and the story ends ineffectually. To say of a\ndress that \'it was rather under than over adorned\' is not very pleasing\nEnglish, and such a phrase as \'almost always, but by no means\ninvariably,\' is quite detestable. Still we must not expect the master of\nthe scalpel to be the master of the stilus as well. All But is a very\ncharming tale, and the sketches of village life are quite admirable. We\nrecommend it to all who are tired of the productions of Mr. Hugh Conway\'s\ndreadful disciples.\n\n(1) \'Twixt Love and Duty: A Novel. By Tighe Hopkins. (Chatto and\nWindus.)\n\n(2) Jenny Jennet: A Tale Without a Murder. By A. Gallenga. (Chapman and\nHall.)\n\n(3) A Life\'s Mistake: A Novel. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. (Ward and\nDowney.)\n\n(4) J. S.; or, Trivialities: A Novel. By Edward Oliver\nPleydell-Bouverie. (Griffith, Farren and Co.)\n\n(5) All But: A Chronicle of Laxenford Life. By Pen Oliver, F.R.C.S.\n(Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nA LITERARY PILGRIM\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 17, 1886.)\n\nAntiquarian books, as a rule, are extremely dull reading. They give us\nfacts without form, science without style, and learning without life. An\nexception, however, must be made for M. Gaston Boissier\'s Promenades\nArcheologiques. M. Boissier is a most pleasant and picturesque writer,\nand is really able to give his readers useful information without ever\nboring them, an accomplishment which is entirely unknown in Germany, and\nin England is extremely rare.\n\nThe first essay in his book is on the probable site of Horace\'s country-\nhouse, a subject that has interested many scholars from the Renaissance\ndown to our own day. M. Boissier, following the investigations of Signor\nRosa, places it on a little hill over-looking the Licenza, and his theory\nhas a great deal to recommend it. The plough still turns up on the spot\nthe bricks and tiles of an old Roman villa; a spring of clear water, like\nthat of which the poet so often sang, \'breaks babbling from the hollow\nrock,\' and is still called by the peasants Fonte dell\' Oratini, some\nfaint echo possibly of the singer\'s name; the view from the hill is just\nwhat is described in the epistles, \'Continui montes nisi dissocientur\nopaca valle\'; hard by is the site of the ruined temple of Vacuna, where\nHorace tells us he wrote one of his poems, and the local rustics still go\nto Varia (Vicovaro) on market days as they used to do when the graceful\nRoman lyrist sauntered through his vines and played at being a country\ngentleman.\n\nM. Boissier, however, is not content merely with identifying the poet\'s\nhouse; he also warmly defends him from the charge that has been brought\nagainst him of servility in accepting it. He points out that it was only\nafter the invention of printing that literature became a money-making\nprofession, and that, as there was no copyright law at Rome to prevent\nbooks being pirated, patrons had to take the place that publishers hold,\nor should hold, nowadays. The Roman patron, in fact, kept the Roman poet\nalive, and we fancy that many of our modern bards rather regret the old\nsystem. Better, surely, the humiliation of the sportula than the\nindignity of a bill for printing! Better to accept a country-house as a\ngift than to be in debt to one\'s landlady! On the whole, the patron was\nan excellent institution, if not for poetry at least for the poets; and\nthough he had to be propitiated by panegyrics, still are we not told by\nour most shining lights that the subject is of no importance in a work of\nart? M. Boissier need not apologise for Horace: every poet longs for a\nMaecenas.\n\nAn essay on the Etruscan tombs at Corneto follows, and the remainder of\nthe volume is taken up by a most fascinating article called Le Pays de\nl\'Eneide. M. Boissier claims for Virgil\'s descriptions of scenery an\nabsolute fidelity of detail. \'Les poetes anciens,\' he says, \'ont le gout\nde la precision et de la fidelite: ils n\'imaginent guere de paysages en\nl\'air,\' and with this view he visited every place in Italy and Sicily\nthat Virgil has mentioned. Sometimes, it is true, modern civilisation,\nor modern barbarism, has completely altered the aspect of the scene; the\n\'desolate shore of Drepanum,\' for instance (\'Drepani illaetabilis ora\')\nis now covered with thriving manufactories and stucco villas, and the\n\'bird-haunted forest\' through which the Tiber flowed into the sea has\nlong ago disappeared. Still, on the whole, the general character of the\nItalian landscape is unchanged, and M. Boissier\'s researches show very\nclearly how personal and how vivid were Virgil\'s impressions of nature.\nThe subject is, of course, a most interesting one, and those who love to\nmake pilgrimages without stirring from home cannot do better than spend\nthree shillings on the French Academician\'s Promenades Archeologiques.\n\nNouvelles Promenades Archeologiques, Horace et Virgile. By Gaston\nBoissier. (Hachette.)\n\n\n\n\nBERANGER IN ENGLAND\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 21, 1886.)\n\nA philosophic politician once remarked that the best possible form of\ngovernment is an absolute monarchy tempered by street ballads. Without\nat all agreeing with this aphorism we still cannot but regret that the\nnew democracy does not use poetry as a means for the expression of\npolitical opinion. The Socialists, it is true, have been heard singing\nthe later poems of Mr. William Morris, but the street ballad is really\ndead in England. The fact is that most modern poetry is so artificial in\nits form, so individual in its essence and so literary in its style, that\nthe people as a body are little moved by it, and when they have\ngrievances against the capitalist or the aristocrat they prefer strikes\nto sonnets and rioting to rondels.\n\nPossibly, Mr. William Toynbee\'s pleasant little volume of translations\nfrom Beranger may be the herald of a new school. Beranger had all the\nqualifications for a popular poet. He wrote to be sung more than to be\nread; he preferred the Pont Neuf to Parnassus; he was patriotic as well\nas romantic, and humorous as well as humane. Translations of poetry as a\nrule are merely misrepresentations, but the muse of Beranger is so simple\nand naive that she can wear our English dress with ease and grace, and\nMr. Toynbee has kept much of the mirth and music of the original. Here\nand there, undoubtedly, the translation could be improved upon; \'rapiers\'\nfor instance is an abominable rhyme to \'forefathers\'; \'the hated arms of\nAlbion\' in the same poem is a very feeble rendering of \'le leopard de\nl\'Anglais,\' and such a verse as\n\n \'Mid France\'s miracles of art,\n Rare trophies won from art\'s own land,\n I\'ve lived to see with burning heart\n The fog-bred poor triumphant stand,\n\nreproduces very inadequately the charm of the original:\n\n Dans nos palais, ou, pres de la victoire,\n Brillaient les arts, doux fruits des beaux climats,\n J\'ai vu du Nord les peuplades sans gloire,\n De leurs manteaux secouer les frimas.\n\nOn the whole, however, Mr. Toynbee\'s work is good; Les Champs, for\nexample, is very well translated, and so are the two delightful poems\nRosette and Ma Republique; and there is a good deal of spirit in Le\nMarquis de Carabas:\n\n Whom have we here in conqueror\'s role?\n Our grand old Marquis, bless his soul!\n Whose grand old charger (mark his bone!)\n Has borne him back to claim his own.\n Note, if you please, the grand old style\n In which he nears his grand old pile;\n With what an air of grand old state\n He waves that blade immaculate!\n Hats off, hats off, for my lord to pass,\n The grand old Marquis of Carabas!--\n\nthough \'that blade immaculate\' has hardly got the sting of \'un sabre\ninnocent\'; and in the fourth verse of the same poem, \'Marquise, you\'ll\nhave the bed-chamber\' does not very clearly convey the sense of the line\n\'La Marquise a le tabouret.\' The best translation in the book is The\nCourt Suit (L\'Habit de Cour), and if Mr. Toynbee will give us some more\nwork as clever as this we shall be glad to see a second volume from his\npen. Beranger is not nearly well enough known in England, and though it\nis always better to read a poet in the original, still translations have\ntheir value as echoes have their music.\n\nA Selection from the Songs of De Beranger in English Verse. By William\nToynbee. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 13, 1886.)\n\nThe Countess Martinengo deserves well of all poets, peasants and\npublishers. Folklore is so often treated nowadays merely from the point\nof view of the comparative mythologist, that it is really delightful to\ncome across a book that deals with the subject simply as literature. For\nthe Folk-tale is the father of all fiction as the Folk-song is the mother\nof all poetry; and in the games, the tales and the ballads of primitive\npeople it is easy to see the germs of such perfected forms of art as the\ndrama, the novel and the epic. It is, of course, true that the highest\nexpression of life is to be found not in the popular songs, however\npoetical, of any nation, but in the great masterpieces of self-conscious\nArt; yet it is pleasant sometimes to leave the summit of Parnassus to\nlook at the wild-flowers in the valley, and to turn from the lyre of\nApollo to listen to the reed of Pan. We can still listen to it. To this\nday, the vineyard dressers of Calabria will mock the passer-by with\nsatirical verses as they used to do in the old pagan days, and the\npeasants of the olive woods of Provence answer each other in amoebaean\nstrains. The Sicilian shepherd has not yet thrown his pipe aside, and\nthe children of modern Greece sing the swallow-song through the villages\nin spring-time, though Theognis is more than two thousand years dead. Nor\nis this popular poetry merely the rhythmic expression of joy and sorrow;\nit is in the highest degree imaginative; and taking its inspiration\ndirectly from nature it abounds in realistic metaphor and in picturesque\nand fantastic imagery. It must, of course, be admitted that there is a\nconventionality of nature as there is a conventionality of art, and that\ncertain forms of utterance are apt to become stereotyped by too constant\nuse; yet, on the whole, it is impossible not to recognise in the Folk-\nsongs that the Countess Martinengo has brought together one strong\ndominant note of fervent and flawless sincerity. Indeed, it is only in\nthe more terrible dramas of the Elizabethan age that we can find any\nparallel to the Corsican voceri with their shrill intensity of passion,\ntheir awful frenzies of grief and hate. And yet, ardent as the feeling\nis, the form is nearly always beautiful. Now and then, in the poems of\nthe extreme South one meets with a curious crudity of realism, but, as a\nrule, the sense of beauty prevails.\n\nSome of the Folk-poems in this book have all the lightness and loveliness\nof lyrics, all of them have that sweet simplicity of pure song by which\nmirth finds its own melody and mourning its own music, and even where\nthere are conceits of thought and expression they are conceits born of\nfancy not of affectation. Herrick himself might have envied that\nwonderful love-song of Provence:\n\n If thou wilt be the falling dew\n And fall on me alway,\n Then I will be the white, white rose\n On yonder thorny spray.\n If thou wilt be the white, white rose\n On yonder thorny spray,\n Then I will be the honey-bee\n And kiss thee all the day.\n\n If thou wilt be the honey-bee\n And kiss me all the day,\n Then I will be in yonder heaven\n The star of brightest ray.\n If thou wilt be in yonder heaven\n The star of brightest ray,\n Then I will be the dawn, and we\n Shall meet at break of day.\n\nHow charming also is this lullaby by which the Corsican mother sings her\nbabe to sleep!\n\n Gold and pearls my vessel lade,\n Silk and cloth the cargo be,\n All the sails are of brocade\n Coming from beyond the sea;\n And the helm of finest gold,\n Made a wonder to behold.\n Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n After you were born full soon,\n You were christened all aright;\n Godmother she was the moon,\n Godfather the sun so bright.\n All the stars in heaven told\n Wore their necklaces of gold.\n Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\nOr this from Roumania:\n\n Sleep, my daughter, sleep an hour;\n Mother\'s darling gilliflower.\n Mother rocks thee, standing near,\n She will wash thee in the clear\n Waters that from fountains run,\n To protect thee from the sun.\n\n Sleep, my darling, sleep an hour,\n Grow thou as the gilliflower.\n As a tear-drop be thou white,\n As a willow tall and slight;\n Gentle as the ring-doves are,\n And be lovely as a star!\n\nWe hardly know what poems are sung to English babies, but we hope they\nare as beautiful as these two. Blake might have written them.\n\nThe Countess Martinengo has certainly given us a most fascinating book.\nIn a volume of moderate dimensions, not too long to be tiresome nor too\nbrief to be disappointing, she has collected together the best examples\nof modern Folk-songs, and with her as a guide the lazy reader lounging in\nhis armchair may wander from the melancholy pine-forests of the North to\nSicily\'s orange-groves and the pomegranate gardens of Armenia, and listen\nto the singing of those to whom poetry is a passion, not a profession,\nand whose art, coming from inspiration and not from schools, if it has\nthe limitations, at least has also the loveliness of its origin, and is\none with blowing grasses and the flowers of the field.\n\nEssays in the Study of Folk-Songs. By the Countess Evelyn Martinengo\nCesaresco. (Redway.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENCI\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, May 15, 1886.)\n\nThe production of The Cenci last week at the Grand Theatre, Islington,\nmay be said to have been an era in the literary history of this century,\nand the Shelley Society deserves the highest praise and warmest thanks of\nall for having given us an opportunity of seeing Shelley\'s play under the\nconditions he himself desired for it. For The Cenci was written\nabsolutely with a view to theatric presentation, and had Shelley\'s own\nwishes been carried out it would have been produced during his lifetime\nat Covent Garden, with Edmund Kean and Miss O\'Neill in the principal\nparts. In working out his conception, Shelley had studied very carefully\nthe aesthetics of dramatic art. He saw that the essence of the drama is\ndisinterested presentation, and that the characters must not be merely\nmouthpieces for splendid poetry but must be living subjects for terror\nand for pity. \'I have endeavoured,\' he says, \'as nearly as possible to\nrepresent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid\nthe error of making them actuated by my own conception of right or wrong,\nfalse or true: thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the\nsixteenth century into cold impersonations of my own mind. . . .\n\n\'I have avoided with great care the introduction of what is commonly\ncalled mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached\nsimile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice\'s description of\nthe chasm appointed for her father\'s murder should be judged to be of\nthat nature.\'\n\nHe recognised that a dramatist must be allowed far greater freedom of\nexpression than what is conceded to a poet. \'In a dramatic composition,\'\nto use his own words, \'the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate\none another, the former being reserved simply for the full development\nand illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which\nshould assume flesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is thus\nthat the most remote and the most familiar imagery may alike be fit for\ndramatic purposes when employed in the illustration of strong feeling,\nwhich raises what is low, and levels to the apprehension that which is\nlofty, casting over all the shadow of its own greatness. In other\nrespects I have written more carelessly, that is, without an\nover-fastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect I entirely\nagree with those modern critics who assert that in order to move men to\ntrue sympathy we must use the familiar language of men.\'\n\nHe knew that if the dramatist is to teach at all it must be by example,\nnot by precept.\n\n\'The highest moral purpose,\' he remarks, \'aimed at in the highest species\nof the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies and\nantipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to the possession of\nwhich knowledge every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and\nkind. If dogmas can do more it is well: but a drama is no fit place for\nthe enforcement of them.\' He fully realises that it is by a conflict\nbetween our artistic sympathies and our moral judgment that the greatest\ndramatic effects are produced. \'It is in the restless and anatomising\ncasuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrice, yet feel\nthat she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitious\nhorror with which they contemplate alike her wrongs and their revenge,\nthat the dramatic character of what she did and suffered consists.\'\n\nIn fact no one has more clearly understood than Shelley the mission of\nthe dramatist and the meaning of the drama.\n\nAnd yet I hardly think that the production of The Cenci, its absolute\npresentation on the stage, can be said to have added anything to its\nbeauty, its pathos, or even its realism. Not that the principal actors\nwere at all unworthy of the work of art they interpreted; Mr. Hermann\nVezin\'s Cenci was a noble and magnificent performance; Miss Alma Murray\nstands now in the very first rank of our English actresses as a mistress\nof power and pathos; and Mr. Leonard Outram\'s Orsino was most subtle and\nartistic; but that The Cenci needs for the production of its perfect\neffect no interpretation at all. It is, as we read it, a complete work\nof art--capable, indeed, of being acted, but not dependent on theatric\npresentation; and the impression produced by its exhibition on the stage\nseemed to me to be merely one of pleasure at the gratification of an\nintellectual curiosity of seeing how far Melpomene could survive the\nwagon of Thespis.\n\nIn producing the play, however, the members of the Shelley Society were\nmerely carrying out the poet\'s own wishes, and they are to be\ncongratulated on the success of their experiment--a success due not to\nany gorgeous scenery or splendid pageant, but to the excellence of the\nactors who aided them.\n\n\n\n\nHELENA IN TROAS\n\n\n(Dramatic Review, May 22, 1880.)\n\nOne might have thought that to have produced As You Like It in an English\nforest would have satisfied the most ambitious spirit; but Mr. Godwin has\nnot contented himself with his sylvan triumphs. From Shakespeare he has\npassed to Sophocles, and has given us the most perfect exhibition of a\nGreek dramatic performance that has as yet been seen in this country.\nFor, beautiful as were the productions of the Agamemnon at Oxford and the\nEumenides at Cambridge, their effects were marred in no small or\nunimportant degree by the want of a proper orchestra for the chorus with\nits dance and song, a want that was fully supplied in Mr. Godwin\'s\npresentation by the use of the arena of a circus.\n\nIn the centre of this circle, which was paved with the semblance of\ntesselated marble, stood the altar of Dionysios, and beyond it rose the\nlong, shallow stage, faced with casts from the temple of Bassae; and\nbearing the huge portal of the house of Paris and the gleaming\nbattlements of Troy. Over the portal hung a great curtain, painted with\ncrimson lions, which, when drawn aside, disclosed two massive gates of\nbronze; in front of the house was placed a golden image of Aphrodite, and\nacross the ramparts on either hand could be seen a stretch of blue waters\nand faint purple hills. The scene was lovely, not merely in the harmony\nof its colour but in the exquisite delicacy of its architectural\nproportions. No nation has ever felt the pure beauty of mere\nconstruction so strongly as the Greeks, and in this respect Mr. Godwin\nhas fully caught the Greek feeling.\n\nThe play opened by the entrance of the chorus, white vestured and gold\nfilleted, under the leadership of Miss Kinnaird, whose fine gestures and\nrhythmic movements were quite admirable. In answer to their appeal the\nstage curtains slowly divided, and from the house of Paris came forth\nHelen herself, in a robe woven with all the wonders of war, and broidered\nwith the pageant of battle. With her were her two handmaidens--one in\nwhite and yellow and one in green; Hecuba followed in sombre grey of\nmourning, and Priam in kingly garb of gold and purple, and Paris in\nPhrygian cap and light archer\'s dress; and when at sunset the lover of\nHelen was borne back wounded from the field, down from the oaks of Ida\nstole OEnone in the flowing drapery of the daughter of a river-god, every\nfold of her garments rippling like dim water as she moved.\n\nAs regards the acting, the two things the Greeks valued most in actors\nwere grace of gesture and music of voice. Indeed, to gain these virtues\ntheir actors used to subject themselves to a regular course of gymnastics\nand a particular regime of diet, health being to the Greeks not merely a\nquality of art, but a condition of its production. Whether or not our\nEnglish actors hold the same view may be doubted; but Mr. Vezin certainly\nhas always recognised the importance of a physical as well as of an\nintellectual training for the stage, and his performance of King Priam\nwas distinguished by stately dignity and most musical enunciation. With\nMr. Vezin, grace of gesture is an unconscious result--not a conscious\neffort. It has become nature, because it was once art. Mr. Beerbohm\nTree also is deserving of very high praise for his Paris. Ease and\nelegance characterised every movement he made, and his voice was\nextremely effective. Mr. Tree is the perfect Proteus of actors. He can\nwear the dress of any century and the appearance of any age, and has a\nmarvellous capacity of absorbing his personality into the character he is\ncreating. To have method without mannerism is given only to a few, but\namong the few is Mr. Tree. Miss Alma Murray does not possess the\nphysique requisite for our conception of Helen, but the beauty of her\nmovements and the extremely sympathetic quality of her voice gave an\nindefinable charm to her performance. Mrs. Jopling looked like a poem\nfrom the Pantheon, and indeed the personae mutae were not the least\neffective figures in the play. Hecuba was hardly a success. In acting,\nthe impression of sincerity is conveyed by tone, not by mere volume of\nvoice, and whatever influence emotion has on utterance it is certainly\nnot in the direction of false emphasis. Mrs. Beerbohm Tree\'s OEnone was\nmuch better, and had some fine moments of passion; but the harsh\nrealistic shriek with which the nymph flung herself from the battlements,\nhowever effective it might have been in a comedy of Sardou, or in one of\nMr. Burnand\'s farces, was quite out of place in the representation of a\nGreek tragedy. The classical drama is an imaginative, poetic art, which\nrequires the grand style for its interpretation, and produces its effects\nby the most ideal means. It is in the operas of Wagner, not in popular\nmelodrama, that any approximation to the Greek method can be found.\nBetter to wear mask and buskin than to mar by any modernity of expression\nthe calm majesty of Melpomene.\n\nAs an artistic whole, however, the performance was undoubtedly a great\nsuccess. It has been much praised for its archaeology, but Mr. Godwin is\nsomething more than a mere antiquarian. He takes the facts of\narchaeology, but he converts them into artistic and dramatic effects, and\nthe historical accuracy that underlies the visible shapes of beauty that\nhe presents to us, is not by any means the distinguishing quality of the\ncomplete work of art. This quality is the absolute unity and harmony of\nthe entire presentation, the presence of one mind controlling the most\nminute details, and revealing itself only in that true perfection which\nhides personality. On more than one occasion it seemed to me that the\nstage was kept a little too dark, and that a purely picturesque effect of\nlight and shade was substituted for the plastic clearness of outline that\nthe Greeks so desired; some objection, too, might be made to the late\ncharacter of the statue of Aphrodite, which was decidedly post-Periclean;\nthese, however, are unimportant points. The performance was not intended\nto be an absolute reproduction of the Greek stage in the fifth century\nbefore Christ: it was simply the presentation in Greek form of a poem\nconceived in the Greek spirit; and the secret of its beauty was the\nperfect correspondence of form and matter, the delicate equilibrium of\nspirit and sense.\n\nAs for the play, it had, of course, to throw away many sweet superfluous\ngraces of expression before it could adapt itself to the conditions of\ntheatrical presentation, but much that is good was retained; and the\nchoruses, which really possess some pure notes of lyric loveliness, were\nsung in their entirety. Here and there, it is true, occur such lines as--\n\n What wilt thou do? What can the handful still left?--\n\nlines that owe their blank verse character more to the courtesy of the\nprinter than to the genius of the poet, for without rhythm and melody\nthere is no verse at all; and the attempt to fit Greek forms of\nconstruction to our English language often gives the work the air of an\nawkward translation; however, there is a great deal that is pleasing in\nHelena in Troas and, on the whole, the play was worthy of its pageant and\nthe poem deserved the peplums.\n\nIt is much to be regretted that Mr. Godwin\'s beautiful theatre cannot be\nmade a permanent institution. Even looked at from the low standpoint of\neducational value, such a performance as that given last Monday might be\nof the greatest service to modern culture; and who knows but a series of\nthese productions might civilise South Kensington and give tone to\nBrompton?\n\nStill it is something to have shown our artists \'a dream of form in days\nof thought,\' and to have allowed the Philistines to peer into Paradise.\nAnd this is what Mr. Godwin has done.\n\n\n\n\nPLEASING AND PRATTLING\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, August 4, 1880.)\n\nSixty years ago, when Sir Walter Scott was inaugurating an era of\nhistorical romance, The Wolfe of Badenoch was a very popular book. To us\nits interest is more archaeological than artistic, and its characters\nseem merely puppets parading in fourteenth-century costume. It is true\nour grandfathers thought differently. They liked novels in which the\nheroine exclaims, \'Peace with thine impudence, sir knave. Dost thou dare\nto speak thus in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? . . . A\ngreybeard\'s ire shall never--,\' while the hero remarks that \'the welkin\nreddenes i\' the west.\' In fact, they considered that language like this\nis exceedingly picturesque and gives the necessary historical\nperspective. Nowadays, however, few people have the time to read a novel\nthat requires a glossary to explain it, and we fear that without a\nglossary the general reader will hardly appreciate the value of such\nexpressions as \'gnoffe,\' \'bowke,\' \'herborow,\' \'papelarde,\' \'couepe,\'\n\'rethes,\' \'pankers,\' \'agroted lorrel,\' and \'horrow tallow-catch,\' all of\nwhich occur in the first few pages of The Wolfe of Badenoch. In a novel\nwe want life, not learning; and, unfortunately, Sir Thomas Lauder lays\nhimself open to the criticism Jonson made on Spenser, that \'in affecting\nthe ancients he writ no language.\' Still, there is a healthy spirit of\nadventure in the book, and no doubt many people will be interested to see\nthe kind of novel the public liked in 1825.\n\nKeep My Secret, by Miss G. M. Robins, is very different. It is quite\nmodern both in manner and in matter. The heroine, Miss Olga Damien, when\nshe is a little girl tries to murder Mr. Victor Burnside. Mr. Burnside,\nwho is tall, blue-eyed and amber-haired, makes her promise never to\nmention the subject to any one; this, in fact, is the secret that gives\nthe title to the book. The result is that Miss Damien is blackmailed by\na fascinating and unscrupulous uncle and is nearly burnt to death in the\nsecret chamber of an old castle. The novel at the end gets too\nmelodramatic in character and the plot becomes a chaos of incoherent\nincidents, but the writing is clever and bright. It is just the book, in\nfact, for a summer holiday, as it is never dull and yet makes no demands\nat all upon the intellect.\n\nMrs. Chetwynd gives us a new type of widow. As a rule, in fiction widows\nare delightful, designing and deceitful; but Mrs. Dorriman is not by any\nmeans a Cleopatra in crape. She is a weak, retiring woman, very feeble\nand very feminine, and with the simplicity that is characteristic of such\nsweet and shallow natures she allows her brother to defraud her of all\nher property. The widow is rather a bore and the brother is quite a\nbear, but Margaret Rivers who, to save her sister from poverty, marries a\nman she does not love, is a cleverly conceived character, and Lady Lyons\nis an admirable old dowager. The book can be read without any trouble\nand was probably written without any trouble also. The style is\nprattling and pleasing.\n\nThe plot of Delamere is not very new. On the death of her husband, Mrs.\nDe Ruthven discovers that the estates belong by right not to her son\nRaymond but to her niece Fleurette. As she keeps her knowledge to\nherself, a series of complications follows, but the cousins are\nultimately united in marriage and the story ends happily. Mr. Curzon\nwrites in a clever style, and though its construction is rather clumsy\nthe novel is a thoroughly interesting one.\n\nA Daughter of Fife tells us of the love of a young artist for a Scotch\nfisher-girl. The character sketches are exceptionally good, especially\nthat of David Promoter, a fisherman who leaves his nets to preach the\ngospel, and the heroine is quite charming till she becomes civilised. The\nbook is a most artistic combination of romantic feeling with realistic\nform, and it is pleasant to read descriptions of Scotch scenery that do\nnot represent the land of mist and mountain as a sort of chromolithograph\nfrom the Brompton Road.\n\nIn Mr. Speight\'s novel, A Barren Title, we have an impoverished earl who\nreceives an allowance from his relations on condition of his remaining\nsingle, being all the time secretly married and the father of a grown-up\nson. The story is improbable and amusing.\n\nOn the whole, there is a great deal to be said for our ordinary English\nnovelists. They have all some story to tell, and most of them tell it in\nan interesting manner. Where they fail is in concentration of style.\nTheir characters are far too eloquent and talk themselves to tatters.\nWhat we want is a little more reality and a little less rhetoric. We are\nmost grateful to them that they have not as yet accepted any frigid\nformula, nor stereotyped themselves into a school, but we wish that they\nwould talk less and think more. They lead us through a barren desert of\nverbiage to a mirage that they call life; we wander aimlessly through a\nvery wilderness of words in search of one touch of nature. However, one\nshould not be too severe on English novels: they are the only relaxation\nof the intellectually unemployed.\n\n(1) The Wolfe of Badenoch: A Historical Romance of the Fourteenth\nCentury. By Sir Thomas Lauder. (Hamilton, Adams and Co.)\n\n(2) Keep My Secret. By G. M. Robins. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n(3) Mrs. Dorriman. By the Hon. Mrs. Henry Chetwynd. (Chapman and Hall.)\n\n(4) Delamere. By G. Curzon. (Sampson Low, Marston and Co.)\n\n(5) A Daughter of Fife. By Amelia Barr. (James Clarke and Co.)\n\n(6) A Barren Title. By T. W. Speight. (Chatto and Windus.)\n\n\n\n\nBALZAC IN ENGLISH\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 13, 1886.)\n\nMany years ago, in a number of All the Year Round, Charles Dickens\ncomplained that Balzac was very little read in England, and although\nsince then the public has become more familiar with the great\nmasterpieces of French fiction, still it may be doubted whether the\nComedie Humaine is at all appreciated or understood by the general run of\nnovel readers. It is really the greatest monument that literature has\nproduced in our century, and M. Taine hardly exaggerates when he says\nthat, after Shakespeare, Balzac is our most important magazine of\ndocuments on human nature. Balzac\'s aim, in fact, was to do for humanity\nwhat Buffon had done for the animal creation. As the naturalist studied\nlions and tigers, so the novelist studied men and women. Yet he was no\nmere reporter. Photography and proces-verbal were not the essentials of\nhis method. Observation gave him the facts of life, but his genius\nconverted facts into truths, and truths into truth. He was, in a word, a\nmarvellous combination of the artistic temperament with the scientific\nspirit. The latter he bequeathed to his disciples; the former was\nentirely his own. The distinction between such a book as M. Zola\'s\nL\'Assommoir and such a book as Balzac\'s Illusions Perdues is the\ndistinction between unimaginative realism and imaginative reality. \'All\nBalzac\'s characters,\' said Baudelaire, \'are gifted with the same ardour\nof life that animated himself. All his fictions are as deeply coloured\nas dreams. Every mind is a weapon loaded to the muzzle with will. The\nvery scullions have genius.\' He was, of course, accused of being\nimmoral. Few writers who deal directly with life escape that charge. His\nanswer to the accusation was characteristic and conclusive. \'Whoever\ncontributes his stone to the edifice of ideas,\' he wrote, \'whoever\nproclaims an abuse, whoever sets his mark upon an evil to be abolished,\nalways passes for immoral. If you are true in your portraits, if, by\ndint of daily and nightly toil, you succeed in writing the most difficult\nlanguage in the world, the word immoral is thrown in your face.\' The\nmorals of the personages of the Comedie Humaine are simply the morals of\nthe world around us. They are part of the artist\'s subject-matter; they\nare not part of his method. If there be any need of censure it is to\nlife, not to literature, that it should be given. Balzac, besides, is\nessentially universal. He sees life from every point of view. He has no\npreferences and no prejudices. He does not try to prove anything. He\nfeels that the spectacle of life contains its own secret. \'II cree un\nmonde et se tait.\'\n\nAnd what a world it is! What a panorama of passions! What a pell-mell\nof men and women! It was said of Trollope that he increased the number\nof our acquaintances without adding to our visiting list; but after the\nComedie Humaine one begins to believe that the only real people are the\npeople who have never existed. Lucien de Rubempre, le Pere Goriot,\nUrsule Mirouet, Marguerite Claes, the Baron Hulot, Madame Marneffe, le\nCousin Pons, De Marsay--all bring with them a kind of contagious illusion\nof life. They have a fierce vitality about them: their existence is\nfervent and fiery-coloured; we not merely feel for them but we see\nthem--they dominate our fancy and defy scepticism. A steady course of\nBalzac reduces our living friends to shadows, and our acquaintances to\nthe shadows of shades. Who would care to go out to an evening party to\nmeet Tomkins, the friend of one\'s boyhood, when one can sit at home with\nLucien de Rubempre? It is pleasanter to have the entree to Balzac\'s\nsociety than to receive cards from all the duchesses in May fair.\n\nIn spite of this, there are many people who have declared the Comedie\nHumaine to be indigestible. Perhaps it is: but then what about truffles?\nBalzac\'s publisher refused to be disturbed by any such criticism as that.\n\'Indigestible, is it?\' he exclaimed with what, for a publisher, was rare\ngood sense. \'Well, I should hope so; who ever thinks of a dinner that\nisn\'t?\' And our English publisher, Mr. Routledge, clearly agrees with M.\nPoulet-Malassis, as he is occupied in producing a complete translation of\nthe Comedie Humaine. The two volumes that at present lie before us\ncontain Cesar Birotteau, that terrible tragedy of finance, and L\'lllustre\nGaudissart, the apotheosis of the commercial traveller, the Duchesse de\nLangeais, most marvellous of modern love stories, Le Chef d\'OEuvre\nInconnu, from which Mr. Henry James took his Madonna of the Future, and\nthat extraordinary romance Une Passion dans le Desert. The choice of\nstories is quite excellent, but the translations are very unequal, and\nsome of them are positively bad. L\'lllustre Gaudissart, for instance, is\nfull of the most grotesque mistakes, mistakes that would disgrace a\nschoolboy. \'Bon conseil vaut un oeil dans la main\' is translated \'Good\nadvice is an egg in the hand\'! \'Ecus rebelles\' is rendered \'rebellious\nlucre,\' and such common expressions as \'faire la barbe,\' \'attendre la\nvente,\' \'n\'entendre rien,\' palir sur une affaire,\' are all mistranslated.\n\'Des bois de quoi se faire un cure-dent\' is not \'a few trees to slice\ninto toothpicks,\' but \'as much timber as would make a toothpick\'; \'son\nhorloge enfermee dans une grande armoire oblongue\' is not \'a clock which\nhe kept shut up in a large oblong closet\' but simply a clock in a tall\nclock-case; \'journal viager\' is not \'an annuity,\' \'garce\' is not the same\nas \'farce,\' and \'dessins des Indes\' are not \'drawings of the Indies.\' On\nthe whole, nothing can be worse than this translation, and if Mr.\nRoutledge wishes the public to read his version of the Comedie Humaine,\nhe should engage translators who have some slight knowledge of French.\n\nCesar Birotteau is better, though it is not by any means free from\nmistakes. \'To suffer under the Maximum\' is an absurd rendering of \'subir\nle maximum\'; \'perse\' is \'chintz,\' not \'Persian chintz\'; \'rendre le pain\nbenit\' is not \'to take the wafer\'; \'riviere\' is hardly a \'fillet of\ndiamonds\'; and to translate \'son coeur avait un calus a l\'endroit du\nloyer\' by \'his heart was a callus in the direction of a lease\' is an\ninsult to two languages. On the whole, the best version is that of the\nDuchesse de Langeais, though even this leaves much to be desired. Such a\nsentence as \'to imitate the rough logician who marched before the\nPyrrhonians while denying his own movement\' entirely misses the point of\nBalzac\'s \'imiter le rude logicien qui marchait devant les pyrrhoniens,\nqui niaient le mouvement.\'\n\nWe fear Mr. Routledge\'s edition will not do. It is well printed and\nnicely bound; but his translators do not understand French. It is a\ngreat pity, for La Comedie Humaine is one of the masterpieces of the age.\n\nBalzac\'s Novels in English. The Duchesse de Langeais and Other Stories;\nCesar Birotteau. (Routledge and Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nTWO NEW NOVELS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 16, 1880.)\n\nMost modern novels are more remarkable for their crime than for their\nculture, and Mr. G. Manville Fenn\'s last venture is no exception to the\ngeneral rule. The Master of the Ceremonies is turbid, terrifying and\nthrilling. It contains, besides many \'moving accidents by flood and\nfield,\' an elopement, an abduction, a bigamous marriage, an attempted\nassassination, a duel, a suicide, and a murder. The murder, we must\nacknowledge, is a masterpiece. It would do credit to Gaboriau, and\nshould make Miss Braddon jealous. The Newgate Calendar itself contains\nnothing more fascinating, and what higher praise than this can be given\nto a sensational novel? Not that Lady Teigne, the hapless victim, is\nkilled in any very new or subtle manner. She is merely strangled in bed,\nlike Desdemona; but the circumstances of the murder are so peculiar that\nClaire Denville, in common with the reader, suspects her own father of\nbeing guilty, while the father is convinced that the real criminal is his\neldest son. Stuart Denville himself, the Master of the Ceremonies, is\nmost powerfully drawn. He is a penniless, padded dandy who, by a careful\nstudy of the \'grand style\' in deportment, has succeeded in making himself\nthe Brummel of the promenade and the autocrat of the Assembly Rooms. A\nlight comedian by profession, he is suddenly compelled to play the\nprincipal part in a tragedy. His shallow, trivial nature is forced into\nthe loftiest heroism, the noblest self-sacrifice. He becomes a hero\nagainst his will. The butterfly goes to martyrdom, the fop has to become\nfine. Round this character centres, or rather should centre, the\npsychological interest of the book, but unfortunately Mr. Fenn has\ninsisted on crowding his story with unnecessary incident. He might have\nmade of his novel \'A Soul\'s Tragedy,\' but he has produced merely a\nmelodrama in three volumes. The Master of the Ceremonies is a melancholy\nexample of the fatal influence of Drury Lane on literature. Still, it\nshould be read, for though Mr. Fenn has offered up his genius as a\nholocaust to Mr. Harris, he is never dull, and his style is on the whole\nvery good. We wish, however, that he would not try to give articulate\nform to inarticulate exclamations. Such a passage as this is quite\ndreadful and fails, besides, in producing the effect it aims at:\n\n \'He--he--he, hi--hi--hi, hec--hec--hec, ha--ha--ha! ho--ho! Bless\n my--hey--ha! hey--ha! hugh--hugh--hugh! Oh dear me! Oh--why don\'t\n you--heck--heck--heck--heck--heck! shut\n the--ho--ho--ho--ho--hugh--hugh--window before I--ho--ho--ho--ho!\'\n\nThis horrible jargon is supposed to convey the impression of a lady\ncoughing. It is, of course, a mere meaningless monstrosity on a par with\nspelling a sneeze. We hope that Mr. Fenn will not again try these\ntheatrical tricks with language, for he possesses a rare art--the art of\ntelling a story well.\n\nA Statesman\'s Love, the author tells us in a rather mystical preface, was\nwritten \'to show that the alchemist-like transfiguration supposed to be\nwrought in our whole nature by that passion has no existence in fact,\'\nbut it cannot be said to prove this remarkable doctrine.\n\nIt is an exaggerated psychological study of a modern woman, a sort of\npicture by limelight, full of coarse colours and violent contrasts, not\nby any means devoid of cleverness but essentially false and\nover-emphasised. The heroine, Helen Rohan by name, tells her own story\nand, as she takes three volumes to do it in, we weary of the one point of\nview. Life to be intelligible should be approached from many sides, and\nvaluable though the permanent ego may be in philosophy, the permanent ego\nin fiction soon becomes a bore. There are, however, some interesting\nscenes in the novel, and a good portrait of the Young Pretender, for\nthough the heroine is absolutely a creation of the nineteenth century,\nthe background of the story is historical and deals with the Rebellion of\n\'45. As for the style, it is often original and picturesque; here and\nthere are strong individual touches and brilliant passages; but there is\nalso a good deal of pretence and a good deal of carelessness.\n\nWhat can be said, for instance, about such expressions as these, taken at\nrandom from the second volume,--\'evanishing,\' \'solitary loneness,\' \'in my\n_then_ mood,\' \'the bees _might advantage_ by to-day,\' \'I would not listen\nreverently as _did the other some_ who went,\' \'entangling myself in the\nnet of this retiari,\' and why should Bassanio\'s beautiful speech in the\ntrial scene be deliberately attributed to Shylock? On the whole, A\nStatesman\'s Love cannot be said to be an artistic success; but still it\nshows promise and, some day, the author who, to judge by the style, is\nprobably a woman, may do good work. This, however, will require pruning,\nprudence and patience. We shall see.\n\n(1) The Master of the Ceremonies. By G. Manville Fenn. (Ward and\nDowney.)\n\n(2) A Statesman\'s Love. By Emile Bauche. (Blackwood and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nBEN JONSON\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 20, 1886.)\n\nIn selecting Mr. John Addington Symonds to write the life of Ben Jonson\nfor his series of \'English Worthies,\' Mr. Lang, no doubt, exercised a\nwise judgment. Mr. Symonds, like the author of Volpone, is a scholar and\na man of letters; his book on Shakspeare\'s Predecessors showed a\nmarvellous knowledge of the Elizabethan period, and he is a recognised\nauthority on the Italian Renaissance. The last is not the least of his\nqualifications. Without a full appreciation of the meaning of the\nHumanistic movement it is impossible to understand the great struggle\nbetween the Classical form and the Romantic spirit which is the chief\ncritical characteristic of the golden age of the English drama, an age\nwhen Shakespeare found his chief adversary, not among his contemporaries,\nbut in Seneca, and when Jonson armed himself with Aristotle to win the\nsuffrages of a London audience. Mr. Symonds\' book, consequently, will be\nopened with interest. It does not, of course, contain much that is new\nabout Jonson\'s life. But the facts of Jonson\'s life are already well\nknown, and in books of this kind what is true is of more importance than\nwhat is new, appreciation more valuable than discovery. Scotchmen,\nhowever, will, no doubt, be interested to find that Mr. Symonds has\nsucceeded in identifying Jonson\'s crest with that of the Johnstones of\nAnnandale, and the story of the way the literary Titan escaped from\nhanging, by proving that he could read, is graphically told.\n\nOn the whole, we have a vivid picture of the man as he lived. Where\npicturesqueness is required, Mr. Symonds is always good. The usual\ncomparison with Dr. Johnson is, of course, brought out. Few of \'Rare\nBen\'s\' biographers spare us that, and the point is possibly a natural one\nto make. But when Mr. Symonds calls upon us to notice that both men made\na journey to Scotland, and that \'each found in a Scotchman his\nbiographer,\' the parallel loses all value. There is an M in Monmouth and\nan M in Macedon, and Drummond of Hawthornden and Boswell of Auchinleck\nwere both born the other side of the Tweed; but from such analogies\nnothing is to be learned. There is no surer way of destroying a\nsimilarity than to strain it.\n\nAs for Mr. Symonds\' estimate of Jonson\'s genius, it is in many points\nquite excellent. He ranks him with the giants rather than with the gods,\nwith those who compel our admiration by their untiring energy and huge\nstrength of intellectual muscle, not with those \'who share the divine\ngifts of creative imagination and inevitable instinct.\' Here he is\nright. Pelion more than Parnassus was Jonson\'s home. His art has too\nmuch effort about it, too much definite intention. His style lacks the\ncharm of chance. Mr. Symonds is right also in the stress he lays on the\nextraordinary combination in Jonson\'s work of the most concentrated\nrealism with encyclopaedic erudition. In Jonson\'s comedies London slang\nand learned scholarship go hand in hand. Literature was as living a\nthing to him as life itself. He used his classical lore not merely to\ngive form to his verse, but to give flesh and blood to the persons of his\nplays. He could build up a breathing creature out of quotations. He\nmade the poets of Greece and Rome terribly modern, and introduced them to\nthe oddest company. His very culture is an element in his coarseness.\nThere are moments when one is tempted to liken him to a beast that has\nfed off books.\n\nWe cannot, however, agree with Mr. Symonds when he says that Jonson\n\'rarely touched more than the outside of character,\' that his men and\nwomen are \'the incarnations of abstract properties rather than living\nhuman beings,\' that they are in fact mere \'masqueraders and mechanical\npuppets.\' Eloquence is a beautiful thing but rhetoric ruins many a\ncritic, and Mr. Symonds is essentially rhetorical. When, for instance,\nhe tells us that \'Jonson made masks,\' while \'Dekker and Heywood created\nsouls,\' we feel that he is asking us to accept a crude judgment for the\nsake of a smart antithesis. It is, of course, true that we do not find\nin Jonson the same growth of character that we find in Shakespeare, and\nwe may admit that most of the characters in Jonson\'s plays are, so to\nspeak, ready-made. But a ready-made character is not necessarily either\nmechanical or wooden, two epithets Mr. Symonds uses constantly in his\ncriticism.\n\nWe cannot tell, and Shakespeare himself does not tell us, why Iago is\nevil, why Regan and Goneril have hard hearts, or why Sir Andrew Aguecheek\nis a fool. It is sufficient that they are what they are, and that nature\ngives warrant for their existence. If a character in a play is lifelike,\nif we recognise it as true to nature, we have no right to insist on the\nauthor explaining its genesis to us. We must accept it as it is: and in\nthe hands of a good dramatist mere presentation can take the place of\nanalysis, and indeed is often a more dramatic method, because a more\ndirect one. And Jonson\'s characters are true to nature. They are in no\nsense abstractions; they are types. Captain Bobadil and Captain Tucca,\nSir John Daw and Sir Amorous La Foole, Volpone and Mosca, Subtle and Sir\nEpicure Mammon, Mrs. Purecraft and the Rabbi Busy are all creatures of\nflesh and blood, none the less lifelike because they are labelled. In\nthis point Mr. Symonds seems to us unjust towards Jonson.\n\nWe think, also, that a special chapter might have been devoted to Jonson\nas a literary critic. The creative activity of the English Renaissance\nis so great that its achievements in the sphere of criticism are often\noverlooked by the student. Then, for the first time, was language\ntreated as an art. The laws of expression and composition were\ninvestigated and formularised. The importance of words was recognised.\nRomanticism, Realism and Classicism fought their first battles. The\ndramatists are full of literary and art criticisms, and amused the public\nwith slashing articles on one another in the form of plays.\n\nMr. Symonds, of course, deals with Jonson in his capacity as a critic,\nand always with just appreciation, but the whole subject is one that\ndeserves fuller and more special treatment.\n\nSome small inaccuracies, too, should be corrected in the second edition.\nDryden, for instance, was not \'Jonson\'s successor on the laureate\'s\nthrone,\' as Mr. Symonds eloquently puts it, for Sir William Davenant came\nbetween them, and when one remembers the predominance of rhyme in\nShakespeare\'s early plays, it is too much to say that \'after the\nproduction of the first part of Tamburlaine blank verse became the\nregular dramatic metre of the public stage.\' Shakespeare did not accept\nblank verse at once as a gift from Marlowe\'s hand, but himself arrived at\nit after a long course of experiments in rhyme. Indeed, some of Mr.\nSymonds\' remarks on Marlowe are very curious. To say of his Edward II.,\nfor instance, that it \'is not at all inferior to the work of\nShakespeare\'s younger age,\' is very niggardly and inadequate praise, and\ncomes strangely from one who has elsewhere written with such appreciation\nof Marlowe\'s great genius; while to call Marlowe Jonson\'s \'master\' is to\nmake for him an impossible claim. In comedy Marlowe has nothing whatever\nto teach Jonson; in tragedy Jonson sought for the classical not the\nromantic form.\n\nAs for Mr. Symonds\' style, it is, as usual, very fluent, very picturesque\nand very full of colour. Here and there, however, it is really\nirritating. Such a sentence as \'the tavern had the defects of its\nquality\' is an awkward Gallicism; and when Mr. Symonds, after genially\ncomparing Jonson\'s blank verse to the front of Whitehall (a comparison,\nby the way, that would have enraged the poet beyond measure) proceeds to\nplay a fantastic aria on the same string, and tells us that \'Massinger\nreminds us of the intricacies of Sansovino, Shakespeare of Gothic aisles\nor heaven\'s cathedral . . . Ford of glittering Corinthian colonnades,\nWebster of vaulted crypts, . . . Marlowe of masoned clouds, and Marston,\nin his better moments, of the fragmentary vigour of a Roman ruin,\' one\nbegins to regret that any one ever thought of the unity of the arts.\nSimiles such as these obscure; they do not illumine. To say that Ford is\nlike a glittering Corinthian colonnade adds nothing to our knowledge of\neither Ford or Greek architecture. Mr. Symonds has written some charming\npoetry, but his prose, unfortunately, is always poetical prose, never the\nprose of a poet. Still, the volume is worth reading, though decidedly\nMr. Symonds, to use one of his own phrases, has \'the defects of his\nquality.\'\n\n\'English Worthies.\' Edited by Andrew Lang. Ben Jonson. By John\nAddington Symonds. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--I\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 27, 1886.)\n\nAmong the social problems of the nineteenth century the tramp has always\nheld an important position, but his appearance among the\nnineteenth-century poets is extremely remarkable. Not that a tramp\'s\nmode of life is at all unsuited to the development of the poetic faculty.\nFar from it! He, if any one, should possess that freedom of mood which\nis so essential to the artist, for he has no taxes to pay and no\nrelations to worry him. The man who possesses a permanent address, and\nwhose name is to be found in the Directory, is necessarily limited and\nlocalised. Only the tramp has absolute liberty of living. Was not Homer\nhimself a vagrant, and did not Thespis go about in a caravan? It is then\nwith feelings of intense expectation that we open the little volume that\nlies before us. It is entitled Low Down, by Two Tramps, and is\nmarvellous even to look at. It is clear that art has at last reached the\ncriminal classes. The cover is of brown paper like the covers of Mr.\nWhistler\'s brochures. The printing exhibits every fantastic variation of\ntype, and the pages range in colour from blue to brown, from grey to sage\ngreen and from rose pink to chrome yellow. The Philistines may sneer at\nthis chromatic chaos, but we do not. As the painters are always\npilfering from the poets, why should not the poet annex the domain of the\npainter and use colour for the expression of his moods and music: blue\nfor sentiment, and red for passion, grey for cultured melancholy, and\ngreen for descriptions? The book, then, is a kind of miniature rainbow,\nand with all its varied sheets is as lovely as an advertisement hoarding.\nAs for the peripatetics--alas! they are not nightingales. Their note is\nharsh and rugged, Mr. G. R. Sims is the god of their idolatry, their\nstyle is the style of the Surrey Theatre, and we are sorry to see that\nthat disregard of the rights of property which always characterises the\nable-bodied vagrant is extended by our tramps from the defensible\npilfering from hen-roosts to the indefensible pilfering from poets. When\nwe read such lines as:\n\n And builded him a pyramid, four square,\n Open to all the sky and every wind,\n\nwe feel that bad as poultry-snatching is, plagiarism is worse. Facilis\ndescensus Averno! From highway robbery and crimes of violence one sinks\ngradually to literary petty larceny. However, there are coarsely\neffective poems in the volume, such as A Super\'s Philosophy, Dick\nHewlett, a ballad of the Californian school, and Gentleman Bill; and\nthere is one rather pretty poem called The Return of Spring:\n\n When robins hop on naked boughs,\n And swell their throats with song,\n When lab\'rers trudge behind their ploughs,\n And blithely whistle their teams along;\n\n When glints of summer sunshine chase\n Park shadows on the distant hills,\n And scented tufts of pansies grace\n Moist grots that \'scape rude Borean chills.\n\nThe last line is very disappointing. No poet, nowadays, should write of\n\'rude Boreas\'; he might just as well call the dawn \'Aurora,\' or say that\n\'Flora decks the enamelled meads.\' But there are some nice touches in\nthe poem, and it is pleasant to find that tramps have their harmless\nmoments. On the whole, the volume, if it is not quite worth reading, is\nat least worth looking at. The fool\'s motley in which it is arrayed is\nextremely curious and extremely characteristic.\n\nMr. Irwin\'s muse comes to us more simply clad, and more gracefully. She\ngains her colour-effect from the poet, not from the publisher. No\ncockneyism or colloquialism mars the sweetness of her speech. She finds\nmusic for every mood, and form for every feeling. In art as in life the\nlaw of heredity holds good. On est toujours fits de quelqu\'un. And so\nit is easy to see that Mr. Irwin is a fervent admirer of Mr. Matthew\nArnold. But he is in no sense a plagiarist. He has succeeded in\nstudying a fine poet without stealing from him--a very difficult thing to\ndo--and though many of the reeds through which he blows have been touched\nby other lips, yet he is able to draw new music from them. Like most of\nour younger poets, Mr. Irwin is at his best in his sonnets, and those\nentitled The Seeker after God and The Pillar of the Empire are really\nremarkable. All through this volume, however, one comes across good\nwork, and the descriptions of Indian scenery are excellent. India, in\nfact, is the picturesque background to these poems, and her monstrous\nbeasts, strange flowers and fantastic birds are used with much subtlety\nfor the production of artistic effect. Perhaps there is a little too\nmuch about the pipal-tree, but when we have a proper sense of Imperial\nunity, no doubt the pipal-tree will be as dear and as familiar to us as\nthe oaks and elms of our own woodlands.\n\n(1) Low Down: Wayside Thoughts in Ballad and Other Verse. By Two Tramps.\n(Redway.)\n\n(2) Rhymes and Renderings. By H. C. Irwin. (David Stott.)\n\n\n\n\nA RIDE THROUGH MOROCCO\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 8, 1886.)\n\nMorocco is a sort of paradox among countries, for though it lies westward\nof Piccadilly yet it is purely Oriental in character, and though it is\nbut three hours\' sail from Europe yet it makes you feel (to use the\nforcible expression of an American writer) as if you had been \'taken up\nby the scruff of the neck and set down in the Old Testament.\' Mr. Hugh\nStutfield has ridden twelve hundred miles through it, penetrated to Fez\nand Wazan, seen the lovely gate at Mequinez and the Hassen Tower by\nRabat, feasted with sheikhs and fought with robbers, lived in an\natmosphere of Moors, mosques and mirages, visited the city of the lepers\nand the slave-market of Sus, and played loo under the shadow of the Atlas\nMountains. He is not an Herodotus nor a Sir John Mandeville, but he\ntells his stories very pleasantly. His book, on the whole, is delightful\nreading, for though Morocco is picturesque he does not weary us with word-\npainting; though it is poor he does not bore us with platitudes. Now and\nthen he indulges in a traveller\'s licence and thrills the simple reader\nwith statements as amazing as they are amusing. The Moorish coinage, he\ntells us, is so cumbersome that if a man gives you change for\nhalf-a-crown you have to hire a donkey to carry it away; the Moorish\nlanguage is so guttural that no one can ever hope to pronounce it aright\nwho has not been brought up within hearing of the grunting of camels, a\nsteady course of sneezing being, consequently, the only way by which a\nEuropean can acquire anything like the proper accent; the Sultan does not\nknow how much he is married, but he unquestionably is so to a very large\nextent: on the principle that you cannot have too much of a good thing a\nwoman is valued in proportion to her stoutness, and so far from there\nbeing any reduction made in the marriage-market for taking a quantity,\nyou must pay so much per pound; the Arabs believe the Shereef of Wazan to\nbe such a holy man that, if he is guilty of taking champagne, the\nforbidden wine is turned into milk as he quaffs it, and if he gets\nextremely drunk he is merely in a mystical trance.\n\nMr. Stutfield, however, has his serious moments, and his account of the\ncommerce, government and social life of the Moors is extremely\ninteresting. It must be confessed that the picture he draws is in many\nrespects a very tragic one. The Moors are the masters of a beautiful\ncountry and of many beautiful arts, but they are paralysed by their\nfatalism and pillaged by their rulers. Few races, indeed, have had a\nmore terrible fall than these Moors. Of the great intellectual\ncivilisation of the Arabs no trace remains. The names of Averroes and\nAlmaimon, of Al Abbas and Ben Husa are quite unknown. Fez, once the\nAthens of Africa, the cradle of the sciences, is now a mere commercial\ncaravansary. Its universities have vanished, its library is almost\nempty. Freedom of thought has been killed by the Koran, freedom of\nliving by bad government. But Mr. Stutfield is not without hopes for the\nfuture. So far from agreeing with Lord Salisbury that \'Morocco may go\nher own way,\' he strongly supports Captain Warren\'s proposition that we\nshould give up Gibraltar to Spain in exchange for Ceuta, and thereby\nprevent the Mediterranean from becoming a French lake, and give England a\nnew granary for corn. The Moorish Empire, he warns us, is rapidly\nbreaking up, and if in the \'general scramble for Africa\' that has already\nbegun, the French gain possession of Morocco, he points out that our\nsupremacy over the Straits will be lost. Whatever may be thought of Mr.\nStutfield\'s political views, and his suggestions for \'multiple control\'\nand \'collective European action,\' there is no doubt that in Morocco\nEngland has interests to defend and a mission to pursue, and this part of\nthe book should be carefully studied. As for the general reader who, we\nfear, is not as a rule interested in the question of \'multiple control,\'\nif he is a sportsman, he will find in El Magreb a capital account of pig-\nsticking; if he is artistic, he will be delighted to know that the\nimportation of magenta into Morocco is strictly prohibited; if criminal\njurisprudence has any charms for him, he can examine a code that punishes\nslander by rubbing cayenne pepper into the lips of the offender; and if\nhe is merely lazy, he can take a pleasant ride of twelve hundred miles in\nMr. Stutfield\'s company without stirring out of his armchair.\n\nEl Magreb: Twelve Hundred Miles\' Ride through Morocco. By Hugh\nStutfield. (Sampson Low, Marston and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHILDREN OF THE POETS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 14, 1886.)\n\nThe idea of this book is exceedingly charming. As children themselves\nare the perfect flowers of life, so a collection of the best poems\nwritten on children should be the most perfect of all anthologies. Yet,\nthe book itself is not by any means a success. Many of the loveliest\nchild-poems in our literature are excluded and not a few feeble and\ntrivial poems are inserted. The editor\'s work is characterised by sins\nof omission and of commission, and the collection, consequently, is very\nincomplete and very unsatisfactory. Andrew Marvell\'s exquisite poem The\nPicture of Little T. C., for instance, does not appear in Mr. Robertson\'s\nvolume, nor the Young Love of the same author, nor the beautiful elegy\nBen Jonson wrote on the death of Salathiel Pavy, the little boy-actor of\nhis plays. Waller\'s verses also, To My Young Lady Lucy Sidney, deserve a\nplace in an anthology of this kind, and so do Mr. Matthew Arnold\'s lines\nTo a Gipsy Child, and Edgar Allan Poe\'s Annabel Lee, a little lyric full\nof strange music and strange romance. There is possibly much to be said\nin favour of such a poem as that which ends with\n\n And I thank my God with falling tears\n For the things in the bottom drawer:\n\nbut how different it is from\n\n _I_ was a child, and _she_ was a child,\n In this kingdom by the sea;\n But we loved with a love that was more than love--\n I and my Annabel Lee;\n With a love that the winged Seraphs of Heaven\n Coveted her and me\n\nThe selection from Blake, again, is very incomplete, many of the\nloveliest poems being excluded, such as those on The Little Girl Lost and\nThe Little Girl Found, the Cradle Song, Infant Joy, and others; nor can\nwe find Sir Henry Wotton\'s Hymn upon the Birth of Prince Charles, Sir\nWilliam Jones\'s dainty four-line epigram on The Babe, or the delightful\nlines To T. L. H., A Child, by Charles Lamb.\n\nThe gravest omission, however, is certainly that of Herrick. Not a\nsingle poem of his appears in Mr. Robertson\'s collection. And yet no\nEnglish poet has written of children with more love and grace and\ndelicacy. His Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour, his poem To His Saviour,\nA Child: A Present by a Child, his Graces for Children, and his many\nlovely epitaphs on children are all of them exquisite works of art,\nsimple, sweet and sincere.\n\nAn English anthology of child-poems that excludes Herrick is as an\nEnglish garden without its roses and an English woodland without its\nsinging birds; and for one verse of Herrick we would gladly give in\nexchange even those long poems by Mr. Ashby-Sterry, Miss Menella Smedley,\nand Mr. Lewis Morris (of Penrhyn), to which Mr. Robertson has assigned a\nplace in his collection. Mr. Robertson, also, should take care when he\npublishes a poem to publish it correctly. Mr. Bret Harte\'s Dickens in\nCamp, for instance, is completely spoiled by two ridiculous misprints. In\nthe first line \'dimpling\' is substituted for \'drifting\' to the entire\nruin of rhyme and reason, and in the ninth verse \'the _pensive glory_\nthat fills the Kentish hills\' appears as \'the Persian glory . . .\' with a\nlarge capital P! Mistakes such as these are quite unpardonable, and make\none feel that, perhaps, after all it was fortunate for Herrick that he\nwas left out. A poet can survive everything but a misprint.\n\nAs for Mr. Robertson\'s preface, like most of the prefaces in the\nCanterbury Series, it is very carelessly written. Such a sentence as \'I\n. . . believe that Mrs. Piatt\'s poems, in particular, will come to many\nreaders, fresh, as well as delightful contributions from across the\nocean,\' is painful to read. Nor is the matter much better than the\nmanner. It is fantastic to say that Raphael\'s pictures of the Madonna\nand Child dealt a deadly blow to the monastic life, and to say, with\nreference to Greek art, that \'Cupid by the side of Venus enables us to\nforget that most of her sighs are wanton\' is a very crude bit of art\ncriticism indeed. Wordsworth, again, should hardly be spoken of as one\nwho \'was not, in the general, a man from whom human sympathies welled\nprofusely,\' but this criticism is as nothing compared to the passage\nwhere Mr. Robertson tells us that the scene between Arthur and Hubert in\nKing John is not true to nature because the child\'s pleadings for his\nlife are playful as well as piteous. Indeed, Mr. Robertson, forgetting\nMamillius as completely as he misunderstands Arthur, states very clearly\nthat Shakespeare has not given us any deep readings of child nature.\nParadoxes are always charming, but judgments such as these are not\nparadoxical; they are merely provincial.\n\nOn the whole, Mr. Robertson\'s book will not do. It is, we fully admit,\nan industrious compilation, but it is not an anthology, it is not a\nselection of the best, for it lacks the discrimination and good taste\nwhich is the essence of selection, and for the want of which no amount of\nindustry can atone. The child-poems of our literature have still to be\nedited.\n\nThe Children of the Poets: An Anthology from English and American Writers\nof Three Generations. Edited, with an Introduction, by Eric S.\nRobertson. (Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nNEW NOVELS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 28, 1886.)\n\nAstray: A Tale of a Country Town, is a very serious volume. It has taken\nfour people to write it, and even to read it requires assistance. Its\ndulness is premeditated and deliberate and comes from a laudable desire\nto rescue fiction from flippancy. It is, in fact, tedious from the\nnoblest motives and wearisome through its good intentions. Yet the story\nitself is not an uninteresting one. Quite the contrary. It deals with\nthe attempt of a young doctor to build up a noble manhood on the ruins of\na wasted youth. Burton King, while little more than a reckless lad,\nforges the name of a dying man, is arrested and sent to penal servitude\nfor seven years. On his discharge he comes to live with his sisters in a\nlittle country town and finds that his real punishment begins when he is\nfree, for prison has made him a pariah. Still, through the nobility and\nself-sacrifice of his life, he gradually wins himself a position, and\nultimately marries the prettiest girl in the book. His character is, on\nthe whole, well drawn, and the authors have almost succeeded in making\nhim good without making him priggish. The method, however, by which the\nstory is told is extremely tiresome. It consists of an interminable\nseries of long letters by different people and of extracts from various\ndiaries. The book consequently is piecemeal and unsatisfactory. It\nfails in producing any unity of effect. It contains the rough material\nfor a story, but is not a completed work of art. It is, in fact, more of\na notebook than a novel. We fear that too many collaborators are like\ntoo many cooks and spoil the dinner. Still, in this tale of a country\ntown there are certain solid qualities, and it is a book that one can\nwith perfect safety recommend to other people.\n\nMiss Rhoda Broughton belongs to a very different school. No one can ever\nsay of her that she has tried to separate flippancy from fiction, and\nwhatever harsh criticisms may be passed on the construction of her\nsentences, she at least possesses that one touch of vulgarity that makes\nthe whole world kin. We are sorry, however, to see from a perusal of\nBetty\'s Visions that Miss Broughton has been attending the meetings of\nthe Psychical Society in search of copy. Mysticism is not her mission,\nand telepathy should be left to Messrs. Myers and Gurney. In Philistia\nlies Miss Broughton\'s true sphere, and to Philistia she should return.\nShe knows more about the vanities of this world than about this world\'s\nvisions, and a possible garrison town is better than an impossible ghost-\nland.\n\nThat Other Person, who gives Mrs. Alfred Hunt the title for her three-\nvolume novel, is a young girl, by name Hester Langdale, who for the sake\nof Mr. Godfrey Daylesford sacrifices everything a woman can sacrifice,\nand, on his marrying some one else, becomes a hospital nurse. The\nhospital nurse idea is perhaps used by novelists a little too often in\ncases of this kind; still, it has an artistic as well as an ethical\nvalue. The interest of the story centres, however, in Mr. Daylesford,\nwho marries not for love but for ambition, and is rather severely\npunished for doing so. Mrs. Daylesford has a sister called Polly who\ndevelops, according to the approved psychological method, from a\nhobbledehoy girl into a tender sweet woman. Polly is delightfully drawn,\nbut the most attractive character in the book, strangely enough, is Mr.\nGodfrey Daylesford. He is very weak, but he is very charming. So\ncharming indeed is he, that it is only when one closes the book that one\nthinks of censuring him. While we are in direct contact with him we are\nfascinated. Such a character has at any rate the morality of truth about\nit. Here literature has faithfully followed life. Mrs. Hunt writes a\nvery pleasing style, bright and free from affectation. Indeed,\neverything in her work is clever except the title.\n\nA Child of the Revolution is by the accomplished authoress of the Atelier\ndu Lys. The scene opens in France in 1793, and the plot is extremely\ningenious. The wife of Jacques Vaudes, a Lyons deputy, loses by illness\nher baby girl while her husband is absent in Paris where he has gone to\nsee Danton. At the instigation of an old priest she adopts a child of\nthe same age, a little orphan of noble birth, whose parents have died in\nthe Reign of Terror, and passes it off as her own. Her husband, a stern\nand ardent Republican, worships the child with a passion like that of\nJean Valjean for Cosette, nor is it till she has grown to perfect\nwomanhood that he discovers that he has given his love to the daughter of\nhis enemy. This is a noble story, but the workmanship, though good of\nits kind, is hardly adequate to the idea. The style lacks grace,\nmovement and variety. It is correct but monotonous. Seriousness, like\nproperty, has its duties as well as its rights, and the first duty of a\nnovel is to please. A Child of the Revolution hardly does that. Still\nit has merits.\n\nAphrodite is a romance of ancient Hellas. The supposed date, as given in\nthe first line of Miss Safford\'s admirable translation, is 551 B.C. This,\nhowever, is probably a misprint. At least, we cannot believe that so\ncareful an archaeologist as Ernst Eckstein would talk of a famous school\nof sculpture existing at Athens in the sixth century, and the whole\ncharacter of the civilisation is of a much later date. The book may be\ndescribed as a new setting of the tale of Acontius and Cydippe, and\nthough Eckstein is a sort of literary Tadema and cares more for his\nbackgrounds than he does for his figures, still he can tell a story very\nwell, and his hero is made of flesh and blood. As regards the style, the\nGermans have not the same feeling as we have about technicalities in\nliterature. To our ears such words as \'phoreion,\' \'secos,\' \'oionistes,\'\n\'Thyrides\' and the like sound harshly in a novel and give an air of\npedantry, not of picturesqueness. Yet in its tone Aphrodite reminds us\nof the late Greek novels. Indeed, it might be one of the lost tales of\nMiletus. It deserves to have many readers and a better binding.\n\n(1) Astray: A Tale of a Country Town. By Charlotte M. Yonge, Mary\nBramston, Christabel Coleridge and Esme Stuart. (Hatchards.)\n\n(2) Betty\'s Visions. By Rhoda Broughton. (Routledge and Sons.)\n\n(3) That Other Person. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. (Chatto and Windus.)\n\n(4) A Child of the Revolution. By the Author of Mademoiselle Mori.\n(Hatchards.)\n\n(5) Aphrodite. Translated from the German of Ernst Eckstein by Mary J.\nSafford. (New York: Williams and Gottsberger; London: Trubner and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA POLITICIAN\'S POETRY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 3, 1886.)\n\nAlthough it is against etiquette to quote Greek in Parliament, Homer has\nalways been a great favourite with our statesmen and, indeed, may be said\nto be almost a factor in our political life. For as the cross-benches\nform a refuge for those who have no minds to make up, so those who cannot\nmake up their minds always take to Homeric studies. Many of our leaders\nhave sulked in their tents with Achilles after some violent political\ncrisis and, enraged at the fickleness of fortune, more than one has given\nup to poetry what was obviously meant for party. It would be unjust,\nhowever, to regard Lord Carnarvon\'s translation of the Odyssey as being\nin any sense a political manifesto. Between Calypso and the colonies\nthere is no connection, and the search for Penelope has nothing to do\nwith the search for a policy. The love of literature alone has produced\nthis version of the marvellous Greek epic, and to the love of literature\nalone it appeals. As Lord Carnarvon says very truly in his preface, each\ngeneration in turn delights to tell the story of Odysseus in its own\nlanguage, for the story is one that never grows old.\n\nOf the labours of his predecessors in translation Lord Carnarvon makes\nample recognition, though we acknowledge that we do not consider Pope\'s\nHomer \'the work of a great poet,\' and we must protest that there is more\nin Chapman than \'quaint Elizabethan conceits.\' The metre he has selected\nis blank verse, which he regards as the best compromise between \'the\ninevitable redundancy of rhyme and the stricter accuracy of prose.\' This\nchoice is, on the whole, a sensible one. Blank verse undoubtedly gives\nthe possibility of a clear and simple rendering of the original. Upon\nthe other hand, though we may get Homer\'s meaning, we often miss his\nmusic. The ten-syllabled line brings but a faint echo of the long roll\nof the Homeric hexameter, its rapid movement and continuous harmony.\nBesides, except in the hands of a great master of song, blank verse is\napt to be tedious, and Lord Carnarvon\'s use of the weak ending, his habit\nof closing the line with an unimportant word, is hardly consistent with\nthe stateliness of an epic, however valuable it might be in dramatic\nverse. Now and then, also, Lord Carnarvon exaggerates the value of the\nHomeric adjective, and for one word in the Greek gives us a whole line in\nthe English. The simple [Greek text], for instance, is converted into\n\'And when the shades of evening fall around,\' in the second book, and\nelsewhere purely decorative epithets are expanded into elaborate\ndescriptions. However, there are many pleasing qualities in Lord\nCarnarvon\'s verse, and though it may not contain much subtlety of melody,\nstill it has often a charm and sweetness of its own.\n\nThe description of Calypso\'s garden, for example, is excellent:\n\n Around the grotto grew a goodly grove,\n Alder, and poplar, and the cypress sweet;\n And the deep-winged sea-birds found their haunt,\n And owls and hawks, and long-tongued cormorants,\n Who joy to live upon the briny flood.\n And o\'er the face of the deep cave a vine\n Wove its wild tangles and clustering grapes.\n Four fountains too, each from the other turned,\n Poured their white waters, whilst the grassy meads\n Bloomed with the parsley and the violet\'s flower.\n\nThe story of the Cyclops is not very well told. The grotesque humour of\nthe Giant\'s promise hardly appears in\n\n Thee then, Noman, last of all\n Will I devour, and this thy gift shall be,\n\nand the bitter play on words Odysseus makes, the pun on [Greek text], in\nfact, is not noticed. The idyll of Nausicaa, however, is very gracefully\ntranslated, and there is a great deal that is delightful in the Circe\nepisode. For simplicity of diction this is also very good:\n\n So to Olympus through the woody isle\n Hermes departed, and I went my way\n To Circe\'s halls, sore troubled in my mind.\n But by the fair-tressed Goddess\' gate I stood,\n And called upon her, and she heard my voice,\n And forth she came and oped the shining doors\n And bade me in; and sad at heart I went.\n Then did she set me on a stately chair,\n Studded with silver nails of cunning work,\n With footstool for my feet, and mixed a draught\n Of her foul witcheries in golden cup,\n For evil was her purpose. From her hand\n I took the cup and drained it to the dregs,\n Nor felt the magic charm; but with her rod\n She smote me, and she said, \'Go, get thee hence\n And herd thee with thy fellows in the stye.\'\n So spake she, and straightway I drew my sword\n Upon the witch, and threatened her with death.\n\nLord Carnarvon, on the whole, has given us a very pleasing version of the\nfirst half of the Odyssey. His translation is done in a scholarly and\ncareful manner and deserves much praise. It is not quite Homer, of\ncourse, but no translation can hope to be that, for no work of art can\nafford to lose its style or to give up the manner that is essential to\nit. Still, those who cannot read Greek will find much beauty in it, and\nthose who can will often gain a charming reminiscence.\n\nThe Odyssey of Homer. Books I.-XII. Translated into English Verse by\nthe Earl of Carnarvon. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. SYMONDS\' HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 10, 1886.)\n\nMr. Symonds has at last finished his history of the Italian Renaissance.\nThe two volumes just published deal with the intellectual and moral\nconditions in Italy during the seventy years of the sixteenth century\nwhich followed the coronation of Charles the Fifth at Bologna, an era to\nwhich Mr. Symonds gives the name of the Catholic Reaction, and they\ncontain a most interesting and valuable account of the position of Spain\nin the Italian peninsula, the conduct of the Tridentine Council, the\nspecific organisation of the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus, and\nthe state of society upon which those forces were brought to bear. In\nhis previous volumes Mr. Symonds had regarded the past rather as a\npicture to be painted than as a problem to be solved. In these two last\nvolumes, however, he shows a clearer appreciation of the office of\nhistory. The art of the picturesque chronicler is completed by something\nlike the science of the true historian, the critical spirit begins to\nmanifest itself, and life is not treated as a mere spectacle, but the\nlaws of its evolution and progress are investigated also. We admit that\nthe desire to represent life at all costs under dramatic conditions still\naccompanies Mr. Symonds, and that he hardly realises that what seems\nromance to us was harsh reality to those who were engaged in it. Like\nmost dramatists, also, he is more interested in the psychological\nexceptions than in the general rule. He has something of Shakespeare\'s\nsovereign contempt of the masses. The people stir him very little, but\nhe is fascinated by great personalities. Yet it is only fair to remember\nthat the age itself was one of exaggerated individualism and that\nliterature had not yet become a mouthpiece for the utterances of\nhumanity. Men appreciated the aristocracy of intellect, but with the\ndemocracy of suffering they had no sympathy. The cry from the\nbrickfields had still to be heard. Mr. Symonds\' style, too, has much\nimproved. Here and there, it is true, we come across traces of the old\nmanner, as in the apocalyptic vision of the seven devils that entered\nItaly with the Spaniard, and the description of the Inquisition as a\nBelial-Moloch, a \'hideous idol whose face was blackened with soot from\nburning human flesh.\' Such a sentence, also, as \'over the Dead Sea of\nsocial putrefaction floated the sickening oil of Jesuitical hypocrisy,\'\nreminds us that rhetoric has not yet lost its charms for Mr. Symonds.\nStill, on the whole, the style shows far more reserve, balance and\nsobriety, than can be found in the earlier volumes where violent\nantithesis forms the predominant characteristic, and accuracy is often\nsacrificed to an adjective.\n\nAmongst the most interesting chapters of the book are those on the\nInquisition, on Sarpi, the great champion of the severance of Church from\nState, and on Giordano Bruno. Indeed the story of Bruno\'s life, from his\nvisit to London and Oxford, his sojourn in Paris and wanderings through\nGermany, down to his betrayal at Venice and martyrdom at Rome, is most\npowerfully told, and the estimate of the value of his philosophy and the\nrelation he holds to modern science, is at once just and appreciative.\nThe account also of Ignatius Loyola and the rise of the Society of Jesus\nis extremely interesting, though we cannot think that Mr. Symonds is very\nhappy in his comparison of the Jesuits to \'fanatics laying stones upon a\nrailway\' or \'dynamiters blowing up an emperor or a corner of Westminster\nHall.\' Such a judgment is harsh and crude in expression and more\nsuitable to the clamour of the Protestant Union than to the dignity of\nthe true historian. Mr. Symonds, however, is rarely deliberately unfair,\nand there is no doubt but that his work on the Catholic Reaction is a\nmost valuable contribution to modern history--so valuable, indeed, that\nin the account he gives of the Inquisition in Venice it would be well\nworth his while to bring the picturesque fiction of the text into some\nharmony with the plain facts of the footnote.\n\nOn the poetry of the sixteenth century Mr. Symonds has, of course, a\ngreat deal to say, and on such subjects he always writes with ease,\ngrace, and delicacy of perception. We admit that we weary sometimes of\nthe continual application to literature of epithets appropriate to\nplastic and pictorial art. The conception of the unity of the arts is\ncertainly of great value, but in the present condition of criticism it\nseems to us that it would be more useful to emphasise the fact that each\nart has its separate method of expression. The essay on Tasso, however,\nis delightful reading, and the position the poet holds towards modern\nmusic and modern sentiment is analysed with much subtlety. The essay on\nMarino also is full of interest. We have often wondered whether those\nwho talk so glibly of Euphuism and Marinism in literature have ever read\neither Euphues or the Adone. To the latter they can have no better guide\nthan Mr. Symonds, whose description of the poem is most fascinating.\nMarino, like many greater men, has suffered much from his disciples, but\nhe himself was a master of graceful fancy and of exquisite felicity of\nphrase; not, of course, a great poet but certainly an artist in poetry\nand one to whom language is indebted. Even those conceits that Mr.\nSymonds feels bound to censure have something charming about them. The\ncontinual use of periphrases is undoubtedly a grave fault in style, yet\nwho but a pedant would really quarrel with such periphrases as sirena de\'\nboschi for the nightingale, or il novella Edimione for Galileo?\n\nFrom the poets Mr. Symonds passes to the painters: not those great\nartists of Florence and Venice of whom he has already written, but the\nEclectics of Bologna, the Naturalists of Naples and Rome. This chapter\nis too polemical to be pleasant. The one on music is much better, and\nMr. Symonds gives us a most interesting description of the gradual steps\nby which the Italian genius passed from poetry and painting to melody and\nsong, till the whole of Europe thrilled with the marvel and mystery of\nthis new language of the soul. Some small details should perhaps be\nnoticed. It is hardly accurate, for instance, to say that Monteverde\'s\nOrfeo was the first form of the recitative-Opera, as Peri\'s Dafne and\nEuridice and Cavaliere\'s Rappresentazione preceded it by some years, and\nit is somewhat exaggerated to say that \'under the regime of the\nCommonwealth the national growth of English music received a check from\nwhich it never afterwards recovered,\' as it was with Cromwell\'s auspices\nthat the first English Opera was produced, thirteen years before any\nOpera was regularly established in Paris. The fact that England did not\nmake such development in music as Italy and Germany did, must be ascribed\nto other causes than \'the prevalence of Puritan opinion.\'\n\nThese, however, are minor points. Mr. Symonds is to be warmly\ncongratulated on the completion of his history of the Renaissance in\nItaly. It is a most wonderful monument of literary labour, and its value\nto the student of Humanism cannot be doubted. We have often had occasion\nto differ from Mr. Symonds on questions of detail, and we have more than\nonce felt it our duty to protest against the rhetoric and over-emphasis\nof his style, but we fully recognise the importance of his work and the\nimpetus he has given to the study of one of the vital periods of the\nworld\'s history. Mr. Symonds\' learning has not made him a pedant; his\nculture has widened not narrowed his sympathies, and though he can hardly\nbe called a great historian, yet he will always occupy a place in English\nliterature as one of the remarkable men of letters in the nineteenth\ncentury.\n\nRenaissance in Italy: The Catholic Reaction. In Two Parts. By John\nAddington Symonds. (Smith, Elder and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA \'JOLLY\' ART CRITIC\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 18, 1886.)\n\nThere is a healthy bank-holiday atmosphere about this book which is\nextremely pleasant. Mr. Quilter is entirely free from affectation of any\nkind. He rollicks through art with the recklessness of the tourist and\ndescribes its beauties with the enthusiasm of the auctioneer. To many,\nno doubt, he will seem to be somewhat blatant and bumptious, but we\nprefer to regard him as being simply British. Mr. Quilter is the apostle\nof the middle classes, and we are glad to welcome his gospel. After\nlistening so long to the Don Quixote of art, to listen once to Sancho\nPanza is both salutary and refreshing.\n\nAs for his Sententiae, they differ very widely in character and subject.\nSome of them are ethical, such as \'Humility may be carried too far\'; some\nliterary, as \'For one Froude there are a thousand Mrs. Markhams\'; and\nsome scientific, as \'Objects which are near display more detail than\nthose which are further off.\' Some, again, breathe a fine spirit of\noptimism, as \'Picturesqueness is the birthright of the bargee\'; others\nare jubilant, as \'Paint firm and be jolly\'; and many are purely\nautobiographical, such as No. 97, \'Few of us understand what it is that\nwe mean by Art.\' Nor is Mr. Quilter\'s manner less interesting than his\nmatter. He tells us that at this festive season of the year, with\nChristmas and roast beef looming before us, \'Similes drawn from eating\nand its results occur most readily to the mind.\' So he announces that\n\'Subject is the diet of painting,\' that \'Perspective is the bread of\nart,\' and that \'Beauty is in some way like jam\'; drawings, he points out,\n\'are not made by recipe like puddings,\' nor is art composed of \'suet,\nraisins, and candied peel,\' though Mr. Cecil Lawson\'s landscapes do\n\'smack of indigestion.\' Occasionally, it is true, he makes daring\nexcursions into other realms of fancy, as when he says that \'in the best\nReynolds landscapes, one seems _to smell the sawdust_,\' or that \'advance\nin art is of a _kangaroo_ character\'; but, on the whole, he is happiest\nin his eating similes, and the secret of his style is evidently \'La\nmetaphore vient en mangeant.\'\n\nAbout artists and their work Mr. Quilter has, of course, a great deal to\nsay. Sculpture he regards as \'Painting\'s poor relation\'; so, with the\nexception of a jaunty allusion to the \'rough modelling\' of Tanagra\nfigurines he hardly refers at all to the plastic arts; but on painters he\nwrites with much vigour and joviality. Holbein\'s wonderful Court\nportraits naturally do not give him much pleasure; in fact, he compares\nthem as works of art to the sham series of Scottish kings at Holyrood;\nbut Dore, he tells us, had a wider imaginative range in all subjects\nwhere the gloomy and the terrible played leading parts than probably any\nartist who ever lived, and may be called \'the Carlyle of artists.\' In\nGainsborough he sees \'a plainness almost amounting to brutality,\' while\n\'vulgarity and snobbishness\' are the chief qualities he finds in Sir\nJoshua Reynolds. He has grave doubts whether Sir Frederick Leighton\'s\nwork is really \'Greek, after all,\' and can discover in it but little of\n\'rocky Ithaca.\' Mr. Poynter, however, is a cart-horse compared to the\nPresident, and Frederick Walker was \'a dull Greek\' because he had no\n\'sympathy with poetry.\' Linnell\'s pictures, are \'a sort of "Up, Guards,\nand at \'em" paintings,\' and Mason\'s exquisite idylls are \'as national as\na Jingo poem\'! Mr. Birket Foster\'s landscapes \'smile at one much in the\nsame way that Mr. Carker used to "flash his teeth,"\' and Mr. John Collier\ngives his sitter \'a cheerful slap on the back, before he says, like a\nshampooer in a Turkish bath, "Next man!" Mr. Herkomer\'s art is, \'if not\na catch-penny art, at all events a catch-many-pounds art,\' and Mr. W. B.\nRichmond is a \'clever trifler,\' who \'might do really good work\' \'if he\nwould employ his time in learning to paint.\' It is obviously unnecessary\nfor us to point out how luminous these criticisms are, how delicate in\nexpression. The remarks on Sir Joshua Reynolds alone exemplify the truth\nof Sententia No. 19, \'From a picture we gain but little more than we\nbring.\' On the general principles of art Mr. Quilter writes with equal\nlucidity. That there is a difference between colour and colours, that an\nartist, be he portrait-painter or dramatist, always reveals himself in\nhis manner, are ideas that can hardly be said to occur to him; but Mr.\nQuilter really does his best and bravely faces every difficulty in modern\nart, with the exception of Mr. Whistler. Painting, he tells us, is \'of a\ndifferent quality to mathematics,\' and finish in art is \'adding more\nfact\'! Portrait painting is a bad pursuit for an emotional artist as it\ndestroys his personality and his sympathy; however, even for the\nemotional artist there is hope, as a portrait can be converted into a\npicture \'by adding to the likeness of the sitter some dramatic interest\nor some picturesque adjunct\'! As for etchings, they are of two\nkinds--British and foreign. The latter fail in \'propriety.\' Yet,\n\'really fine etching is as free and easy as is the chat between old chums\nat midnight over a smoking-room fire.\' Consonant with these rollicking\nviews of art is Mr. Quilter\'s healthy admiration for \'the three primary\ncolours: red, blue, and yellow.\' Any one, he points out, \'can paint in\ngood tone who paints only in black and white,\' and \'the great sign of a\ngood decorator\' is \'his capability of doing without neutral tints.\'\nIndeed, on decoration Mr. Quilter is almost eloquent. He laments most\nbitterly the divorce that has been made between decorative art and \'what\nwe usually call "pictures,"\' makes the customary appeal to the Last\nJudgment, and reminds us that in the great days of art Michael Angelo was\nthe \'furnishing upholsterer.\' With the present tendencies of decorative\nart in England Mr. Quilter, consequently, has but little sympathy, and he\nmakes a gallant appeal to the British householder to stand no more\nnonsense. Let the honest fellow, he says, on his return from his\ncounting-house tear down the Persian hangings, put a chop on the\nAnatolian plate, mix some toddy in the Venetian glass, and carry his wife\noff to the National Gallery to look at \'our own Mulready\'! And then the\npicture he draws of the ideal home, where everything, though ugly, is\nhallowed by domestic memories, and where beauty appeals not to the\nheartless eye but the family affections; \'baby\'s chair there, and the\nmother\'s work-basket . . . near the fire, and the ornaments Fred brought\nhome from India on the mantel-board\'! It is really impossible not to be\ntouched by so charming a description. How valuable, also, in connection\nwith house decoration is Sententia No. 351, \'There is nothing furnishes a\nroom like a bookcase, _and plenty of books in it_.\' How cultivated the\nmind that thus raises literature to the position of upholstery and puts\nthought on a level with the antimacassar!\n\nAnd, finally, for the young workers in art Mr. Quilter has loud words of\nencouragement. With a sympathy that is absolutely reckless of grammar,\nhe knows from experience \'what an amount of study and mental strain _are_\ninvolved in painting a bad picture honestly\'; he exhorts them (Sententia\nNo. 267) to \'go on quite bravely and sincerely making mess after mess\nfrom Nature,\' and while sternly warning them that there is something\nwrong if they do not \'feel _washed out_ after each drawing,\' he still\nurges them to \'put a new piece of goods in the window\' every morning. In\nfact, he is quite severe on Mr. Ruskin for not recognising that \'a\npicture should denote the frailty of man,\' and remarks with pleasing\ncourtesy and felicitous grace that \'many phases of feeling . . . are as\nmuch a dead letter to this great art teacher, as Sanskrit to an Islington\ncabman.\' Nor is Mr. Quilter one of those who fails to practice what he\npreaches. Far from it. He goes on quite bravely and sincerely making\nmess after mess from literature, and misquotes Shakespeare, Wordsworth,\nAlfred de Musset, Mr. Matthew Arnold, Mr. Swinburne, and Mr. Fitzgerald\'s\nRubaiyat, in strict accordance with Sententia No. 251, which tells us\nthat \'Work must be abominable if it is ever going to be good.\' Only,\nunfortunately, his own work never does get good. Not content with his\nmisquotations, he misspells the names of such well-known painters as\nMadox-Brown, Bastien Lepage and Meissonier, hesitates between Ingres and\nIngres, talks of _Mr_. Millais and _Mr_. Linton, alludes to Mr. Frank\nHoll simply as \'Hall,\' speaks with easy familiarity of Mr. Burne-Jones as\n\'Jones,\' and writes of the artist whom he calls \'old Chrome\' with an\naffection that reminds us of Mr. Tulliver\'s love for Jeremy Taylor. On\nthe whole, the book will not do. We fully admit that it is extremely\namusing and, no doubt, Mr. Quilter is quite earnest in his endeavours to\nelevate art to the dignity of manual labour, but the extraordinary\nvulgarity of the style alone will always be sufficient to prevent these\nSententiae Artis from being anything more than curiosities of literature.\nMr. Quilter has missed his chance; for he has failed even to make himself\nthe Tupper of Painting.\n\nSententiae: Artis: First Principles of Art for Painters and Picture\nLovers. By Harry Quilter, M.A. (Isbister.)\n\n[A reply to this review appeared on November 23.]\n\n\n\n\nA SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGH LITERATURE\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 1, 1886.)\n\nThis is undoubtedly an interesting book, not merely through its eloquence\nand earnestness, but also through the wonderful catholicity of taste that\nit displays. Mr. Noel has a passion for panegyric. His eulogy on Keats\nis closely followed by a eulogy on Whitman, and his praise of Lord\nTennyson is equalled only by his praise of Mr. Robert Buchanan.\nSometimes, we admit, we would like a little more fineness of\ndiscrimination, a little more delicacy of perception. Sincerity of\nutterance is valuable in a critic, but sanity of judgment is more\nvaluable still, and Mr. Noel\'s judgments are not always distinguished by\ntheir sobriety. Many of the essays, however, are well worth reading. The\nbest is certainly that on The Poetic Interpretation of Nature, in which\nMr. Noel claims that what is called by Mr. Ruskin the \'pathetic fallacy\nof literature\' is in reality a vital emotional truth; but the essays on\nHugo and Mr. Browning are good also; the little paper entitled Rambles by\nthe Cornish Seas is a real marvel of delightful description, and the\nmonograph on Chatterton has a good deal of merit, though we must protest\nvery strongly against Mr. Noel\'s idea that Chatterton must be modernised\nbefore he can be appreciated. Mr. Noel has absolutely no right\nwhatsoever to alter Chatterton\'s\' yonge damoyselles\' and \'_anlace_ fell\'\ninto \'youthful damsels\' and \'_weapon_ fell,\' for Chatterton\'s archaisms\nwere an essential part of his inspiration and his method. Mr. Noel in\none of his essays speaks with much severity of those who prefer sound to\nsense in poetry and, no doubt, this is a very wicked thing to do; but he\nhimself is guilty of a much graver sin against art when, in his desire to\nemphasise the meaning of Chatterton, he destroys Chatterton\'s music. In\nthe modernised version he gives of the wonderful Songe to AElla, he mars\nby his corrections the poem\'s metrical beauty, ruins the rhymes and robs\nthe music of its echo. Nineteenth-century restorations have done quite\nenough harm to English architecture without English poetry being treated\nin the same manner, and we hope that when Mr. Noel writes again about\nChatterton he will quote from the poet\'s verse, not from a publisher\'s\nversion.\n\nThis, however, is not by any means the chief blot on Mr. Noel\'s book. The\nfault of his book is that it tells us far more about his own personal\nfeelings than it does about the qualities of the various works of art\nthat are criticised. It is in fact a diary of the emotions suggested by\nliterature, rather than any real addition to literary criticism, and we\nfancy that many of the poets about whom he writes so eloquently would be\nnot a little surprised at the qualities he finds in their work. Byron,\nfor instance, who spoke with such contempt of what he called \'twaddling\nabout trees and babbling o\' green fields\'; Byron who cried, \'Away with\nthis cant about nature! A good poet can imbue a pack of cards with more\npoetry than inhabits the forests of America,\' is claimed by Mr. Noel as a\ntrue nature-worshipper and Pantheist along with Wordsworth and Shelley;\nand we wonder what Keats would have thought of a critic who gravely\nsuggests that Endymion is \'a parable of the development of the individual\nsoul.\' There are two ways of misunderstanding a poem. One is to\nmisunderstand it and the other to praise it for qualities that it does\nnot possess. The latter is Mr. Noel\'s method, and in his anxiety to\nglorify the artist he often does so at the expense of the work of art.\n\nMr. Noel also is constantly the victim of his own eloquence. So facile\nis his style that it constantly betrays him into crude and extravagant\nstatements. Rhetoric and over-emphasis are the dangers that Mr. Noel has\nnot always succeeded in avoiding. It is extravagant, for instance, to\nsay that all great poetry has been \'pictorial,\' or that Coleridge\'s\nKnight\'s Grave is worth many Kubla Khans, or that Byron has \'the splendid\nimperfection of an AEschylus,\' or that we had lately \'one dramatist\nliving in England, and only one, who could be compared to Hugo, and that\nwas Richard Hengist Horne,\' and that \'to find an English dramatist of the\nsame order before him we must go back to Sheridan if not to Otway.\' Mr.\nNoel, again, has a curious habit of classing together the most\nincongruous names and comparing the most incongruous works of art. What\nis gained by telling us that \'Sardanapalus\' is perhaps hardly equal to\n\'Sheridan,\' that Lord Tennyson\'s ballad of The Revenge and his Ode on the\nDeath of the Duke of Wellington are worthy of a place beside Thomson\'s\nRule Britannia, that Edgar Allan Poe, Disraeli and Mr. Alfred Austin are\nartists of note whom we may affiliate on Byron, and that if Sappho and\nMilton \'had not high genius, they would be justly reproached as\nsensational\'? And surely it is a crude judgment that classes Baudelaire,\nof all poets, with Marini and mediaeval troubadours, and a crude style\nthat writes of \'Goethe, Shelley, Scott, and Wilson,\' for a mortal should\nnot thus intrude upon the immortals, even though he be guilty of holding\nwith them that Cain is \'one of the finest poems in the English language.\'\nIt is only fair, however, to add that Mr. Noel subsequently makes more\nthan ample amends for having opened Parnassus to the public in this\nreckless manner, by calling Wilson an \'offal-feeder,\' on the ground that\nhe once wrote a severe criticism of some of Lord Tennyson\'s early poems.\nFor Mr. Noel does not mince his words. On the contrary, he speaks with\nmuch scorn of all euphuism and delicacy of expression and, preferring the\naffectation of nature to the affectation of art, he thinks nothing of\ncalling other people \'Laura Bridgmans,\' \'Jackasses\' and the like. This,\nwe think, is to be regretted, especially in a writer so cultured as Mr.\nNoel. For, though indignation may make a great poet, bad temper always\nmakes a poor critic.\n\nOn the whole, Mr. Noel\'s book has an emotional rather than an\nintellectual interest. It is simply a record of the moods of a man of\nletters, and its criticisms merely reveal the critic without illuminating\nwhat he would criticise for us. The best that we can say of it is that\nit is a Sentimental Journey through Literature, the worst that any one\ncould say of it is that it has all the merits of such an expedition.\n\nEssays on Poetry and Poets. By the Hon. Roden Noel. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nCOMMON-SENSE IN ART\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 8, 1887.)\n\nAt this critical moment in the artistic development of England Mr. John\nCollier has come forward as the champion of common-sense in art. It will\nbe remembered that Mr. Quilter, in one of his most vivid and picturesque\nmetaphors, compared Mr. Collier\'s method as a painter to that of a\nshampooer in a Turkish bath. {119} As a writer Mr. Collier is no less\ninteresting. It is true that he is not eloquent, but then he censures\nwith just severity \'the meaningless eloquence of the writers on\naesthetics\'; we admit that he is not subtle, but then he is careful to\nremind us that Leonardo da Vinci\'s views on painting are nonsensical; his\nqualities are of a solid, indeed we may say of a stolid order; he is\nthoroughly honest, sturdy and downright, and he advises us, if we want to\nknow anything about art, to study the works of \'Helmholtz, Stokes, or\nTyndall,\' to which we hope we may be allowed to add Mr. Collier\'s own\nManual of Oil Painting.\n\nFor this art of painting is a very simple thing indeed, according to Mr.\nCollier. It consists merely in the \'representation of natural objects by\nmeans of pigments on a flat surface.\' There is nothing, he tells us, \'so\nvery mysterious\' in it after all. \'Every natural object appears to us as\na sort of pattern of different shades and colours,\' and \'the task of the\nartist is so to arrange his shades and colours on his canvas that a\nsimilar pattern is produced.\' This is obviously pure common-sense, and\nit is clear that art-definitions of this character can be comprehended by\nthe very meanest capacity and, indeed, may be said to appeal to it. For\nthe perfect development, however, of this pattern-producing faculty a\nsevere training is necessary. The art student must begin by painting\nchina, crockery, and \'still life\' generally. He should rule his straight\nlines and employ actual measurements wherever it is possible. He will\nalso find that a plumb-line comes in very useful. Then he should proceed\nto Greek sculpture, for from pottery to Phidias is only one step.\nUltimately he will arrive at the living model, and as soon as he can\n\'faithfully represent any object that he has before him\' he is a painter.\nAfter this there is, of course, only one thing to be considered, the\nimportant question of subject. Subjects, Mr. Collier tells us, are of\ntwo kinds, ancient and modern. Modern subjects are more healthy than\nancient subjects, but the real difficulty of modernity in art is that the\nartist passes his life with respectable people, and that respectable\npeople are unpictorial. \'For picturesqueness,\' consequently, he should\ngo to \'the rural poor,\' and for pathos to the London slums. Ancient\nsubjects offer the artist a very much wider field. If he is fond of\n\'rich stuffs and costly accessories\' he should study the Middle Ages; if\nhe wishes to paint beautiful people, \'untrammelled by any considerations\nof historical accuracy,\' he should turn to the Greek and Roman mythology;\nand if he is a \'mediocre painter,\' he should choose his \'subject from the\nOld and New Testament,\' a recommendation, by the way, that many of our\nRoyal Academicians seem already to have carried out. To paint a real\nhistorical picture one requires the assistance of a theatrical costumier\nand a photographer. From the former one hires the dresses and the latter\nsupplies one with the true background. Besides subject-pictures there\nare also portraits and landscapes. Portrait painting, Mr. Collier tells\nus, \'makes no demands on the imagination.\' As is the sitter, so is the\nwork of art. If the sitter be commonplace, for instance, it would be\n\'contrary to the fundamental principles of portraiture to make the\npicture other than commonplace.\' There are, however, certain rules that\nshould be followed. One of the most important of these is that the\nartist should always consult his sitter\'s relations before he begins the\npicture. If they want a profile he must do them a profile; if they\nrequire a full face he must give them a full face; and he should be\ncareful also to get their opinion as to the costume the sitter should\nwear and \'the sort of expression he should put on.\' \'After all,\' says\nMr. Collier pathetically, \'it is they who have to live with the picture.\'\n\nBesides the difficulty of pleasing the victim\'s family, however, there is\nthe difficulty of pleasing the victim. According to Mr. Collier, and he\nis, of course, a high authority on the matter, portrait painters bore\ntheir sitters very much. The true artist consequently should encourage\nhis sitter to converse, or get some one to read to him; for if the sitter\nis bored the portrait will look sad. Still, if the sitter has not got an\namiable expression naturally the artist is not bound to give him one, nor\n\'if he is essentially ungraceful\' should the artist ever \'put him in a\ngraceful attitude.\' As regards landscape painting, Mr. Collier tells us\nthat \'a great deal of nonsense has been talked about the impossibility of\nreproducing nature,\' but that there is nothing really to prevent a\npicture giving to the eye exactly the same impression that an actual\nscene gives, for that when he visited \'the celebrated panorama of the\nSiege of Paris\' he could hardly distinguish the painted from the real\ncannons! The whole passage is extremely interesting, and is really one\nout of many examples we might give of the swift and simple manner in\nwhich the common-sense method solves the great problems of art. The book\nconcludes with a detailed exposition of the undulatory theory of light\naccording to the most ancient scientific discoveries. Mr. Collier points\nout how important it is for an artist to hold sound views on the subject\nof ether waves, and his own thorough appreciation of Science may be\nestimated by the definition he gives of it as being \'neither more nor\nless than knowledge.\'\n\nMr. Collier has done his work with much industry and earnestness. Indeed,\nnothing but the most conscientious seriousness, combined with real\nlabour, could have produced such a book, and the exact value of common-\nsense in art has never before been so clearly demonstrated.\n\nA Manual of Oil Painting. By the Hon. John Collier. (Cassell and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMINER AND MINOR POETS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 1, 1887.)\n\nThe conditions that precede artistic production are so constantly treated\nas qualities of the work of art itself that one sometimes is tempted to\nwish that all art were anonymous. Yet there are certain forms of art so\nindividual in their utterance, so purely personal in their expression,\nthat for a full appreciation of their style and manner some knowledge of\nthe artist\'s life is necessary. To this class belongs Mr. Skipsey\'s\nCarols from the Coal-Fields, a volume of intense human interest and high\nliterary merit, and we are consequently glad to see that Dr. Spence\nWatson has added a short biography of his friend to his friend\'s poems,\nfor the life and the literature are too indissolubly wedded ever really\nto be separated. Joseph Skipsey, Dr. Watson tells us, was sent into the\ncoal pits at Percy Main, near North Shields, when he was seven years of\nage. Young as he was he had to work from twelve to sixteen hours in the\nday, generally in the pitch dark, and in the dreary winter months he saw\nthe sun only upon Sundays. When he went to work he had learned the\nalphabet and to put words of two letters together, but he was really his\nown schoolmaster, and \'taught himself to write, for example, by copying\nthe letters from printed bills or notices, when he could get a candle\nend,--his paper being the trapdoor, which it was his duty to open and\nshut as the wagons passed through, and his pen a piece of chalk.\' The\nfirst book he really read was the Bible, and not content with reading it,\nhe learned by heart the chapters which specially pleased him. When\nsixteen years old he was presented with a copy of Lindley Murray\'s\nGrammar, by the aid of which he gained some knowledge of the structural\nrules of English. He had already become acquainted with Paradise Lost,\nand was another proof of Matthew Prior\'s axiom, \'Who often reads will\nsometimes want to write,\' for he had begun to write verse when only \'a\nbonnie pit lad.\' For more than forty years of his life he laboured in\n\'the coal-dark underground,\' and is now the caretaker of a Board-school\nin Newcastle-upon-Tyne. As for the qualities of his poetry, they are its\ndirectness and its natural grace. He has an intellectual as well as a\nmetrical affinity with Blake, and possesses something of Blake\'s\nmarvellous power of making simple things seem strange to us, and strange\nthings seem simple. How delightful, for instance, is this little poem:\n\n \'Get up!\' the caller calls, \'Get up!\'\n And in the dead of night,\n To win the bairns their bite and sup,\n I rise a weary wight.\n\n My flannel dudden donn\'d, thrice o\'er\n My birds are kiss\'d, and then\n I with a whistle shut the door\n I may not ope again.\n\nHow exquisite and fanciful this stray lyric:\n\n The wind comes from the west to-night;\n So sweetly down the lane he bloweth\n Upon my lips, with pure delight\n From head to foot my body gloweth.\n\n Where did the wind, the magic find\n To charm me thus? say, heart that knoweth!\n \'Within a rose on which he blows\n Before upon thy lips he bloweth!\'\n\nWe admit that Mr. Skipsey\'s work is extremely unequal, but when it is at\nits best it is full of sweetness and strength; and though he has\ncarefully studied the artistic capabilities of language, he never makes\nhis form formal by over-polishing. Beauty with him seems to be an\nunconscious result rather than a conscious aim; his style has all the\ndelicate charm of chance. We have already pointed out his affinity to\nBlake, but with Burns also he may be said to have a spiritual kinship,\nand in the songs of the Northumbrian miner we meet with something of the\nAyrshire peasant\'s wild gaiety and mad humour. He gives himself up\nfreely to his impressions, and there is a fine, careless rapture in his\nlaughter. The whole book deserves to be read, and much of it deserves to\nbe loved. Mr. Skipsey can find music for every mood, whether he is\ndealing with the real experiences of the pitman or with the imaginative\nexperiences of the poet, and his verse has a rich vitality about it. In\nthese latter days of shallow rhymes it is pleasant to come across some\none to whom poetry is a passion not a profession.\n\nMr. F. B. Doveton belongs to a different school. In his amazing\nversatility he reminds us of the gentleman who wrote the immortal\nhandbills for Mrs. Jarley, for his subjects range from Dr. Carter Moffatt\nand the Ammoniaphone to Mr. Whiteley, Lady Bicyclists, and the\nImmortality of the Soul. His verses in praise of Zoedone are a fine\nexample of didactic poetry, his elegy on the death of Jumbo is quite up\nto the level of the subject, and the stanzas on a watering-place,\n\n Who of its merits can e\'er think meanly?\n Scattering ozone to all the land!\n\nare well worthy of a place in any shilling guidebook. Mr. Doveton\ndivides his poems into grave and gay, but we like him least when he is\namusing, for in his merriment there is but little melody, and he makes\nhis muse grin through a horse-collar. When he is serious he is much\nbetter, and his descriptive poems show that he has completely mastered\nthe most approved poetical phraseology. Our old friend Boreas is as\n\'burly\' as ever, \'zephyrs\' are consistently \'amorous,\' and \'the welkin\nrings\' upon the smallest provocation; birds are \'the feathered host\' or\n\'the sylvan throng,\' the wind \'wantons o\'er the lea,\' \'vernal gales\'\nmurmur to \'crystal rills,\' and Lempriere\'s Dictionary supplies the Latin\nnames for the sun and the moon. Armed with these daring and novel\nexpressions Mr. Doveton indulges in fierce moods of nature-worship, and\nbotanises recklessly through the provinces. Now and then, however, we\ncome across some pleasing passages. Mr. Doveton apparently is an\nenthusiastic fisherman, and sings merrily of the \'enchanting grayling\'\nand the \'crimson and gold trout\' that rise to the crafty angler\'s\n\'feathered wile.\' Still, we fear that he will never produce any real\ngood work till he has made up his mind whether destiny intends him for a\npoet or for an advertising agent, and we venture to hope that should he\never publish another volume he will find some other rhyme to \'vision\'\nthan \'Elysian,\' a dissonance that occurs five times in this well-meaning\nbut tedious volume.\n\nAs for Mr. Ashby-Sterry, those who object to the nude in art should at\nonce read his lays of The Lazy Minstrel and be converted, for over these\npoems the milliner, not the muse, presides, and the result is a little\nalarming. As the Chelsea sage investigated the philosophy of clothes, so\nMr. Ashby-Sterry has set himself to discover the poetry of petticoats,\nand seems to find much consolation in the thought that, though art is\nlong, skirts are worn short. He is the only pedlar who has climbed\nParnassus since Autolycus sang of\n\n Lawn as white as driven snow,\n \'Cypress black as e\'er was crow,\n\nand his details are as amazing as his diminutives. He is capable of\npenning a canto to a crinoline, and has a pathetic monody on a\nmackintosh. He sings of pretty puckers and pliant pleats, and is\neloquent on frills, frocks and chemisettes. The latest French fashions\nstir him to a fine frenzy, and the sight of a pair of Balmoral boots\nthrills him with absolute ecstasy. He writes rondels on ribbons, lyrics\non linen and lace, and his most ambitious ode is addressed to a Tomboy in\nTrouserettes! Yet his verse is often dainty and delicate, and many of\nhis poems are full of sweet and pretty conceits. Indeed, of the Thames\nat summer time he writes so charmingly, and with such felicitous grace of\nepithet, that we cannot but regret that he has chosen to make himself the\nPoet of Petticoats and the Troubadour of Trouserettes.\n\n(1) Carols from the Coal-Fields, and Other Songs and Ballads. By Joseph\nSkipsey. (Walter Scott.)\n\n(2) Sketches in Prose and Verse. By F. B. Doveton. (Sampson Low,\nMarston and Co.)\n\n(3) The Lazy Minstrel. By J. Ashby-Sterry. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n\n\n\nA NEW CALENDAR\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 17, 1887.)\n\nMost modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding\nus that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly\nuninteresting event. Their compilers display a degraded passion for\nchronicling small beer, and rake out the dust-heap of history in an\nardent search after rubbish. Mr. Walter Scott, however, has made a new\ndeparture and has published a calendar in which every day of the year is\nmade beautiful for us by means of an elegant extract from the poems of\nMr. Alfred Austin. This, undoubtedly, is a step in the right direction.\nIt is true that such aphorisms as\n\n Graves are a _mother\'s dimples_\n When we complain,\n\nor\n\n The primrose wears a constant smile,\n And captive takes the heart,\n\ncan hardly be said to belong to the very highest order of poetry, still,\nthey are preferable, on the whole, to the date of Hannah More\'s birth, or\nof the burning down of Exeter Change, or of the opening of the Great\nExhibition; and though it would be dangerous to make calendars the basis\nof Culture, we should all be much improved if we began each day with a\nfine passage of English poetry. How far this desirable result can be\nattained by a use of the volume now before us is, perhaps, open to\nquestion, but it must be admitted that its anonymous compiler has done\nhis work very conscientiously, nor will we quarrel with him for the fact\nthat he constantly repeats the same quotation twice over. No doubt it\nwas difficult to find in Mr. Austin\'s work three hundred and sixty-five\ndifferent passages really worthy of insertion in an almanac, and,\nbesides, our climate has so degenerated of late that there is no reason\nat all why a motto perfectly suitable for February should not be equally\nappropriate when August has set in with its usual severity. For the\nmisprints there is less excuse. Even the most uninteresting poet cannot\nsurvive bad editing.\n\nPrefixed to the Calendar is an introductory note from the pen of Mr.\nWilliam Sharp, written in that involved and affected style which is Mr.\nSharp\'s distinguishing characteristic, and displaying that intimate\nacquaintance with Sappho\'s lost poems which is the privilege only of\nthose who are not acquainted with Greek literature. As a criticism it is\nnot of much value, but as an advertisement it is quite excellent. Indeed,\nMr. Sharp hints mysteriously at secret political influence, and tells us\nthat though Mr. Austin \'sings with Tityrus\' yet he \'has conversed with\nAEneas,\' which, we suppose, is a euphemistic method of alluding to the\nfact that Mr. Austin once lunched with Lord Beaconsfield. It is for the\npoet, however, not for the politician, that Mr. Sharp reserves his\nloftiest panegyric and, in his anxiety to smuggle the author of Leszko\nthe Bastard and Grandmother\'s Teaching into the charmed circle of the\nImmortals, he leaves no adjective unturned, quoting and misquoting Mr.\nAustin with a recklessness that is absolutely fatal to the cause he\npleads. For mediocre critics are usually safe in their generalities; it\nis in their reasons and examples that they come so lamentably to grief.\nWhen, for instance, Mr. Sharp tells us that lines with the \'natural\nmagic\' of Shakespeare, Keats and Coleridge are \'far from infrequent\' in\nMr. Austin\'s poems, all that we can say is that we have never come across\nany lines of the kind in Mr. Austin\'s published works, but it is\ndifficult to help smiling when Mr. Sharp gravely calls upon us to note\n\'the illuminative significance\' of such a commonplace verse as\n\n My manhood keeps the dew of morn,\n And what have I to give;\n Being right glad that I was born,\n And thankful that I live.\n\nNor do Mr. Sharp\'s constant misquotations really help him out of his\ndifficulties. Such a line as\n\n A meadow ribbed with _drying_ swathes of hay,\n\nhas at least the merit of being a simple, straightforward description of\nan ordinary scene in an English landscape, but not much can be said in\nfavour of\n\n A meadow ribbed with _dying_ swathes of hay,\n\nwhich is Mr. Sharp\'s own version, and one that he finds \'delightfully\nsuggestive.\' It is indeed suggestive, but only of that want of care that\ncomes from want of taste.\n\nOn the whole, Mr. Sharp has attempted an impossible task. Mr. Austin is\nneither an Olympian nor a Titan, and all the puffing in Paternoster Row\ncannot set him on Parnassus.\n\nHis verse is devoid of all real rhythmical life; it may have the metre of\npoetry, but it has not often got its music, nor can there be any true\ndelicacy in the ear that tolerates such rhymes as \'chord\' and \'abroad.\'\nEven the claim that Mr. Sharp puts forward for him, that his muse takes\nher impressions directly from nature and owes nothing to books, cannot be\nsustained for a moment. Wordsworth is a great poet, but bad echoes of\nWordsworth are extremely depressing, and when Mr. Austin calls the cuckoo a\n\n Voyaging voice\n\nand tells us that\n\n The stockdove _broods_\n Low to itself,\n\nwe must really enter a protest against such silly plagiarisms.\n\nPerhaps, however, we are treating Mr. Sharp too seriously. He admits\nhimself that it was at the special request of the compiler of the\nCalendar that he wrote the preface at all, and though he courteously adds\nthat the task is agreeable to him, still he shows only too clearly that\nhe considers it a task and, like a clever lawyer or a popular clergyman,\ntries to atone for his lack of sincerity by a pleasing over-emphasis. Nor\nis there any reason why this Calendar should not be a great success. If\npublished as a broad-sheet, with a picture of Mr. Austin \'conversing with\nAEneas,\' it might gladden many a simple cottage home and prove a source\nof innocent amusement to the Conservative working-man.\n\nDays of the Year: A Poetic Calendar from the Works of Alfred Austin.\nSelected and edited by A. S. With Introduction by William Sharp. (Walter\nScott.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--II\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 8, 1837.)\n\nA little schoolboy was once asked to explain the difference between prose\nand poetry. After some consideration he replied, \'"blue violets" is\nprose, and "violets blue" is poetry.\' The distinction, we admit, is not\nexhaustive, but it seems to be the one that is extremely popular with our\nminor poets. Opening at random The Queens Innocent we come across\npassages like this:\n\n Full gladly would I sit\n Of such a potent magus at the feet,\n\nand this:\n\n The third, while yet a youth,\n Espoused a lady noble but not royal,\n _One only son who gave him_--Pharamond--\n\nlines that, apparently, rest their claim to be regarded as poetry on\ntheir unnecessary and awkward inversions. Yet this poem is not without\nbeauty, and the character of Nardi, the little prince who is treated as\nthe Court fool, shows a delicate grace of fancy, and is both tender and\ntrue. The most delightful thing in the whole volume is a little lyric\ncalled April, which is like a picture set to music.\n\nThe Chimneypiece of Bruges is a narrative poem in blank verse, and tells\nus of a young artist who, having been unjustly convicted of his wife\'s\nmurder, spends his life in carving on the great chimneypiece of the\nprison the whole story of his love and suffering. The poem is full of\ncolour, but the blank verse is somewhat heavy in movement. There are\nsome pretty things in the book, and a poet without hysterics is rare.\n\nDr. Dawson Burns\'s Oliver Cromwell is a pleasant panegyric on the\nProtector, and reads like a prize poem by a nice sixth-form boy. The\nverses on The Good Old Times should be sent as a leaflet to all Tories of\nMr. Chaplin\'s school, and the lines on Bunker\'s Hill, beginning,\n\n I stand on Bunker\'s towering pile,\n\nare sure to be popular in America.\n\nK. E. V.\'s little volume is a series of poems on the Saints. Each poem\nis preceded by a brief biography of the Saint it celebrates--which is a\nvery necessary precaution, as few of them ever existed. It does not\ndisplay much poetic power, and such lines as these on St. Stephen,--\n\n Did ever man before so fall asleep?\n A cruel shower of stones his only bed,\n For lullaby the curses loud and deep,\n His covering with blood red--\n\nmay be said to add another horror to martyrdom. Still it is a thoroughly\nwell-intentioned book and eminently suitable for invalids.\n\nMr. Foskett\'s poems are very serious and deliberate. One of the best of\nthem, Harold Glynde, is a Cantata for Total Abstainers, and has already\nbeen set to music. A Hindoo Tragedy is the story of an enthusiastic\nBrahmin reformer who tries to break down the prohibition against widows\nmarrying, and there are other interesting tales. Mr. Foskett has\napparently forgotten to insert the rhymes in his sonnet to Wordsworth;\nbut, as he tells us elsewhere that \'Poesy is uninspired by Art,\' perhaps\nhe is only heralding a new and formless form. He is always sincere in\nhis feelings, and his apostrophe to Canon Farrar is equalled only by his\napostrophe to Shakespeare.\n\nThe Pilgrimage of Memory suffers a good deal by being printed as poetry,\nand Mr. Barker should republish it at once as a prose work. Take, for\ninstance, this description of a lady on a runaway horse:--\n\n Her screams alarmed the Squire, who seeing the peril of his daughter,\n rode frantic after her. I saw at once the danger, and stepping from\n the footpath, show\'d myself before the startled animal, which\n forthwith slackened pace, and darting up adroitly, I seized the rein,\n and in another moment, had released the maiden\'s foot, and held her,\n all insensible, within my arms. Poor girl, her head and face were\n sorely bruised, and I tried hard to staunch the blood which flowed\n from many a scalp-wound, and wipe away the dust that disfigured her\n lovely features. In another moment the Squire was by my side. \'Poor\n child,\' he cried, alarmed, \'is she dead?\' \'No, sir; not dead, I\n think,\' said I, \'but sorely bruised and injured.\'\n\nThere is clearly nothing to be gained by dividing the sentences of this\nsimple and straightforward narrative into lines of unequal length, and\nMr. Barker\'s own arrangement of the metre,\n\n In another moment,\n The Squire was by my side.\n \'Poor child,\' he cried, alarmed, \'is she dead?\'\n \'No, sir; not dead, I think,\' said I,\n \'But sorely bruised and injured,\'\n\nseems to us to be quite inferior to ours. We beg that the second edition\nof The Pilgrimage of Memory may be issued as a novel in prose.\n\nMr. Gladstone Turner believes that we are on the verge of a great social\ncataclysm, and warns us that our _cradles_ are even now being rocked by\n_slumbering volcanoes_! We hope that there is no truth in this\nstatement, and that it is merely a startling metaphor introduced for the\nsake of effect, for elsewhere in the volume there is a great deal of\nbeauty which we should be sorry to think was doomed to immediate\nextinction. The Choice, for instance, is a charming poem, and the sonnet\non Evening would be almost perfect if it were not for an unpleasant\nassonance in the fifth line. Indeed, so good is much of Mr. Gladstone\nTurner\'s work that we trust he will give up rhyming \'real\' to \'steal\' and\n\'feel,\' as such bad habits are apt to grow on careless poets and to blunt\ntheir ear for music.\n\nNivalis is a five-act tragedy in blank verse. Most plays that are\nwritten to be read, not to be acted, miss that condensation and\ndirectness of expression which is one of the secrets of true dramatic\ndiction, and Mr. Schwartz\'s tragedy is consequently somewhat verbose.\nStill, it is full of fine lines and noble scenes. It is essentially a\nwork of art, and though, as far as language is concerned, the personages\nall speak through the lips of the poet, yet in passion and purpose their\ncharacters are clearly differentiated, and the Queen Nivalis and her\nlover Giulio are drawn with real psychological power. We hope that some\nday Mr. Schwartz will write a play for the stage, as he has the dramatic\ninstinct and the dramatic imagination, and can make life pass into\nliterature without robbing it of its reality.\n\n(1) The Queen\'s Innocent, with Other Poems. By Elise Cooper. (David\nStott.)\n\n(2) The Chimneypiece of Bruges and Other Poems. By Constance E. Dixon.\n(Elliot Stock.)\n\n(3) Oliver Cromwell and Other Poems. By Dawson Burns, D.D. (Partridge\nand Co.)\n\n(4) The Circle of Saints. By K. E. V. (Swan Sonnenschein and Co.)\n\n(5) Poems. By Edward Foskett. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(6) The Pilgrimage of Memory. By John Thomas Barker. (Simpkin, Marshall\nand Co.)\n\n(7) Errata. By G. Gladstone Turner. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n(8) Nivalis. By J. M. W. Schwartz. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nGREAT WRITERS BY LITTLE MEN\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 28, 1887.)\n\nIn an introductory note prefixed to the initial volume of \'Great\nWriters,\' a series of literary monographs now being issued by Mr. Walter\nScott, the publisher himself comes forward in the kindest manner possible\nto give his authors the requisite \'puff preliminary,\' and ventures to\nexpress the modest opinion that such original and valuable works \'have\nnever before been produced in any part of the world at a price so low as\na shilling a volume.\' Far be it from us to make any heartless allusion\nto the fact that Shakespeare\'s Sonnets were brought out at fivepence, or\nthat for fourpence-halfpenny one could have bought a Martial in ancient\nRome. Every man, a cynical American tells us, has the right to beat a\ndrum before his booth. Still, we must acknowledge that Mr. Walter Scott\nwould have been much better employed in correcting some of the more\nobvious errors that appear in his series. When, for instance, we come\nacross such a phrase as \'the brotherly liberality of the brothers\nWedgewood,\' the awkwardness of the expression is hardly atoned for by the\nfact that the name of the great potter is misspelt; Longfellow is so\nessentially poor in rhymes that it is unfair to rob him even of one, and\nthe misquotation on page 77 is absolutely unkind; the joke Coleridge\nhimself made upon the subject should have been sufficient to remind any\none that \'Comberbach\' (sic) was not the name under which he enlisted, and\nno real beauty is added to the first line of his pathetic Work Without\nHope by printing \'lare\' (sic) instead of \'lair.\' The truth is that all\npremature panegyrics bring their own punishment upon themselves and, in\nthe present case, though the series has only just entered upon existence,\nalready a great deal of the work done is careless, disappointing, unequal\nand tedious.\n\nMr. Eric Robertson\'s Longfellow is a most depressing book. No one\nsurvives being over-estimated, nor is there any surer way of destroying\nan author\'s reputation than to glorify him without judgment and to praise\nhim without tact. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the first true\nmen of letters America produced, and as such deserves a high place in any\nhistory of American civilisation. To a land out of breath in its greed\nfor gain he showed the example of a life devoted entirely to the study of\nliterature; his lectures, though not by any means brilliant, were still\nproductive of much good; he had a most charming and gracious personality,\nand he wrote some pretty poems. But his poems are not of the kind that\ncall for intellectual analysis or for elaborate description or, indeed,\nfor any serious discussion at all. They are as unsuited for panegyric as\nthey are unworthy of censure, and it is difficult to help smiling when\nMr. Robertson gravely tells us that few modern poets have given utterance\nto a faith so comprehensive as that expressed in the Psalm of Life, or\nthat Evangeline should confer on Longfellow the title of\n\'Golden-mouthed,\' and that the style of metre adopted \'carries the ear\nback to times in the world\'s history when grand simplicities were sung.\'\nSurely Mr. Robertson does not believe that there is any connection at all\nbetween Longfellow\'s unrhymed dactylics and the hexameter of Greece and\nRome, or that any one reading Evangeline would be reminded of Homer\'s or\nVirgil\'s line? Where also lies the advantage of confusing popularity\nwith poetic power? Though the Psalm of Life be shouted from Maine to\nCalifornia, that would not make it true poetry. Why call upon us to\nadmire a bad misquotation from the Midnight Mass for the Dying Year, and\nwhy talk of Longfellow\'s \'hundreds of imitators\'? Longfellow has no\nimitators, for of echoes themselves there are no echoes and it is only\nstyle that makes a school.\n\nNow and then, however, Mr. Robertson considers it necessary to assume a\ncritical attitude. He tells us, for instance, that whether or not\nLongfellow was a genius of the first order, it must be admitted that he\nloved social pleasures and was a good eater and judge of wines, admiring\n\'Bass\'s ale\' more than anything else he had seen in England! The remarks\non Excelsior are even still more amazing. Excelsior, says Mr. Robertson,\nis not a ballad because a ballad deals either with real or with\nsupernatural people, and the hero of the poem cannot be brought under\neither category. For, \'were he of human flesh, his madcap notion of\nscaling a mountain with the purpose of getting to the sky would be simply\ndrivelling lunacy,\' to say nothing of the fact that the peak in question\nis much frequented by tourists, while, on the other hand, \'it would be\nabsurd to suppose him a spirit . . . for no spirit would be so silly as\nclimb a snowy mountain for nothing\'! It is really painful to have to\nread such preposterous nonsense, and if Mr. Walter Scott imagines that\nwork of this kind is \'original and valuable\' he has much to learn. Nor\nare Mr. Robertson\'s criticisms upon other poets at all more felicitous.\nThe casual allusion to Herrick\'s \'confectioneries of verse\' is, of\ncourse, quite explicable, coming as it does from an editor who excluded\nHerrick from an anthology of the child-poems of our literature in favour\nof Mr. Ashby-Sterry and Mr. William Sharp, but when Mr. Robertson tells\nus that Poe\'s \'loftiest flights of imagination in verse . . . rise into\nno more empyreal realm than the fantastic,\' we can only recommend him to\nread as soon as possible the marvellous lines To Helen, a poem as\nbeautiful as a Greek gem and as musical as Apollo\'s lute. The remarks,\ntoo, on Poe\'s critical estimate of his own work show that Mr. Robertson\nhas never really studied the poet on whom he pronounces such glib and\nshallow judgments, and exemplify very clearly the fact that even\ndogmatism is no excuse for ignorance.\n\nAfter reading Mr. Hall Caine\'s Coleridge we are irresistibly reminded of\nwhat Wordsworth once said about a bust that had been done of himself.\nAfter contemplating it for some time, he remarked, \'It is not a bad\nWordsworth, but it is not the real Wordsworth; it is not Wordsworth the\npoet, it is the sort of Wordsworth who might be Chancellor of the\nExchequer.\' Mr. Caine\'s Coleridge is certainly not the sort of Coleridge\nwho might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer, for the author of\nChristabel was not by any means remarkable as a financier; but, for all\nthat, it is not the real Coleridge, it is not Coleridge the poet. The\nincidents of the life are duly recounted; the gunpowder plot at\nCambridge, the egg-hot and oronokoo at the little tavern in Newgate\nStreet, the blue coat and white waistcoat that so amazed the worthy\nUnitarians, and the terrible smoking experiment at Birmingham are all\ncarefully chronicled, as no doubt they should be in every popular\nbiography; but of the spiritual progress of the man\'s soul we hear\nabsolutely nothing. Never for one single instant are we brought near to\nColeridge; the magic of that wonderful personality is hidden from us by a\ncloud of mean details, an unholy jungle of facts, and the \'critical\nhistory\' promised to us by Mr. Walter Scott in his unfortunate preface is\nconspicuous only by its absence.\n\nCarlyle once proposed in jest to write a life of Michael Angelo without\nmaking any reference to his art, and Mr. Caine has shown that such a\nproject is perfectly feasible. He has written the life of a great\nperipatetic philosopher and chronicled only the peripatetics. He has\ntried to tell us about a poet, and his book might be the biography of the\nfamous tallow-chandler who would not appreciate the Watchman. The real\nevents of Coleridge\'s life are not his gig excursions and his walking\ntours; they are his thoughts, dreams and passions, his moments of\ncreative impulse, their source and secret, his moods of imaginative joy,\ntheir marvel and their meaning, and not his moods merely but the music\nand the melancholy that they brought him; the lyric loveliness of his\nvoice when he sang, the sterile sorrow of the years when he was silent.\nIt is said that every man\'s life is a Soul\'s Tragedy. Coleridge\'s\ncertainly was so, and though we may not be able to pluck out the heart of\nhis mystery, still let us recognise that mystery is there; and that the\ngoings-out and comings-in of a man, his places of sojourn and his roads\nof travel are but idle things to chronicle, if that which is the man be\nleft unrecorded. So mediocre is Mr. Caine\'s book that even accuracy\ncould not make it better.\n\nOn the whole, then, Mr. Walter Scott cannot be congratulated on the\nsuccess of his venture so far, The one really admirable feature of the\nseries is the bibliography that is appended to each volume. These\nbibliographies are compiled by Mr. Anderson, of the British Museum, and\nare so valuable to the student, as well as interesting in themselves,\nthat it is much to be regretted that they should be accompanied by such\ntedious letterpress.\n\n(1) Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. By Eric S. Robertson.\n\n(2) Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. By Hall Caine. \'Great Writers\'\nSeries. (Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nA NEW BOOK ON DICKENS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 31, 1887.)\n\nMr. Marzials\' Dickens is a great improvement on the Longfellow and\nColeridge of his predecessors. It is certainly a little sad to find our\nold friend the manager of the Theatre Royal, Portsmouth, appearing as\n\'Mr. Vincent Crumules\' (sic), but such misprints are not by any means\nuncommon in Mr. Walter Scott\'s publications, and, on the whole, this is a\nvery pleasant book indeed. It is brightly and cleverly written,\nadmirably constructed, and gives a most vivid and graphic picture of that\nstrange modern drama, the drama of Dickens\'s life. The earlier chapters\nare quite excellent, and, though the story of the famous novelist\'s\nboyhood has been often told before, Mr. Marzials shows that it can be\ntold again without losing any of the charm of its interest, while the\naccount of Dickens in the plenitude of his glory is most appreciative and\ngenial. We are really brought close to the man with his indomitable\nenergy, his extraordinary capacity for work, his high spirits, his\nfascinating, tyrannous personality. The description of his method of\nreading is admirable, and the amazing stump-campaign in America attains,\nin Mr. Marzials\' hands, to the dignity of a mock-heroic poem. One side\nof Dickens\'s character, however, is left almost entirely untouched, and\nyet it is one in every way deserving of close study. That Dickens should\nhave felt bitterly towards his father and mother is quite explicable, but\nthat, while feeling so bitterly, he should have caricatured them for the\namusement of the public, with an evident delight in his own humour, has\nalways seemed to us a most curious psychological problem. We are far\nfrom complaining that he did so. Good novelists are much rarer than good\nsons, and none of us would part readily with Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby.\nStill, the fact remains that a man who was affectionate and loving to his\nchildren, generous and warm-hearted to his friends, and whose books are\nthe very bacchanalia of benevolence, pilloried his parents to make the\ngroundlings laugh, and this fact every biographer of Dickens should face\nand, if possible, explain.\n\nAs for Mr. Marzials\' critical estimate of Dickens as a writer, he tells\nus quite frankly that he believes that Dickens at his best was \'one of\nthe greatest masters of pathos who ever lived,\' a remark that seems to us\nan excellent example of what novelists call \'the fine courage of\ndespair.\' Of course, no biographer of Dickens could say anything else,\njust at present. A popular series is bound to express popular views, and\ncheap criticisms may be excused in cheap books. Besides, it is always\nopen to every one to accept G. H. Lewes\'s unfortunate maxim that any\nauthor who makes one cry possesses the gift of pathos and, indeed, there\nis something very flattering in being told that one\'s own emotions are\nthe ultimate test of literature. When Mr. Marzials discusses Dickens\'s\npower of drawing human nature we are upon somewhat safer ground, and we\ncannot but admire the cleverness with which he passes over his hero\'s\ninnumerable failures. For, in some respects, Dickens might be likened to\nthose old sculptors of our Gothic cathedrals who could give form to the\nmost fantastic fancy, and crowd with grotesque monsters a curious world\nof dreams, but saw little of the grace and dignity of the men and women\namong whom they lived, and whose art, lacking sanity, was therefore\nincomplete. Yet they at least knew the limitations of their art, while\nDickens never knew the limitations of his. When he tries to be serious\nhe succeeds only in being dull, when he aims at truth he reaches merely\nplatitude. Shakespeare could place Ferdinand and Miranda by the side of\nCaliban, and Life recognises them all as her own, but Dickens\'s Mirandas\nare the young ladies out of a fashion-book, and his Ferdinands the\nwalking gentlemen of an unsuccessful company of third-rate players. So\nlittle sanity, indeed, had Dickens\'s art that he was never able even to\nsatirise: he could only caricature; and so little does Mr. Marzials\nrealise where Dickens\'s true strength and weakness lie, that he actually\ncomplains that Cruikshank\'s illustrations are too much exaggerated and\nthat he could never draw either a lady or a gentleman.\n\nThe latter was hardly a disqualification for illustrating Dickens as few\nsuch characters occur in his books, unless we are to regard Lord\nFrederick Verisopht and Sir Mulberry Hawk as valuable studies of high\nlife; and, for our own part, we have always considered that the greatest\ninjustice ever done to Dickens has been done by those who have tried to\nillustrate him seriously.\n\nIn conclusion, Mr. Marzials expresses his belief that a century hence\nDickens will be read as much as we now read Scott, and says rather\nprettily that as long as he is read \'there will be one gentle and\nhumanising influence the more at work among men,\' which is always a\nuseful tag to append to the life of any popular author. Remembering that\nof all forms of error prophecy is the most gratuitous, we will not take\nupon ourselves to decide the question of Dickens\'s immortality. If our\ndescendants do not read him they will miss a great source of amusement,\nand if they do, we hope they will not model their style upon his. Of\nthis, however, there is but little danger, for no age ever borrows the\nslang of its predecessor. As for \'the gentle and humanising influence,\'\nthis is taking Dickens just a little too seriously.\n\nLife of Charles Dickens. By Frank T. Marzials. \'Great Writers\' Series.\n(Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nOUR BOOK-SHELF\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 12, 1887.)\n\nThe Master Of Tanagra is certainly one of Ernst von Wildenbruch\'s most\ndelightful productions. It presents an exceedingly pretty picture of the\nbright external side of ancient Greek life, and tells how a handsome\nyoung Tanagrian left his home for the sake of art, and returned to it for\nlove\'s sake--an old story, no doubt, but one which gains a new charm from\nits new setting. The historical characters of the book, such as\nPraxiteles and Phryne, seem somehow less real than those that are purely\nimaginary, but this is usually the case in all novels that would recreate\nthe past for us, and is a form of penalty that Romance has often to pay\nwhen she tries to blend fact with fancy, and to turn the great personages\nof history into puppets for a little play. The translation, which is\nfrom the pen of the Baroness von Lauer, reads very pleasantly, and some\nof the illustrations are good, though it is impossible to reproduce by\nany process the delicate and exquisite charm of the Tanagra figurines.\n\nM. Paul Stapfer in his book Moliere et Shakespeare shows very clearly\nthat the French have not yet forgiven Schlegel for having threatened\nthat, as a reprisal for the atrocities committed by Napoleon, he would\nprove that Moliere was no poet. Indeed, M. Stapfer, while admitting that\none should be fair \'envers tout le monde, meme envers les Allemands,\'\ncharges down upon the German critics with the brilliancy and dash of a\nFrench cuirassier, and mocks at them for their dulness, at the very\nmoment that he is annexing their erudition, an achievement for which the\nFrench genius is justly renowned. As for the relative merits of Moliere\nand Shakespeare, M. Stapfer has no hesitation in placing the author of Le\nMisanthrope by the side of the author of Hamlet. Shakespeare\'s comedies\nseem to him somewhat wilful and fantastic; he prefers Orgon and Tartuffe\nto Oberon and Titania, and can hardly forgive Beatrice for having been\n\'born to speak all mirth, and no matter.\'\n\nPerhaps he hardly realises that it is as a poet, not as a playwright,\nthat we love Shakespeare in England, and that Ariel singing by the yellow\nsands, or fairies hiding in a wood near Athens, may be as real as Alceste\nin his wooing of Celimene, and as true as Harpagon weeping for his money-\nbox; still, his book is full of interesting suggestion, many of his\nremarks on literature are quite excellent, and his style has the\nqualities of grace, distinction, and ease of movement.\n\nNot so much can be said for Annals of the Life of Shakespeare, which is a\ndull though well-meaning little book. What we do not know about\nShakespeare is a most fascinating subject, and one that would fill a\nvolume, but what we do know about him is so meagre and inadequate that\nwhen it is collected together the result is rather depressing. However,\nthere are many people, no doubt, who find a great source of interest in\nthe fact that he author of The Merchant of Venice once brought an action\nfor the sum of 1 pound, 15s. 10d. and gained his suit, and for these this\nvolume will have considerable charm. It is a pity that the finest line\nBen Jonson ever wrote about Shakespeare should be misquoted at the very\nbeginning of the book, and the illustration of Shakespeare\'s monument\ngives the inscription very badly indeed. Also, it was Ben Jonson\'s\nstepfather, not his \'father-in-law,\' as stated, who was the bricklayer;\nbut it is quite useless to dwell upon these things, as nobody nowadays\nseems to have any time either to correct proofs or to consult\nauthorities.\n\nOne of the most pleasing volumes that has appeared as yet in the\nCanterbury Series is the collection of Allan Ramsay\'s poems. Ramsay,\nwhose profession was the making of periwigs, and whose pleasure was the\nmaking of poetry, is always delightful reading, except when he tries to\nwrite English and to imitate Pope. His Gentle Shepherd is a charming\npastoral play, full of humour and romance; his Vision has a good deal of\nnatural fire; and some of his songs, such as The Yellow-hair\'d Laddie and\nThe Lass of Patie\'s Mill, might rank beside those of Burns. The preface\nto this attractive little edition is from the pen of Mr. J. Logie\nRobertson, and the simple, straightforward style in which it is written\ncontrasts favourably with the silly pompous manner affected by so many of\nthe other editors of the series.\n\nRamsay\'s life is worth telling well, and Mr. Robertson tells it well, and\ngives us a really capital picture of Edinburgh society in the early half\nof the last century.\n\nDante for Beginners, by Miss Arabella Shore, is a sort of literary guide-\nbook. What Virgil was to the great Florentine, Miss Shore would be to\nthe British public, and her modest little volume can do no possible harm\nto Dante, which is more than one can say of many commentaries on the\nDivine Comedy.\n\nMiss Phillimore\'s Studies in Italian Literature is a much more elaborate\nwork, and displays a good deal of erudition. Indeed, the erudition is\nsometimes displayed a little too much, and we should like to see the lead\nof learning transmuted more often into the gold of thought. The essays\non Petrarch and Tasso are tedious, but those on Aleardi and Count\nArrivabene are excellent, particularly the former. Aleardi was a poet of\nwonderful descriptive power, and though, as he said himself, he\nsubordinated his love of poetry to his love of country, yet in such\nservice he found perfect freedom.\n\nThe article on Edoardo Fusco also is full of interest, and is a timely\ntribute to the memory of one who did so much for the education and\nculture of modern Italy. On the whole, the book is well worth reading;\nso well worth reading, indeed, that we hope that the foolish remarks on\nthe Greek Drama will be amended in a second edition, or, which would be\nbetter still, struck out altogether. They show a want of knowledge that\nmust be the result of years of study.\n\n(1) The Master of Tanagra. Translated from the German of Ernst von\nWildenbruch by the Baroness von Lauer. (H. Grevel and Co.)\n\n(2) Moliere et Shakespeare. By Paul Stapfer. (Hachette.)\n\n(3) Annals of the Life of Shakespeare. (Sampson Low, Marston and Co.)\n\n(4) Poems by Allan Ramsay. Selected and arranged, with a Biographical\nSketch of the Poet, by J. Logie Robertson, M.A. \'Canterbury Poets.\'\n(Walter Scott.)\n\n(5) Dante for Beginners. By Arabella Shore. (Chapman and Hall.)\n\n(6) Studies in Italian Literature. By Miss Phillimore. (Sampson Low,\nMarston and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA CHEAP EDITION OF A GREAT MAN\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 18, 1887.)\n\nFormerly we used to canonise our great men; nowadays we vulgarise them.\nThe vulgarisation of Rossetti has been going on for some time past with\nreally remarkable success, and there seems no probability at present of\nthe process being discontinued. The grass was hardly green upon the\nquiet grave in Birchington churchyard when Mr. Hall Caine and Mr. William\nSharp rushed into print with their Memoirs and Recollections. Then came\nthe usual mob of magazine-hacks with their various views and attitudes,\nand now Mr. Joseph Knight has produced for the edification of the British\npublic a popular biography of the poet of the Blessed Damozel, the\npainter of Dante\'s Dream.\n\nIt is only fair to state that Mr. Knight\'s work is much better than that\nof his predecessors in the same field. His book is, on the whole,\nmodestly and simply written; whatever its other faults may be, it is at\nleast free from affectation of any kind; and it makes no serious pretence\nat being either exhaustive or definitive. Yet the best we can say of it\nis that it is just the sort of biography Guildenstern might have written\nof Hamlet. Nor does its unsatisfactory character come merely from the\nludicrous inadequacy of the materials at Mr. Knight\'s disposal; it is the\nwhole scheme and method of the book that is radically wrong. Rossetti\'s\nwas a great personality, and personalities such as his do not easily\nsurvive shilling primers. Sooner or later they have inevitably to come\ndown to the level of their biographers, and in the present instance\nnothing could be more absolutely commonplace than the picture Mr. Knight\ngives us of the wonderful seer and singer whose life he has so recklessly\nessayed to write.\n\nNo doubt there are many people who will be deeply interested to know that\nRossetti was once chased round his garden by an infuriated zebu he was\ntrying to exhibit to Mr. Whistler, or that he had a great affection for a\ndog called \'Dizzy,\' or that \'sloshy\' was one of his favourite words of\ncontempt, or that Mr. Gosse thought him very like Chaucer in appearance,\nor that he had \'an absolute disqualification\' for whist-playing, or that\nhe was very fond of quoting the Bab Ballads, or that he once said that if\nhe could live by writing poetry he would see painting d---d! For our\npart, however, we cannot help expressing our regret that such a shallow\nand superficial biography as this should ever have been published. It is\nbut a sorry task to rip the twisted ravel from the worn garment of life\nand to turn the grout in a drained cup. Better, after all, that we knew\na painter only through his vision and a poet through his song, than that\nthe image of a great man should be marred and made mean for us by the\nclumsy geniality of good intentions. A true artist, and such Rossetti\nundoubtedly was, reveals himself so perfectly in his work, that unless a\nbiographer has something more valuable to give us than idle anecdotes and\nunmeaning tales, his labour is misspent and his industry misdirected.\n\nBad, however, as is Mr. Knight\'s treatment of Rossetti\'s life, his\ntreatment of Rossetti\'s poetry is infinitely worse. Considering the\nsmall size of the volume, and the consequently limited number of\nextracts, the amount of misquotation is almost incredible, and puts all\nrecent achievements in this sphere of modern literature completely into\nthe shade. The fine line in the first canto of Rose Mary:\n\n What glints there like a lance that flees?\n\nappears as:\n\n What glints there like a _glance_ that flees?\n\nwhich is very painful nonsense; in the description of that graceful and\nfanciful sonnet Autumn Idleness, the deer are represented as \'_grazing_\nfrom hillock eaves\' instead of gazing from hillock-eaves; the opening of\nDantis Tenebrae is rendered quite incomprehensible by the substitution of\n\'my\' for \'thy\' in the second line; even such a well-known ballad as\nSister Helen is misquoted, and, indeed, from the Burden of Nineveh, the\nBlessed Damozel, the King\'s Tragedy and Guido Cavalcanti\'s lovely\nballata, down to the Portrait and such sonnets as Love-sweetness,\nFarewell to the Glen, and A Match with the Moon, there is not one single\npoem that does not display some careless error or some stupid misprint.\n\nAs for Rossetti\'s elaborate system of punctuation, Mr. Knight pays no\nattention to it whatsoever. Indeed, he shows quite a rollicking\nindifference to all the secrets and subtleties of style, and inserts or\nremoves stops in a manner that is absolutely destructive to the lyrical\nbeauty of the verse. The hyphen, also, so constantly employed by\nRossetti in the case of such expressions as \'hillock-eaves\' quoted above,\n\'hill-fire,\' \'birth-hour,\' and the like, is almost invariably\ndisregarded, and by the brilliant omission of a semicolon Mr. Knight has\nsucceeded in spoiling one of the best stanzas in The Staff and Scrip--a\npoem, by the way, that he speaks of as The Staff and the Scrip (sic).\nAfter this tedious comedy of errors it seems almost unnecessary to point\nout that the earliest Italian poet is not called Ciullo D\'Alcano (sic),\nor that The Bothie of Toper-na-Fuosich (sic) is not the title of Clough\'s\nboisterous epic, or that Dante and his Cycle (sic) is not the name\nRossetti gave to his collection of translations; and why Troy Town should\nappear in the index as Tory Town is really quite inexplicable, unless it\nis intended as a compliment to Mr. Hall Caine who once dedicated, or\nrather tried to dedicate, to Rossetti a lecture on the relations of poets\nto politics. We are sorry, too, to find an English dramatic critic\nmisquoting Shakespeare, as we had always been of opinion that this was a\nprivilege reserved specially for our English actors. We sincerely hope\nthat there will soon be an end to all biographies of this kind. They rob\nlife of much of its dignity and its wonder, add to death itself a new\nterror, and make one wish that all art were anonymous. Nor could there\nhave been any more unfortunate choice of a subject for popular treatment\nthan that to which we owe the memoir that now lies before us. A pillar\nof fire to the few who knew him, and of cloud to the many who knew him\nnot, Dante Gabriel Rossetti lived apart from the gossip and tittle-tattle\nof a shallow age. He never trafficked with the merchants for his soul,\nnor brought his wares into the market-place for the idle to gape at.\nPassionate and romantic though he was, yet there was in his nature\nsomething of high austerity. He loved seclusion, and hated notoriety,\nand would have shuddered at the idea that within a few years after his\ndeath he was to make his appearance in a series of popular biographies,\nsandwiched between the author of Pickwick and the Great Lexicographer.\nOne man alone, the friend his verse won for him, did he desire should\nwrite his life, and it is to Mr. Theodore Watts that we, too, must look\nto give us the real Rossetti. It may be admitted at once that Mr.\nWatts\'s subject has for the moment been a little spoiled for him. Rude\nhands have touched it, and unmusical voices have made it sound almost\ncommon in our ears. Yet none the less is it for him to tell us of the\nmarvel of this man whose art he has analysed with such exquisite insight,\nwhose life he knows as no one else can know it, whom he so loyally loved\nand tended, and by whom he was so loyally beloved in turn. As for the\nothers, the scribblers and nibblers of literature, if they indeed\nreverence Rossetti\'s memory, let them pay him the one homage he would\nmost have valued, the gracious homage of silence. \'Though you can fret\nme, yet you cannot play upon me,\' says Hamlet to his false friend, and\neven so might Rossetti speak to those well-intentioned mediocrities who\nwould seem to know his stops and would sound him to the top of his\ncompass. True, they cannot fret him now, for he has passed beyond the\npossibility of pain; yet they cannot play upon him either; it is not for\nthem to pluck out the heart of his mystery.\n\nThere is, however, one feature of this book that deserves unstinted\npraise. Mr. Anderson\'s bibliography will be found of immense use by\nevery student of Rossetti\'s work and influence. Perhaps Young\'s very\npowerful attack on Pre-Raphaelitism, as expounded by Mr. Ruskin\n(Longmans, 1857), might be included, but, in all other respects, it seems\nquite complete, and the chronological list of paintings and drawings is\nreally admirable. When this unfortunate \'Great Writers\' Series comes to\nan end, Mr. Anderson\'s bibliographies should be collected together and\npublished in a separate volume. At present they are in a very second-\nrate company indeed.\n\nLife of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. By Joseph Knight. \'Great Writers\'\nSeries. (Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. MORRIS\'S ODYSSEY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 26, 1887.)\n\nOf all our modern poets, Mr. William Morris is the one best qualified by\nnature and by art to translate for us the marvellous epic of the\nwanderings of Odysseus. For he is our only true story-singer since\nChaucer; if he is a Socialist, he is also a Saga-man; and there was a\ntime when he was never wearied of telling us strange legends of gods and\nmen, wonderful tales of chivalry and romance. Master as he is of\ndecorative and descriptive verse, he has all the Greek\'s joy in the\nvisible aspect of things, all the Greek\'s sense of delicate and\ndelightful detail, all the Greek\'s pleasure in beautiful textures and\nexquisite materials and imaginative designs; nor can any one have a\nkeener sympathy with the Homeric admiration for the workers and the\ncraftsmen in the various arts, from the stainers in white ivory and the\nembroiderers in purple and fold, to the weaver sitting by the loom and\nthe dyer dipping in the vat, the chaser of shield and helmet, the carver\nof wood or stone. And to all this is added the true temper of high\nromance, the power to make the past as real to us as the present, the\nsubtle instinct to discern passion, the swift impulse to portray life.\n\nIt is no wonder the lovers of Greek literature have so eagerly looked\nforward to Mr. Morris\'s version of the Odyssean epic, and now that the\nfirst volume has appeared, it is not extravagant to say that of all our\nEnglish translations this is the most perfect and the most satisfying. In\nspite of Coleridge\'s well-known views on the subject, we have always held\nthat Chapman\'s Odyssey is immeasurably inferior to his Iliad, the mere\ndifference of metre alone being sufficient to set the former in a\nsecondary place; Pope\'s Odyssey, with its glittering rhetoric and smart\nantithesis, has nothing of the grand manner of the original; Cowper is\ndull, and Bryant dreadful, and Worsley too full of Spenserian\nprettinesses; while excellent though Messrs. Butcher and Lang\'s version\nundoubtedly is in many respects, still, on the whole, it gives us merely\nthe facts of the Odyssey without providing anything of its artistic\neffect. Avia\'s translation even, though better than almost all its\npredecessors in the same field, is not worthy of taking rank beside Mr.\nMorris\'s, for here we have a true work of art, a rendering not merely of\nlanguage into language, but of poetry into poetry, and though the new\nspirit added in the transfusion may seem to many rather Norse than Greek,\nand, perhaps at times, more boisterous than beautiful, there is yet a\nvigour of life in every line, a splendid ardour through each canto, that\nstirs the blood while one reads like the sound of a trumpet, and that,\nproducing a physical as well as a spiritual delight, exults the senses no\nless than it exalts the soul. It may be admitted at once that, here and\nthere, Mr. Morris has missed something of the marvellous dignity of the\nHomeric verse, and that, in his desire for rushing and ringing metre, he\nhas occasionally sacrificed majesty to movement, and made stateliness\ngive place to speed; but it is really only in such blank verse as\nMilton\'s that this effect of calm and lofty music can be attained, and in\nall other respects blank verse is the most inadequate medium for\nreproducing the full flow and fervour of the Greek hexameter. One merit,\nat any rate, Mr. Morris\'s version entirely and absolutely possesses. It\nis, in no sense of the word, literary; it seems to deal immediately with\nlife itself, and to take from the reality of things its own form and\ncolour; it is always direct and simple, and at its best has something of\nthe \'large utterance of the early gods.\'\n\nAs for individual passages of beauty, nothing could be better than the\nwonderful description of the house of the Phoeacian king, or the whole\ntelling of the lovely legend of Circe, or the manner in which the pageant\nof the pale phantoms in Hades is brought before our eyes. Perhaps the\nhuge epic humour of the escape from the Cyclops is hardly realised, but\nthere is always a linguistic difficulty about rendering this fascinating\nstory into English, and where we are given so much poetry we should not\ncomplain about losing a pun; and the exquisite idyll of the meeting and\nparting with the daughter of Alcinous is really delightfully told. How\ngood, for instance, is this passage taken at random from the Sixth Book:\n\n But therewith unto the handmaids goodly Odysseus spake:\n \'Stand off I bid you, damsels, while the work in hand I take,\n And wash the brine from my shoulders, and sleek them all around.\n Since verily now this long while sweet oil they have not found.\n But before you nought will I wash me, for shame I have indeed,\n Amidst of fair-tressed damsels to be all bare of weed.\'\n So he spake and aloof they gat them, and thereof they told the may,\n But Odysseus with the river from his body washed away\n The brine from his back and his shoulders wrought broad and mightily,\n And from his head was he wiping the foam of the untilled sea;\n But when he had throughly washed him, and the oil about him had shed\n He did upon the raiment the gift of the maid unwed.\n But Athene, Zeus-begotten, dealt with him in such wise\n That bigger yet was his seeming, and mightier to all eyes,\n With the hair on his head crisp curling as the bloom of the daffodil.\n And as when the silver with gold is o\'erlaid by a man of skill,\n Yea, a craftsman whom Hephaestus and Pallas Athene have taught\n To be master over masters, and lovely work he hath wrought;\n So she round his head and his shoulders shed grace abundantly.\n\nIt may be objected by some that the line\n\n With the hair on his head crisp curling as the bloom of the daffodil,\n\nis a rather fanciful version of\n\n [Greek text]\n\nand it certainly seems probable that the allusion is to the dark colour\nof the hero\'s hair; still, the point is not one of much importance,\nthough it may be worth noting that a similar expression occurs in\nOgilby\'s superbly illustrated translation of the Odyssey, published in\n1665, where Charles II.\'s Master of the Revels in Ireland gives the\npassage thus:\n\n Minerva renders him more tall and fair,\n Curling in rings like daffodils his hair.\n\nNo anthology, however, can show the true merit of Mr. Morris\'s\ntranslation, whose real merit does not depend on stray beauties, nor is\nrevealed by chance selections, but lies in the absolute rightness and\ncoherence of the whole, in its purity and justice of touch, its freedom\nfrom affectation and commonplace, its harmony of form and matter. It is\nsufficient to say that this is a poet\'s version of a poet, and for such\nsurely we should be thankful. In these latter days of coarse and vulgar\nliterature, it is something to have made the great sea-epic of the South\nnative and natural to our northern isle, something to have shown that our\nEnglish speech may be a pipe through which Greek lips can blow, something\nto have taught Nausicaa to speak the same language as Perdita.\n\nThe Odyssey of Homer. Done into English Verse by William Morris, author\nof The Earthly Paradise. In two volumes. Volume I. (Reeves and\nTurner.)\n\nFor review of Volume II. see Mr. Morris\'s Completion of the Odyssey, page\n215.\n\n\n\n\nA BATCH OF NOVELS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 2, 1887.)\n\nOf the three great Russian novelists of our time Tourgenieff is by far\nthe finest artist. He has that spirit of exquisite selection, that\ndelicate choice of detail, which is the essence of style; his work is\nentirely free from any personal intention; and by taking existence at its\nmost fiery-coloured moments he can distil into a few pages of perfect\nprose the moods and passions of many lives.\n\nCount Tolstoi\'s method is much larger, and his field of vision more\nextended. He reminds us sometimes of Paul Veronese, and, like that great\npainter, can crowd, without over-crowding, the giant canvas on which he\nworks. We may not at first gain from his works that artistic unity of\nimpression which is Tourgenieff\'s chief charm, but once that we have\nmastered the details the whole seems to have the grandeur and the\nsimplicity of an epic. Dostoieffski differs widely from both his rivals.\nHe is not so fine an artist as Tourgenieff, for he deals more with the\nfacts than with the effects of life; nor has he Tolstoi\'s largeness of\nvision and epic dignity; but he has qualities that are distinctively and\nabsolutely his own, such as a fierce intensity of passion and\nconcentration of impulse, a power of dealing with the deepest mysteries\nof psychology and the most hidden springs of life, and a realism that is\npitiless in its fidelity, and terrible because it is true. Some time ago\nwe had occasion to draw attention to his marvellous novel Crime and\nPunishment, where in the haunt of impurity and vice a harlot and an\nassassin meet together to read the story of Dives and Lazarus, and the\noutcast girl leads the sinner to make atonement for his sin; nor is the\nbook entitled Injury and Insult at all inferior to that great\nmasterpiece. Mean and ordinary though the surroundings of the story may\nseem, the heroine Natasha is like one of the noble victims of Greek\ntragedy; she is Antigone with the passion of Phaedra, and it is\nimpossible to approach her without a feeling of awe. Greek also is the\ngloom of Nemesis that hangs over each character, only it is a Nemesis\nthat does not stand outside of life, but is part of our own nature and of\nthe same material as life itself. Aleosha, the beautiful young lad whom\nNatasha follows to her doom, is a second Tito Melema, and has all Tito\'s\ncharm and grace and fascination. Yet he is different. He would never\nhave denied Baldassare in the Square at Florence, nor lied to Romola\nabout Tessa. He has a magnificent, momentary sincerity, a boyish\nunconsciousness of all that life signifies, an ardent enthusiasm for all\nthat life cannot give. There is nothing calculating about him. He never\nthinks evil, he only does it. From a psychological point of view he is\none of the most interesting characters of modem fiction, as from an\nartistic he is one of the most attractive. As we grow to know him he\nstirs strange questions for us, and makes us feel that it is not the\nwicked only who do wrong, nor the bad alone who work evil.\n\nAnd by what a subtle objective method does Dostoieffski show us his\ncharacters! He never tickets them with a list nor labels them with a\ndescription. We grow to know them very gradually, as we know people whom\nwe meet in society, at first by little tricks of manner, personal\nappearance, fancies in dress, and the like; and afterwards by their deeds\nand words; and even then they constantly elude us, for though\nDostoieffski may lay bare for us the secrets of their nature, yet he\nnever explains his personages away; they are always surprising us by\nsomething that they say or do, and keep to the end the eternal mystery of\nlife.\n\nIrrespective of its value as a work of art, this novel possesses a deep\nautobiographical interest also, as the character of Vania, the poor\nstudent who loves Natasha through all her sin and shame, is\nDostoieffski\'s study of himself. Goethe once had to delay the completion\nof one of his novels till experience had furnished him with new\nsituations, but almost before he had arrived at manhood Dostoieffski knew\nlife in its most real forms; poverty and suffering, pain and misery,\nprison, exile, and love, were soon familiar to him, and by the lips of\nVania he has told his own story. This note of personal feeling, this\nharsh reality of actual experience, undoubtedly gives the book something\nof its strange fervour and terrible passion, yet it has not made it\negotistic; we see things from every point of view, and we feel, not that\nfiction has been trammelled by fact, but that fact itself has become\nideal and imaginative. Pitiless, too, though Dostoieffski is in his\nmethod as an artist, as a man he is full of human pity for all, for those\nwho do evil as well as for those who suffer it, for the selfish no less\nthan for those whose lives are wrecked for others and whose sacrifice is\nin vain. Since Adam Bede and Le Pere Goriot no more powerful novel has\nbeen written than Insult and Injury.\n\nMr. Hardinge\'s book Willow Garth deals, strangely enough, with something\nlike the same idea, though the treatment is, of course, entirely\ndifferent. A girl of high birth falls passionately in love with a young\nfarm-bailiff who is a sort of Arcadian Antinous and a very Ganymede in\ngaiters. Social difficulties naturally intervene, so she drowns her\nhandsome rustic in a convenient pond. Mr. Hardinge has a most charming\nstyle, and, as a writer, possesses both distinction and grace. The book\nis a delightful combination of romance and satire, and the heroine\'s\ncrime is treated in the most picturesque manner possible.\n\nMarcella Grace tells of modern life in Ireland, and is one of the best\nbooks Miss Mulholland has ever published. In its artistic reserve, and\nthe perfect simplicity of its style, it is an excellent model for all\nlady-novelists to follow, and the scene where the heroine finds the man,\nwho has been sent to shoot her, lying fever-stricken behind a hedge with\nhis gun by his side, is really remarkable. Nor could anything be better\nthan Miss Mulholland\'s treatment of external nature. She never shrieks\nover scenery like a tourist, nor wearies us with sunsets like the Scotch\nschool; but all through her book there is a subtle atmosphere of purple\nhills and silent moorland; she makes us live with nature and not merely\nlook at it.\n\nThe accomplished authoress of Soap was once compared to George Eliot by\nthe Court Journal, and to Carlyle by the Daily News, but we fear that we\ncannot compete with our contemporaries in these daring comparisons. Her\npresent book is very clever, rather vulgar, and contains some fine\nexamples of bad French.\n\nAs for A Marked Man, That Winter Night, and Driven Home, the first shows\nsome power of description and treatment, but is sadly incomplete; the\nsecond is quite unworthy of any man of letters, and the third is\nabsolutely silly. We sincerely hope that a few more novels like these\nwill be published, as the public will then find out that a bad book is\nvery dear at a shilling.\n\n(1) Injury and Insult. By Fedor Dostoieffski. Translated from the\nRussian by Frederick Whishaw. (Vizetelly and Co.)\n\n(2) The Willow Garth. By W. M. Hardinge. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n(3) Marcella Grace. By Rosa Mulholland. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(4) Soap. By Constance MacEwen. (Arrowsmith.)\n\n(5) A Marked Man. By Faucet Streets. (Hamilton and Adams.)\n\n(6) That Winter Night. By Robert Buchanan. (Arrowsmith.)\n\n(7) Driven Home. By Evelyn Owen. (Arrowsmith.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME NOVELS\n\n\n(Saturday Review, May 7, 1887.)\n\nThe only form of fiction in which real characters do not seem out of\nplace is history. In novels they are detestable, and Miss Bayle\'s\nRomance is entirely spoiled as a realistic presentation of life by the\nauthor\'s attempt to introduce into her story a whole mob of modern\ncelebrities and notorieties, including the Heir Apparent and Mr. Edmund\nYates. The identity of the latter personage is delicately veiled under\nthe pseudonym of \'Mr. Atlas, editor of the World,\' but the former appears\nas \'The Prince of Wales\' pur et simple, and is represented as spending\nhis time yachting in the Channel and junketing at Homburg with a second-\nrate American family who, by the way, always address him as \'Prince,\' and\nshow in other respects an ignorance that even their ignorance cannot\nexcuse. Indeed, His Royal Highness is no mere spectator of the story; he\nis one of the chief actors in it, and it is through his influence that\nthe noisy Chicago belle, whose lack of romance gives the book its title,\nachieves her chief social success. As for the conversation with which\nthe Prince is credited, it is of the most amazing kind. We find him on\none page gravely discussing the depression of trade with Mr. Ezra P.\nBayle, a shoddy American millionaire, who promptly replies, \'Depression\nof fiddle-sticks, Prince\'; in another passage he naively inquires of the\nsame shrewd speculator whether the thunderstorms and prairie fires of the\nWest are still \'on so grand a scale\' as when he visited Illinois; and we\nare told in the second volume that, after contemplating the magnificent\nview from St. Ives he exclaimed with enthusiasm, \'Surely Mr. Brett must\nhave had a scene like this in his eye when he painted Britannia\'s Realm?\nI never saw anything more beautiful.\' Even Her Majesty figures in this\nextraordinary story in spite of the excellent aphorism ne touchez pas a\nla reine; and when Miss Alma J. Bayle is married to the Duke of Windsor\'s\nsecond son she receives from the hands of royalty not merely the\ncustomary Cashmere shawl of Court tradition, but also a copy of Diaries\nin the Highlands inscribed \'To _the_ Lady Plowden Eton, with the kindest\nwishes of Victoria R.I.\', a mistake that the Queen, of all persons in the\nworld, is the least likely to have committed. Perhaps, however, we are\ntreating Miss Bayle\'s Romance too seriously. The book has really no\nclaim to be regarded as a novel at all. It is simply a society paragraph\nexpanded into three volumes and, like most paragraphs of the kind, is in\nthe worst possible taste. We are not by any means surprised that the\nauthor, while making free with the names of others, has chosen to conceal\nhis own name; for no reputation could possibly survive the production of\nsuch silly, stupid work; but we must say that we are surprised that this\nbook has been brought out by the Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty\nthe Queen. We do not know what the duties attaching to this office are,\nbut we should not have thought that the issuing of vulgar stories about\nthe Royal Family was one of them.\n\nFrom Heather Hills is very pleasant reading indeed. It is healthy\nwithout being affected; and though Mrs. Perks gives us many descriptions\nof Scotch scenery we are glad to say that she has not adopted the common\nchromo-lithographic method of those popular North British novelists who\nhave never yet fully realised the difference between colour and colours,\nand who imagine that by emptying a paint box over every page they can\nbring before us the magic of mist and mountain, the wonder of sea or\nglen. Mrs. Perks has a grace and delicacy of touch that is quite\ncharming, and she can deal with nature without either botanising or being\nblatant, which nowadays is a somewhat rare accomplishment. The interest\nof the story centres on Margaret Dalrymple, a lovely Scotch girl who is\nbrought to London by her aunt, takes every one by storm and falls in love\nwith young Lord Erinwood, who is on the brink of proposing to her when he\nis dissuaded from doing so by a philosophic man of the world who thinks\nthat a woodland Artemis is a bad wife for an English peer, and that no\nwoman who has a habit of saying exactly what she means can possibly get\non in smart society. The would-be philosopher is ultimately hoist with\nhis own petard, as he falls in love himself with Margaret Dalrymple, and\nas for the weak young hero he is promptly snatched up, rather against his\nwill, by a sort of Becky Sharp, who succeeds in becoming Lady Erinwood.\nHowever, a convenient railway accident, the deus ex machina of nineteenth-\ncentury novels, carries Miss Norma Novello off; and everybody is finally\nmade happy, except, of course, the philosopher, who gets only a lesson\nwhere he wanted to get love. There is just one part of the novel to\nwhich we must take exception. The whole story of Alice Morgan is not\nmerely needlessly painful, but it is of very little artistic value. A\ntragedy may be the basis of a story, but it should never be simply a\ncasual episode. At least, if it is so, it entirely fails to produce any\nartistic effect. We hope, too, that in Mrs. Perks\'s next novel she will\nnot allow her hero to misquote English poetry. This is a privilege\nreserved for Mrs. Malaprop.\n\nA constancy that lasts through three volumes is often rather tedious, so\nthat we are glad to make the acquaintance of Miss Lilian Ufford, the\nheroine of Mrs. Houston\'s A Heart on Fire. This young lady begins by\nbeing desperately in love with Mr. Frank Thorburn, a struggling\nschoolmaster, and ends by being desperately in love with Colonel Dallas,\na rich country gentleman who spends most of his time and his money in\npreaching a crusade against beer. After she gets engaged to the Colonel\nshe discovers that Mr. Thorburn is in reality Lord Netherby\'s son and\nheir, and for the moment she seems to have a true woman\'s regret at\nhaving given up a pretty title; but all ends well, and the story is\nbrightly and pleasantly told. The Colonel is a middle-aged Romeo of the\nmost impassioned character, and as it is his heart that is \'on fire,\' he\nmay serve as a psychological pendant to La Femme de Quarante Ans.\n\nMr. G. Manville Fenn\'s A Bag of Diamonds belongs to the Drury Lane School\nof Fiction and is a sort of fireside melodrama for the family circle. It\nis evidently written to thrill Bayswater, and no doubt Bayswater will be\nthrilled. Indeed, there is a great deal that is exciting in the book,\nand the scene in which a kindly policeman assists two murderers to convey\ntheir unconscious victim into a four-wheeled cab, under the impression\nthat they are a party of guests returning from a convivial supper in\nBloomsbury, is quite excellent of its kind, and, on the whole, not too\nimprobable, considering that shilling literature is always making demands\non our credulity without ever appealing to our imagination.\n\nThe Great Hesper, by Mr. Frank Barrett, has at least the merit of\nintroducing into fiction an entirely new character. The villain is\nNyctalops, and, though we are not prepared to say that there is any\nnecessary connection between Nyctalopy and crime, we are quite ready to\naccept Mr. Barrett\'s picture of Jan Van Hoeck as an interesting example\nof the modern method of dealing with life. For, Pathology is rapidly\nbecoming the basis of sensational literature, and in art, as in politics,\nthere is a great future for monsters. What a Nyctalops is we leave Mr.\nBarrett to explain. His novel belongs to a class of book that many\npeople might read once for curiosity but nobody could read a second time\nfor pleasure.\n\nA Day after the Fair is an account of a holiday tour through Scotland\ntaken by two young barristers, one of whom rescues a pretty girl from\ndrowning, falls in love with her, and is rewarded for his heroism by\nseeing her married to his friend. The idea of the book is not bad, but\nthe treatment is very unsatisfactory, and combines the triviality of the\ntourist with the dulness of good intentions.\n\n\'Mr. Winter\' is always amusing and audacious, though we cannot say that\nwe entirely approve of the names he gives to his stories. Bootle\'s Baby\nwas a masterpiece, but Houp-la was a terrible title, and That Imp is not\nmuch better. The book, however, is undoubtedly clever, and the Imp in\nquestion is not a Nyctalops nor a specimen for a travelling museum, but a\nvery pretty girl who, because an officer has kissed her without any\nserious matrimonial intentions, exerts all her fascinations to bring the\nunfortunate Lovelace to her feet and, having succeeded in doing so,\npromptly rejects him with a virtuous indignation that is as delightful as\nit is out of place. We must confess that we have a good deal of sympathy\nfor \'Driver\' Dallas, of the Royal Horse, who suffers fearful agonies at\nwhat he imagines is a heartless flirtation on the part of the lady of his\ndreams; but the story is told from the Imp\'s point of view, and as such\nwe must accept it. There is a very brilliant description of a battle in\nthe Soudan, and the account of barrack life is, of course, admirable. So\nadmirable indeed is it that we hope that \'Mr. Winter\' will soon turn his\nattention to new topics and try to handle fresh subjects. It would be\nsad if such a clever and observant writer became merely the garrison hack\nof literature. We would also earnestly beg \'Mr. Winter\' not to write\nfoolish prefaces about unappreciative critics; for it is only\nmediocrities and old maids who consider it a grievance to be\nmisunderstood.\n\n(1) Miss Bayle\'s Romance: A Story of To-Day. (Bentley and Son,\nPublishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.)\n\n(2) From Heather Hills. By Mrs. J. Hartley Perks. (Hurst and Blackett.)\n\n(3) A Heart on Fire. By Mrs. Houston. (F. V. White and Co.)\n\n(4) A Bag of Diamonds. By George Manville Fenn. (Ward and Downey.)\n\n(5) The Great Hesper. By Frank Barrett. (Ward and Downey.)\n\n(6) A Day after the Fair. By William Cairns. (Swan Sonnenschein and\nCo.)\n\n(7) That Imp. By John Strange Winter, Author of Booties\' Baby, etc. (F.\nV. White and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--III\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 30, 1887.)\n\nSuch a pseudonym for a poet as \'Glenessa\' reminds us of the good old days\nof the Della Cruscans, but it would not be fair to attribute Glenessa\'s\npoetry to any known school of literature, either past or present.\nWhatever qualities it possesses are entirely its own. Glenessa\'s most\nambitious work, and the one that gives the title to his book, is a poetic\ndrama about the Garden of Eden. The subject is undoubtedly interesting,\nbut the execution can hardly be said to be quite worthy of it. Devils,\non account of their inherent wickedness, may be excused for singing--\n\n Then we\'ll rally--rally--rally--\n Yes, we\'ll rally--rally O!--\n\nbut such scenes as--\n\n Enter ADAM.\n\n ADAM (excitedly). Eve, where art thou?\n\n EVE (surprised). Oh!\n\n ADAM (in astonishment). Eve! my God, she\'s there\n Beside that fatal tree;\n\nor--\n\n Enter ADAM and EVE.\n\n EVE (in astonishment). Well, is not this surprising?\n\n ADAM (distracted). It is--\n\nseem to belong rather to the sphere of comedy than to that of serious\nverse. Poor Glenessa! the gods have not made him poetical, and we hope\nhe will abandon his wooing of the muse. He is fitted, not for better,\nbut for other things.\n\nVortigern and Rowena is a cantata about the Britons and the Danes. There\nis a Druid priestess who sings of Cynthia and Endymion, and a chorus of\njubilant Vikings. It is charmingly printed, and as a libretto for music\nquite above the average.\n\nAs truly religious people are resigned to everything, even to mediocre\npoetry, there is no reason at all why Madame Guyon\'s verses should not be\npopular with a large section of the community. Their editor, Mr. Dyer,\nhas reprinted the translations Cowper made for Mr. Bull, added some\nversions of his own and written a pleasing preface about this gentle\nseventeenth-century saint whose life was her best, indeed her only true\npoem.\n\nMr. Pierce has discovered a tenth muse and writes impassioned verses to\nthe Goddess of Chess whom he apostrophises as \'Sublime Caissa\'! Zukertort\nand Steinitz are his heroes, and he is as melodious on mates as he is\ngraceful on gambits. We are glad to say, however, that he has other\nsubjects, and one of his poems beginning:\n\n Cedar boxes deeply cut,\n China bowls of quaint device,\n Heap\'d with rosy leaves and spice,\n Violets in old volumes shut--\n\nis very dainty and musical.\n\nMr. Clifford Harrison is well known as the most poetic of our reciters,\nbut as a writer himself of poetry he is not so famous. Yet his little\nvolume In Hours of Leisure contains some charming pieces, and many of the\nshort fourteen-line poems are really pretty, though they are very\ndefective in form. Indeed, of form Mr. Harrison is curiously careless.\nSuch rhymes as \'calm\' and \'charm,\' \'baize\' and \'place,\' \'jeu\' and \'knew,\'\nare quite dreadful, while \'operas\' and \'stars,\' \'Gautama\' and \'afar\' are\ntoo bad even for Steinway Hall. Those who have Keats\'s genius may borrow\nKeats\'s cockneyisms, but from minor poets we have a right to expect some\nregard to the ordinary technique of verse. However, if Mr. Harrison has\nnot always form, at least he has always feeling. He has a wonderful\ncommand over all the egotistic emotions, is quite conscious of the\nartistic value of remorse, and displays a sincere sympathy with his own\nmoments of sadness, playing upon his moods as a young lady plays upon the\npiano. Now and then we come across some delicate descriptive touches,\nsuch as\n\n The cuckoo knew its latest day had come,\n And told its name once more to all the hills,\n\nand whenever Mr. Harrison writes about nature he is certainly pleasing\nand picturesque but, as a rule, he is over-anxious about himself and\nforgets that the personal expression of joy or sorrow is not poetry,\nthough it may afford excellent material for a sentimental diary.\n\nThe daily increasing class of readers that likes unintelligible poetry\nshould study AEonial. It is in many ways a really remarkable production.\nVery fantastic, very daring, crowded with strange metaphor and clouded by\nmonstrous imagery, it has a sort of turbid splendour about it, and should\nthe author some day add meaning to his music he may give us a true work\nof art. At present he hardly realises that an artist should be\narticulate.\n\nSeymour\'s Inheritance is a short novel in blank verse. On the whole, it\nis very harmless both in manner and matter, but we must protest against\nsuch lines as\n\n And in the windows of his heart the blinds\n Of happiness had been drawn down by Grief,\n\nfor a simile committing suicide is always a depressing spectacle. Some\nof the other poems are so simple and modest that we hope Mr. Ross will\nnot carry out his threat of issuing a \'more pretentious volume.\'\nPretentious volumes of poetry are very common and very worthless.\n\nMr. Brodie\'s Lyrics of the Sea are spirited and manly, and show a certain\nfreedom of rhythmical movement, pleasant in days of wooden verse. He is\nat his best, however, in his sonnets. Their architecture is not always\nof the finest order but, here and there, one meets with lines that are\ngraceful and felicitous.\n\n Like silver swallows on a summer morn\n Cutting the air with momentary wings,\n\nis pretty, and on flowers Mr. Brodie writes quite charmingly. The only\nthoroughly bad piece in the book is The Workman\'s Song. Nothing can be\nsaid in favour of\n\n Is there a bit of blue, boys?\n Is there a bit of blue?\n In heaven\'s leaden hue, boys?\n \'Tis hope\'s eye peeping through . . .\n\nfor optimism of this kind is far more dispiriting than Schopenhauer or\nHartmann at their worst, nor are there really any grounds for supposing\nthat the British workman enjoys third-rate poetry.\n\n(1) The Discovery and Other Poems. By Glenessa. (National Publishing\nCo.)\n\n(2) Vortigern and Rowena: A Dramatic Cantata. By Edwin Ellis Griffin.\n(Hutchings and Crowsley.)\n\n(3) The Poems of Madame de la Mothe Guyon. Edited and arranged by the\nRev. A. Saunders Dyer, M.A. (Bryce and Son.)\n\n(4) Stanzas and Sonnets. By J. Pierce, M.A. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n(5) In Hours of Leisure. By Clifford Harrison. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(6) AEonial. By the Author of The White Africans. (Elliot Stock.)\n\n(7) Seymour\'s Inheritance. By James Ross. (Arrowsmith.)\n\n(8) Lyrics of the Sea. By E. H. Brodie. (Bell and Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. PATER\'S IMAGINARY PORTRAITS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, June 11, 1887.)\n\nTo convey ideas through the medium of images has always been the aim of\nthose who are artists as well as thinkers in literature, and it is to a\ndesire to give a sensuous environment to intellectual concepts that we\nowe Mr. Pater\'s last volume. For these Imaginary or, as we should prefer\nto call them, Imaginative Portraits of his, form a series of philosophic\nstudies in which the philosophy is tempered by personality, and the\nthought shown under varying conditions of mood and manner, the very\npermanence of each principle gaining something through the change and\ncolour of the life through which it finds expression. The most\nfascinating of all these pictures is undoubtedly that of Sebastian Van\nStorck. The account of Watteau is perhaps a little too fanciful, and the\ndescription of him as one who was \'always a seeker after something in the\nworld, that is there in no satisfying measure, or not at all,\' seems to\nus more applicable to him who saw Mona Lisa sitting among the rocks than\nto the gay and debonair peintre des fetes galantes. But Sebastian, the\ngrave young Dutch philosopher, is charmingly drawn. From the first\nglimpse we get of him, skating over the water-meadows with his plume of\nsquirrel\'s tail and his fur muff, in all the modest pleasantness of\nboyhood, down to his strange death in the desolate house amid the sands\nof the Helder, we seem to see him, to know him, almost to hear the low\nmusic of his voice. He is a dreamer, as the common phrase goes, and yet\nhe is poetical in this sense, that his theorems shape life for him,\ndirectly. Early in youth he is stirred by a fine saying of Spinoza, and\nsets himself to realise the ideal of an intellectual disinterestedness,\nseparating himself more and more from the transient world of sensation,\naccident and even affection, till what is finite and relative becomes of\nno interest to him, and he feels that as nature is but a thought of his,\nso he himself is but a passing thought of God. This conception, of the\npower of a mere metaphysical abstraction over the mind of one so\nfortunately endowed for the reception of the sensible world, is\nexceedingly delightful, and Mr. Pater has never written a more subtle\npsychological study, the fact that Sebastian dies in an attempt to save\nthe life of a little child giving to the whole story a touch of poignant\npathos and sad irony.\n\nDenys l\'Auxerrois is suggested by a figure found, or said to be found, on\nsome old tapestries in Auxerre, the figure of a \'flaxen and flowery\ncreature, sometimes wellnigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes\nmuffled in skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of a monk, but\nalways with a strong impress of real character and incident from the\nveritable streets\' of the town itself. From this strange design Mr.\nPater has fashioned a curious mediaeval myth of the return of Dionysus\namong men, a myth steeped in colour and passion and old romance, full of\nwonder and full of worship, Denys himself being half animal and half god,\nmaking the world mad with a new ecstasy of living, stirring the artists\nsimply by his visible presence, drawing the marvel of music from reed and\npipe, and slain at last in a stage-play by those who had loved him. In\nits rich affluence of imagery this story is like a picture by Mantegna,\nand indeed Mantegna might have suggested the description of the pageant\nin which Denys rides upon a gaily-painted chariot, in soft silken raiment\nand, for head-dress, a strange elephant scalp with gilded tusks.\n\nIf Denys l\'Auxerrois symbolises the passion of the senses and Sebastian\nVan Storck the philosophic passion, as they certainly seem to do, though\nno mere formula or definition can adequately express the freedom and\nvariety of the life that they portray, the passion for the imaginative\nworld of art is the basis of the story of Duke Carl of Rosenmold. Duke\nCarl is not unlike the late King of Bavaria, in his love of France, his\nadmiration for the Grand Monarque and his fantastic desire to amaze and\nto bewilder, but the resemblance is possibly only a chance one. In fact\nMr. Pater\'s young hero is the precursor of the Aufklarung of the last\ncentury, the German precursor of Herder and Lessing and Goethe himself,\nand finds the forms of art ready to his hand without any national spirit\nto fill them or make them vital and responsive. He too dies, trampled to\ndeath by the soldiers of the country he so much admired, on the night of\nhis marriage with a peasant girl, the very failure of his life lending\nhim a certain melancholy grace and dramatic interest.\n\nOn the whole, then, this is a singularly attractive book. Mr. Pater is\nan intellectual impressionist. He does not weary us with any definite\ndoctrine or seek to suit life to any formal creed. He is always looking\nfor exquisite moments and, when he has found them, he analyses them with\ndelicate and delightful art and then passes on, often to the opposite\npole of thought or feeling, knowing that every mood has its own quality\nand charm and is justified by its mere existence. He has taken the\nsensationalism of Greek philosophy and made it a new method of art\ncriticism. As for his style, it is curiously ascetic. Now and then, we\ncome across phrases with a strange sensuousness of expression, as when he\ntells us how Denys l\'Auxerrois, on his return from a long journey, \'ate\nflesh for the first time, tearing the hot, red morsels with his delicate\nfingers in a kind of wild greed,\' but such passages are rare. Asceticism\nis the keynote of Mr. Pater\'s prose; at times it is almost too severe in\nits self-control and makes us long for a little more freedom. For\nindeed, the danger of such prose as his is that it is apt to become\nsomewhat laborious. Here and there, one is tempted to say of Mr. Pater\nthat he is \'a seeker after something in language, that is there in no\nsatisfying measure, or not at all.\' The continual preoccupation with\nphrase and epithet has its drawbacks as well as its virtues. And yet,\nwhen all is said, what wonderful prose it is, with its subtle\npreferences, its fastidious purity, its rejection of what is common or\nordinary! Mr. Pater has the true spirit of selection, the true tact of\nomission. If he be not among the greatest prose writers of our\nliterature he is, at least, our greatest artist in prose; and though it\nmay be admitted that the best style is that which seems an unconscious\nresult rather than a conscious aim, still in these latter days when\nviolent rhetoric does duty for eloquence and vulgarity usurps the name of\nnature, we should be grateful for a style that deliberately aims at\nperfection of form, that seeks to produce its effect by artistic means\nand sets before itself an ideal of grave and chastened beauty.\n\nImaginary Portraits. By Walter Pater, M.A., Fellow of Brasenose College,\nOxford. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA GOOD HISTORICAL NOVEL\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, August 8, 1887.)\n\nMost modern Russian novelists look upon the historical novel as a faux\ngenre, or a sort of fancy dress ball in literature, a mere puppet show,\nnot a true picture of life. Yet their own history is full of such\nwonderful scenes and situations, ready for dramatist or novelist to treat\nof, that we are not surprised that, in spite of the dogmas of the ecole\nnaturaliste, Mr. Stephen Coleridge has taken the Russia of the sixteenth\ncentury as the background for his strange tale. Indeed, there is much to\nbe said in favour of a form remote from actual experience. Passion\nitself gains something from picturesqueness of surroundings; distance of\ntime, unlike distance of space, makes objects larger and more vivid; over\nthe common things of contemporary life there hangs a mist of familiarity\nthat often makes their meaning obscure. There are also moments when we\nfeel that but little artistic pleasure is to be gained from the study of\nthe modern realistic school. Its works are powerful but they are\npainful, and after a time we tire of their harshness, their violence and\ntheir crudity. They exaggerate the importance of facts and underrate the\nimportance of fiction. Such, at any rate, is the mood--and what is\ncriticism itself but a mood?--produced in us by a perusal of Mr.\nColeridge\'s Demetrius. It is the story of a young lad of unknown\nparentage who is brought up in the household of a Polish noble. He is a\ntall, fair-looking youth, by name Alexis, with a pride of bearing and\ngrace of manner that seem strange in one of such low station. Suddenly\nhe is recognised by an exiled Russian noble as Demetrius, the son of Ivan\nthe Terrible who was supposed to have been murdered by the usurper Boris.\nHis identity is still further established by a strange cross of seven\nemeralds that he wears round his neck, and by a Greek inscription in his\nbook of prayers which discloses the secret of his birth and the story of\nhis rescue. He himself feels that the blood of kings beats in his veins,\nand appeals to the nobles of the Polish Diet to espouse his cause. By\nhis passionate utterance he makes them acknowledge him as the true Tsar\nand invades Russia at the head of a large army. The people throng to him\nfrom every side, and Marfa, the widow of Ivan the Terrible, escapes from\nthe convent in which she has been immured by Boris and comes to meet her\nson. At first she seems not to recognise him, but the music of his voice\nand the wonderful eloquence of his pleading win her over, and she\nembraces him in presence of the army and admits him to be her child. The\nusurper, terrified at the tidings, and deserted by his soldiers, commits\nsuicide, and Alexis enters Moscow in triumph, and is crowned in the\nKremlin. Yet he is not the true Demetrius, after all. He is deceived\nhimself and he deceives others. Mr. Coleridge has drawn his character\nwith delicate subtlety and quick insight, and the scene in which he\ndiscovers that he is no son of Ivan\'s and has no right to the name he\nclaims, is exceedingly powerful and dramatic. One point of resemblance\ndoes exist between Alexis and the real Demetrius. Both of them are\nmurdered, and with the death of this strange hero Mr. Coleridge ends his\nremarkable story.\n\nOn the whole, Mr. Coleridge has written a really good historical novel\nand may be congratulated on his success. The style is particularly\ninteresting, and the narrative parts of the book are deserving of high\npraise for their clearness, dignity and sobriety. The speeches and\npassages of dialogue are not so fortunate, as they have an awkward\ntendency to lapse into bad blank verse. Here, for instance, is a speech\nprinted by Mr. Coleridge as prose, in which the true music of prose is\nsacrificed to a false metrical system which is at once monotonous and\ntiresome:\n\n But Death, who brings us freedom from all falsehood,\n Who heals the heart when the physician fails,\n Who comforts all whom life cannot console,\n Who stretches out in sleep the tired watchers;\n He takes the King and proves him but a beggar!\n He speaks, and we, deaf to our Maker\'s voice,\n Hear and obey the call of our destroyer!\n Then let us murmur not at anything;\n For if our ills are curable, \'tis idle,\n And if they are past remedy, \'tis vain.\n The worst our strongest enemy can do\n Is take from us our life, and this indeed\n Is in the power of the weakest also.\n\nThis is not good prose; it is merely blank verse of an inferior quality,\nand we hope that Mr. Coleridge in his next novel will not ask us to\naccept second-rate poetry as musical prose. For, that Mr. Coleridge is a\nyoung writer of great ability and culture cannot be doubted and, indeed,\nin spite of the error we have pointed out, Demetrius remains one of the\nmost fascinating and delightful novels that has appeared this season.\n\nDemetrius. By the Hon. Stephen Coleridge. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nNEW NOVELS\n\n\n(Saturday Review, August 20, 1887.)\n\nTeutonic fiction, as a rule, is somewhat heavy and very sentimental; but\nWerner\'s Her Son, excellently translated by Miss Tyrrell, is really a\ncapital story and would make a capital play. Old Count Steinruck has two\ngrandsons, Raoul and Michael. The latter is brought up like a peasant\'s\nchild, cruelly treated by his grandfather and by the peasant to whose\ncare he is confided, his mother, the Countess Louis Steinruck, having\nmarried an adventurer and a gambler. He is the rough hero of the tale,\nthe Saint Michael of that war with evil which is life; while Raoul,\nspoiled by his grandfather and his French mother, betrays his country and\ntarnishes his name. At every step in the narrative these two young men\ncome into collision. There is a war of character, a clash of\npersonalities. Michael is proud, stern and noble. Raoul is weak,\ncharming and evil. Michael has the world against him and conquers. Raoul\nhas the world on his side and loses. The whole story is full of movement\nand life, and the psychology of the characters is displayed by action not\nby analysis, by deeds not by description. Though there are three long\nvolumes, we do not tire of the tale. It has truth, passion and power,\nand there are no better things than these in fiction.\n\nThe interest of Mr. Sale Lloyd\'s Scamp depends on one of those\nmisunderstandings which is the stock-in-trade of second-rate novelists.\nCaptain Egerton falls in love with Miss Adela Thorndyke, who is a sort of\nfeeble echo of some of Miss Broughton\'s heroines, but will not marry her\nbecause he has seen her talking with a young man who lives in the\nneighbourhood and is one of his oldest friends. We are sorry to say that\nMiss Thorndyke remains quite faithful to Captain Egerton, and goes so far\nas to refuse for his sake the rector of the parish, a local baronet, and\na real live lord. There are endless pages of five o\'clock tea-prattle\nand a good many tedious characters. Such novels as Scamp are possibly\nmore easy to write than they are to read.\n\nJames Hepburn belongs to a very different class of book. It is not a\nmere chaos of conversation, but a strong story of real life, and it\ncannot fail to give Miss Veitch a prominent position among modern\nnovelists. James Hepburn is the Free Church minister of Mossgiel, and\npresides over a congregation of pleasant sinners and serious hypocrites.\nTwo people interest him, Lady Ellinor Farquharson and a handsome young\nvagabond called Robert Blackwood. Through his efforts to save Lady\nEllinor from shame and ruin he is accused of being her lover; through his\nintimacy with Robert Blackwood he is suspected of having murdered a young\ngirl in his household. A meeting of the elders and office-bearers of the\nchurch is held to consider the question of the minister\'s resignation, at\nwhich, to the amazement of every one, Robert Blackwood comes forth and\nconfesses to the crime of which Hepburn is accused. The whole story is\nexceedingly powerful, and there is no extravagant use of the Scotch\ndialect, which is a great advantage to the reader.\n\nThe title-page of Tiff informs us that it was written by the author of\nLucy; or, a Great Mistake, which seems to us a form of anonymity, as we\nhave never heard of the novel in question. We hope, however, that it was\nbetter than Tiff, for Tiff is undeniably tedious. It is the story of a\nbeautiful girl who has many lovers and loses them, and of an ugly girl\nwho has one lover and keeps him. It is a rather confused tale, and there\nare far too many love-scenes in it. If this \'Favourite Fiction\' Series,\nin which Tiff appears, is to be continued, we would entreat the publisher\nto alter the type and the binding. The former is far too small: while,\nas for the cover, it is of sham crocodile leather adorned with a blue\nspider and a vulgar illustration of the heroine in the arms of a young\nman in evening dress. Dull as Tiff is--and its dulness is quite\nremarkable--it does not deserve so detestable a binding.\n\n(1) Her Son. Translated from the German of E. Werner by Christina\nTyrrell. (Richard Bentley and Son.)\n\n(2) Scamp. By J. Sale Lloyd. (White and Co.)\n\n(3) James Hepburn. By Sophie Veitch. (Alexander Gardner.)\n\n(4) Tiff. By the Author of Lucy; or, A Great Mistake. \'Favourite\nFiction\' Series. (William Stevens.)\n\n\n\n\nTWO BIOGRAPHIES OF KEATS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 27, 1887.)\n\nA poet, said Keats once, \'is the most unpoetical of all God\'s creatures,\'\nand whether the aphorism be universally true or not, this is certainly\nthe impression produced by the two last biographies that have appeared of\nKeats himself. It cannot be said that either Mr. Colvin or Mr. William\nRossetti makes us love Keats more or understand him better. In both\nthese books there is much that is like \'chaff in the mouth,\' and in Mr.\nRossetti\'s there is not a little that is like \'brass on the palate.\' To\na certain degree this is, no doubt, inevitable nowadays. Everybody pays\na penalty for peeping through keyholes, and the keyhole and the\nbackstairs are essential parts of the method of the modern biographers.\nIt is only fair, however, to state at the outset that Mr. Colvin has done\nhis work much better than Mr. Rossetti. The account Mr. Colvin gives of\nKeats\'s boyhood, for instance, is very pleasing, and so is the sketch of\nKeats\'s circle of friends, both Leigh Hunt and Haydon being admirably\ndrawn. Here and there, trivial family details are introduced without\nmuch regard to proportion, and the posthumous panegyrics of devoted\nfriends are not really of so much value, in helping us to form any true\nestimate of Keats\'s actual character, as Mr. Colvin seems to imagine. We\nhave no doubt that when Bailey wrote to Lord Houghton that common-sense\nand gentleness were Keats\'s two special characteristics the worthy\nArchdeacon meant extremely well, but we prefer the real Keats, with his\npassionate wilfulness, his fantastic moods and his fine inconsistence.\nPart of Keats\'s charm as a man is his fascinating incompleteness. We do\nnot want him reduced to a sand-paper smoothness or made perfect by the\naddition of popular virtues. Still, if Mr. Colvin has not given us a\nvery true picture of Keats\'s character, he has certainly told the story\nof his life in a pleasant and readable manner. He may not write with the\nease and grace of a man of letters, but he is never pretentious and not\noften pedantic.\n\nMr. Rossetti\'s book is a great failure. To begin with, Mr. Rossetti\ncommits the great mistake of separating the man from the artist. The\nfacts of Keats\'s life are interesting only when they are shown in their\nrelation to his creative activity. The moment they are isolated they are\neither uninteresting or painful. Mr. Rossetti complains that the early\npart of Keats\'s life is uneventful and the latter part depressing, but\nthe fault lies with the biographer, not with the subject.\n\nThe book opens with a detailed account of Keats\'s life, in which he\nspares us nothing, from what he calls the \'sexual misadventure at Oxford\'\ndown to the six weeks\' dissipation after the appearance of the Blackwood\narticle and the hysterical and morbid ravings of the dying man. No\ndoubt, most if not all of the things Mr. Rossetti tells us are facts; but\nthere is neither tact shown in the selection that is made of the facts\nnor sympathy in the use to which they are put. When Mr. Rossetti writes\nof the man he forgets the poet, and when he criticises the poet he shows\nthat he does not understand the man. His first error, as we have said,\nis isolating the life from the work; his second error is his treatment of\nthe work itself. Take, for instance, his criticism of that wonderful Ode\nto a Nightingale, with all its marvellous magic of music, colour and\nform. He begins by saying that \'the first point of weakness\' in the poem\nis the \'surfeit of mythological allusions,\' a statement which is\nabsolutely untrue, as out of the eight stanzas of the poem only three\ncontain any mythological allusions at all, and of these not one is either\nforced or remote. Then coming to the second verse,\n\n Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been\n Cool\'d a long age in the deep-delved earth,\n Tasting of Flora and the country-green,\n Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!\n\nMr. Rossetti exclaims in a fine fit of \'Blue Ribbon\' enthusiasm: \'Surely\nnobody wants wine as a preparation for enjoying a nightingale\'s music,\nwhether in a literal or in a fanciful relation\'! \'To call wine "the\ntrue, the blushful Hippocrene" . . . seems\' to him \'both stilted and\nrepulsive\'; \'the phrase "with beaded bubbles winking at the brim" is\n(though picturesque) trivial\'; \'the succeeding image, "Not charioted by\nBacchus and his pards"\' is \'far worse\'; while such an expression as\n\'light-winged Dryad of the trees\' is an obvious pleonasm, for Dryad\nreally means Oak-nymph! As for that superb burst of passion,\n\n Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!\n No hungry generations tread thee down;\n The voice I hear this passing night was heard\n In ancient days by emperor and clown:\n\nMr. Rossetti tells us that it is a palpable, or rather \'palpaple (sic)\nfact that this address . . . is a logical solecism,\' as men live longer\nthan nightingales. As Mr. Colvin makes very much the same criticism,\ntalking of \'a breach of logic which is also . . . a flaw in the poetry,\'\nit may be worth while to point out to these two last critics of Keats\'s\nwork that what Keats meant to convey was the contrast between the\npermanence of beauty and the change and decay of human life, an idea\nwhich receives its fullest expression in the Ode on a Grecian Urn. Nor\ndo the other poems fare much better at Mr. Rossetti\'s hands. The fine\ninvocation in Isabella--\n\n Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,\n From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!\n Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,\n And touch the strings into a mystery,\n\nseems to him \'a fadeur\'; the Indian Bacchante of the fourth book of\nEndymion he calls a \'sentimental and beguiling wine-bibber,\' and, as for\nEndymion himself, he declares that he cannot understand \'how his human\norganism, _with respirative and digestive processes_, continues to\nexist,\' and gives us his own idea of how Keats should have treated the\nsubject. An eminent French critic once exclaimed in despair, \'Je trouve\ndes physiologistes partout!\'; but it has been reserved for Mr. Rossetti\nto speculate on Endymion\'s digestion, and we readily accord to him all\nthe distinction of the position. Even where Mr. Rossetti seeks to\npraise, he spoils what he praises. To speak of Hyperion as \'a monument\nof Cyclopean architecture in verse\' is bad enough, but to call it \'a\nStonehenge of reverberance\' is absolutely detestable; nor do we learn\nmuch about The Eve of St. Mark by being told that its \'simplicity is full-\nblooded as well as quaint.\' What is the meaning, also, of stating that\nKeats\'s Notes on Shakespeare are \'somewhat strained and _bloated_\'? and\nis there nothing better to be said of Madeline in The Eve of St. Agnes\nthan that \'she is made a very charming and loveable figure, _although she\ndoes nothing very particular except to undress without looking behind\nher, and to elope_\'? There is no necessity to follow Mr. Rossetti any\nfurther as he flounders about through the quagmire that he has made for\nhis own feet. A critic who can say that \'not many of Keats\'s poems are\nhighly admirable\' need not be too seriously treated. Mr. Rossetti is an\nindustrious man and a painstaking writer, but he entirely lacks the\ntemper necessary for the interpretation of such poetry as was written by\nJohn Keats.\n\nIt is pleasant to turn again to Mr. Colvin, who criticises always with\nmodesty and often with acumen. We do not agree with him when he accepts\nMrs. Owens\'s theory of a symbolic and allegoric meaning underlying\nEndymion, his final judgment on Keats as \'the most Shaksperean spirit\nthat has lived since Shakspere\' is not very fortunate, and we are\nsurprised to find him suggesting, on the evidence of a rather silly story\nof Severn\'s, that Sir Walter Scott was privy to the Blackwood article.\nThere is nothing, however, about his estimate of the poet\'s work that is\nharsh, irritating or uncouth. The true Marcellus of English song has not\nyet found his Virgil, but Mr. Colvin makes a tolerable Statius.\n\n(1) Keats. By Sidney Colvin. \'English Men of Letters\' Series.\n(Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(2) Life of John Keats. By William Michael Rossetti. \'Great Writers\'\nSeries. (Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nA SCOTCHMAN ON SCOTTISH POETRY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 24, 1887.)\n\nA distinguished living critic, born south of the Tweed, once whispered in\nconfidence to a friend that he believed that the Scotch knew really very\nlittle about their own national literature. He quite admitted that they\nlove their \'Robbie Burns\' and their \'Sir Walter\' with a patriotic\nenthusiasm that makes them extremely severe upon any unfortunate southron\nwho ventures to praise either in their presence, but he claimed that the\nworks of such great national poets as Dunbar, Henryson and Sir David\nLyndsay are sealed books to the majority of the reading public in\nEdinburgh, Aberdeen and Glasgow, and that few Scotch people have any idea\nof the wonderful outburst of poetry that took place in their country\nduring the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, at a time when there was\nlittle corresponding development in England. Whether this terrible\naccusation be absolutely true, or not, it is needless to discuss at\npresent. It is probable that the archaism of language alone will always\nprevent a poet like Dunbar from being popular in the ordinary acceptation\nof the word. Professor Veitch\'s book, however, shows that there are\nsome, at any rate, in the \'land o\' cakes\' who can admire and appreciate\ntheir marvellous early singers, and whose admiration for The Lord of the\nIsles and the verses To a Mountain Daisy does not blind them to the\nexquisite beauties of The Testament of Cresseid, The Thistle and the\nRose, and the Dialog betwix Experience and ane Courteour.\n\nTaking as the subject of his two interesting volumes the feeling for\nNature in Scottish Poetry, Professor Veitch starts with a historical\ndisquisition on the growth of the sentiment in humanity. The primitive\nstate he regards as being simply a sort of \'open-air feeling.\' The chief\nsources of pleasure are the warmth of the sunshine, the cool of the\nbreeze and the general fresh aspect of the earth and sky, connecting\nitself with a consciousness of life and sensuous enjoyment; while\ndarkness, storm and cold are regarded as repulsive. This is followed by\nthe pastoral stage in which we find the love of green meadows and of\nshady trees and of all things that make life pleasant and comfortable.\nThis, again, by the stage of agriculture, the era of the war with earth,\nwhen men take pleasure in the cornfield and in the garden, but hate\neverything that is opposed to tillage, such as woodland and rock, or that\ncannot be subdued to utility, such as mountain and sea. Finally we come\nto the pure nature-feeling, the free delight in the mere contemplation of\nthe external world, the joy in sense-impressions irrespective of all\nquestions of Nature\'s utility and beneficence. But here the growth does\nnot stop. The Greek, desiring to make Nature one with humanity, peopled\nthe grove and hillside with beautiful and fantastic forms, saw the god\nhiding in the thicket, and the naiad drifting with the stream. The\nmodern Wordsworthian, desiring to make man one with Nature, finds in\nexternal things \'the symbols of our inner life, the workings of a spirit\nakin to our own.\' There is much that is suggestive in these early\nchapters of Professor Veitch\'s book, but we cannot agree with him in the\nview he takes of the primitive attitude towards Nature. The \'open-air\nfeeling,\' of which he talks, seems to us comparatively modern. The\nearliest Nature-myths tell us, not of man\'s \'sensuous enjoyment\' of\nNature, but of the terror that Nature inspires. Nor are darkness and\nstorm regarded by the primitive man as \'simply repulsive\'; they are to\nhim divine and supernatural things, full of wonder and full of awe. Some\nreference, also, should have been made to the influence of towns on the\ndevelopment of the nature-feeling, for, paradox though it may seem, it is\nnone the less true that it is largely to the creation of cities that we\nowe the love of the country.\n\nProfessor Veitch is on a safer ground when he comes to deal with the\ngrowth and manifestations of this feeling as displayed in Scotch poetry.\nThe early singers, as he points out, had all the mediaeval love of\ngardens, all the artistic delight in the bright colours of flowers and\nthe pleasant song of birds, but they felt no sympathy for the wild\nsolitary moorland, with its purple heather, its grey rocks and its waving\nbracken. Montgomerie was the first to wander out on the banks and braes\nand to listen to the music of the burns, and it was reserved for Drummond\nof Hawthornden to sing of flood and forest and to notice the beauty of\nthe mists on the hillside and the snow on the mountain tops. Then came\nAllan Ramsay with his honest homely pastorals; Thomson, who writes about\nNature like an eloquent auctioneer, and yet was a keen observer, with a\nfresh eye and an open heart; Beattie, who approached the problems that\nWordsworth afterwards solved; the great Celtic epic of Ossian, such an\nimportant factor in the romantic movement of Germany and France;\nFergusson, to whom Burns is so much indebted; Burns himself, Leyden, Sir\nWalter Scott, James Hogg and (longo intervallo) Christopher North and the\nlate Professor Shairp. On nearly all these poets Professor Veitch writes\nwith fine judgment and delicate feeling, and even his admiration for\nBurns has nothing absolutely aggressive about it. He shows, however, a\ncertain lack of the true sense of literary proportion in the amount of\nspace he devotes to the two last writers on our list. Christopher North\nwas undoubtedly an interesting personality to the Edinburgh of his day,\nbut he has not left behind him anything of real permanent value. There\nwas too much noise in his criticism, too little music in his poetry. As\nfor Professor Shairp, looked on as a critic he was a tragic example of\nthe unfortunate influence of Wordsworth, for he was always confusing\nethical with aesthetical questions, and never had the slightest idea how\nto approach such poets as Shelley and Rossetti whom it was his mission to\ninterpret to young Oxford in his later years; {189} while, considered as\na poet, he deserves hardly more than a passing reference. Professor\nVeitch gravely tells us that one of the descriptions of Kilmahoe is \'not\nsurpassed in the language for real presence, felicity of epithet, and\npurity of reproduction,\' and statements of this kind serve to remind us\nof the fact that a criticism which is based on patriotism is always\nprovincial in its result. But it is only fair to add that it is very\nrarely that Professor Veitch is so extravagant and so grotesque. His\njudgment and taste are, as a rule, excellent, and his book is, on the\nwhole, a very fascinating and delightful contribution to the history of\nliterature.\n\nThe Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry. By John Veitch, Professor of\nLogic and Rhetoric in the University of Glasgow. (Blackwood and Son.)\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--I\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, November 1887.)\n\nThe Princess Christian\'s translation of the Memoirs of Wilhelmine,\nMargravine of Baireuth, is a most fascinating and delightful book. The\nMargravine and her brother, Frederick the Great, were, as the Princess\nherself points out in an admirably written introduction, \'among the first\nof those questioning minds that strove after spiritual freedom\' in the\nlast century. \'They had studied,\' says the Princess, \'the English\nphilosophers, Newton, Locke, and Shaftesbury, and were roused to\nenthusiasm by the writings of Voltaire and Rousseau. Their whole lives\nbore the impress of the influence of French thought on the burning\nquestions of the day. In the eighteenth century began that great\nstruggle of philosophy against tyranny and worn-out abuses which\nculminated in the French Revolution. The noblest minds were engaged in\nthe struggle, and, like most reformers, they pushed their conclusions to\nextremes, and too often lost sight of the need of a due proportion in\nthings. The Margravine\'s influence on the intellectual development of\nher country is untold. She formed at Baireuth a centre of culture and\nlearning which had before been undreamt of in Germany.\'\n\nThe historical value of these Memoirs is, of course, well known. Carlyle\nspeaks of them as being \'by far the best authority\' on the early life of\nFrederick the Great. But considered merely as the autobiography of a\nclever and charming woman, they are no less interesting, and even those\nwho care nothing for eighteenth-century politics, and look upon history\nitself as an unattractive form of fiction, cannot fail to be fascinated\nby the Margravine\'s wit, vivacity and humour, by her keen powers of\nobservation, and by her brilliant and assertive egotism. Not that her\nlife was by any means a happy one. Her father, to quote the Princess\nChristian, \'ruled his family with the same harsh despotism with which he\nruled his country, taking pleasure in making his power felt by all in the\nmost galling manner,\' and the Margravine and her brother \'had much to\nsuffer, not only from his ungovernable temper, but also from the real\nprivations to which they were subjected.\' Indeed, the picture the\nMargravine gives of the King is quite extraordinary. \'He despised all\nlearning,\' she writes, \'and wished me to occupy myself with nothing but\nneedlework and household duties or details. Had he found me writing or\nreading, he would probably have whipped me.\' He \'considered music a\ncapital offence, and maintained that every one should devote himself to\none object: men to the military service, and women to their household\nduties. Science and the arts he counted among the "seven deadly sins."\'\nSometimes he took to religion, \'and then,\' says the Margravine, \'we lived\nlike Trappists, to the great grief of my brother and myself. Every\nafternoon the King preached a sermon, to which we had to listen as\nattentively as if it proceeded from an Apostle. My brother and I were\noften seized with such an intense sense of the ridiculous that we burst\nout laughing, upon which an apostolic curse was poured out on our heads,\nwhich we had to accept with a show of humility and penitence.\' Economy\nand soldiers were his only topics of conversation; his chief social\namusement was to make his guests intoxicated; and as for his temper, the\naccounts the Margravine gives of it would be almost incredible if they\nwere not amply corroborated from other sources. Suetonius has written of\nthe strange madness that comes on kings, but even in his melodramatic\nchronicles there is hardly anything that rivals what the Margravine has\nto tell us. Here is one of her pictures of family life at a Royal Court\nin the last century, and it is not by any means the worst scene she\ndescribes:\n\n On one occasion, when his temper was more than usually bad, he told\n the Queen that he had received letters from Anspach, in which the\n Margrave announced his arrival at Berlin for the beginning of May. He\n was coming there for the purpose of marrying my sister, and one of his\n ministers would arrive previously with the betrothal ring. My father\n asked my sister whether she were pleased at this prospect, and how she\n would arrange her household. Now my sister had always made a point of\n telling him whatever came into her head, even the greatest\n home-truths, and he had never taken her outspokenness amiss. On this\n occasion, therefore, relying on former experience, she answered him as\n follows: \'When I have a house of my own, I shall take care to have a\n well-appointed dinner-table, better than yours is, and if I have\n children of my own, I shall not plague them as you do yours, and force\n them to eat things they thoroughly dislike!\'\n\n \'What is amiss with my dinner-table?\' the King enquired, getting very\n red in the face.\n\n \'You ask what is the matter with it,\' my sister replied; \'there is not\n enough on it for us to eat, and what there is is cabbage and carrots,\n which we detest.\' Her first answer had already angered my father, but\n now he gave vent to his fury. But instead of punishing my sister he\n poured it all on my mother, my brother, and myself. To begin with he\n threw his plate at my brother\'s head, who would have been struck had\n he not got out of the way; a second one he threw at me, which I also\n happily escaped; then torrents of abuse followed these first signs of\n hostility. He reproached the Queen with having brought up her\n children so badly. \'You will curse your mother,\' he said to my\n brother, \'for having made you such a good-for-nothing creature.\' . . .\n As my brother and I passed near him to leave the room, he hit out at\n us with his crutch. Happily we escaped the blow; for it would\n certainly have struck us down, and we at last escaped without harm.\n\nYet, as the Princess Christian remarks, \'despite the almost cruel\ntreatment Wilhelmine received from her father, it is noticeable that\nthroughout her memoirs she speaks of him with the greatest affection. She\nmakes constant reference to his "good heart"\'; and says that his faults\n\'were more those of temper than of nature.\' Nor could all the misery and\nwretchedness of her home life dull the brightness of her intellect. What\nwould have made others morbid, made her satirical. Instead of weeping\nover her own personal tragedies, she laughs at the general comedy of\nlife. Here, for instance, is her description of Peter the Great and his\nwife, who arrived at Berlin in 1718:\n\n The Czarina was small, broad, and brown-looking, without the slightest\n dignity or appearance. You had only to look at her to detect her low\n origin. She might have passed for a German actress, she had decked\n herself out in such a manner. Her dress had been bought second-hand,\n and was trimmed with some dirty looking silver embroidery; the bodice\n was trimmed with precious stones, arranged in such a manner as to\n represent the double eagle. She wore a dozen orders; and round the\n bottom of her dress hung quantities of relics and pictures of saints,\n which rattled when she walked, and reminded one of a smartly harnessed\n mule. The orders too made a great noise, knocking against each other.\n\n The Czar, on the other hand, was tall and well grown, with a handsome\n face, but his expression was coarse, and impressed one with fear. He\n wore a simple sailor\'s dress. His wife, who spoke German very badly,\n called her court jester to her aid, and spoke Russian with her. This\n poor creature was a Princess Gallizin, who had been obliged to\n undertake this sorry office to save her life, as she had been mixed up\n in a conspiracy against the Czar, and had twice been flogged with the\n knout!\n\n * * * * * *\n\n The following day [the Czar] visited all the sights of Berlin, amongst\n others the very curious collection of coins and antiques. Amongst\n these last named was a statue, representing a heathen god. It was\n anything but attractive, but was the most valuable in the collection.\n The Czar admired it very much, and insisted on the Czarina kissing it.\n On her refusing, he said to her in bad German that she should lose her\n head if she did not at once obey him. Being terrified at the Czar\'s\n anger she immediately complied with his orders without the least\n hesitation. The Czar asked the King to give him this and other\n statues, a request which he could not refuse. The same thing happened\n about a cupboard, inlaid with amber. It was the only one of its kind,\n and had cost King Frederick I. an enormous sum, and the consternation\n was general on its having to be sent to Petersburg.\n\n This barbarous Court happily left after two days. The Queen rushed at\n once to Monbijou, which she found in a state resembling that of the\n fall of Jerusalem. I never saw such a sight. Everything was\n destroyed, so that the Queen was obliged to rebuild the whole house.\n\nNor are the Margravine\'s descriptions of her reception as a bride in the\nprincipality of Baireuth less amusing. Hof was the first town she came\nto, and a deputation of nobles was waiting there to welcome her. This is\nher account of them:\n\n Their faces would have frightened little children, and, to add to\n their beauty, they had arranged their hair to resemble the wigs that\n were then in fashion. Their dresses clearly denoted the antiquity of\n their families, as they were composed of heirlooms, and were cut\n accordingly, so that most of them did not fit. In spite of their\n costumes being the \'Court Dresses,\' the gold and silver trimmings were\n so black that you had a difficulty in making out of what they were\n made. The manners of these nobles suited their faces and their\n clothes. They might have passed for peasants. I could scarcely\n restrain my laughter when I first beheld these strange figures. I\n spoke to each in turn, but none of them understood what I said, and\n their replies sounded to me like Hebrew, because the dialect of the\n Empire is quite different from that spoken in Brandenburg.\n\n The clergy also presented themselves. These were totally different\n creatures. Round their necks they wore great ruffs, which resembled\n washing baskets. They spoke very slowly, so that I might be able to\n understand them better. They said the most foolish things, and it was\n only with much difficulty that I was able to prevent myself from\n laughing. At last I got rid of all these people, and we sat down to\n dinner. I tried my best to converse with those at table, but it was\n useless. At last I touched on agricultural topics, and then they\n began to thaw. I was at once informed of all their different\n farmsteads and herds of cattle. An almost interesting discussion took\n place as to whether the oxen in the upper part of the country were\n fatter than those in the lowlands.\n\n * * * * *\n\n I was told that as the next day was Sunday, I must spend it at Hof,\n and listen to a sermon. Never before had I heard such a sermon! The\n clergyman began by giving us an account of all the marriages that had\n taken place from Adam\'s time to that of Noah. We were spared no\n detail, so that the gentlemen all laughed and the poor ladies blushed.\n The dinner went off as on the previous day. In the afternoon all the\n ladies came to pay me their respects. Gracious heavens! What ladies,\n too! They were all as ugly as the gentlemen, and their head-dresses\n were so curious that swallows might have built their nests in them.\n\nAs for Baireuth itself, and its petty Court, the picture she gives of it\nis exceedingly curious. Her father-in-law, the reigning Margrave, was a\nnarrow-minded mediocrity, whose conversation \'resembled that of a sermon\nread aloud for the purpose of sending the listener to sleep,\' and he had\nonly two topics, Telemachus, and Amelot de la Houssaye\'s Roman History.\nThe Ministers, from Baron von Stein, who always said \'yes\' to everything,\nto Baron von Voit, who always said \'no,\' were not by any means an\nintellectual set of men. \'Their chief amusement,\' says the Margravine,\n\'was drinking from morning till night,\' and horses and cattle were all\nthey talked about. The palace itself was shabby, decayed and dirty. \'I\nwas like a lamb among wolves,\' cries the poor Margravine; \'I was settled\nin a strange country, at a Court which more resembled a peasant\'s farm,\nsurrounded by coarse, bad, dangerous, and tiresome people.\'\n\nYet her esprit never deserted her. She is always clever, witty, and\nentertaining. Her stories about the endless squabbles over precedence\nare extremely amusing. The society of her day cared very little for good\nmanners, knew, indeed, very little about them, but all questions of\netiquette were of vital importance, and the Margravine herself, though\nshe saw the shallowness of the whole system, was far too proud not to\nassert her rights when circumstances demanded it, as the description she\ngives of her visit to the Empress of Germany shows very clearly. When\nthis meeting was first proposed, the Margravine declined positively to\nentertain the idea. \'There was no precedent,\' she writes, \'of a King\'s\ndaughter and the Empress having met, and I did not know to what rights I\nought to lay claim.\' Finally, however, she is induced to consent, but\nshe lays down three conditions for her reception:\n\n I desired first of all that the Empress\'s Court should receive me at\n the foot of the stairs, secondly, that she should meet me at the door\n of her bedroom, and, thirdly, that she should offer me an armchair to\n sit on.\n\n * * * * *\n\n They disputed all day over the conditions I had made. The two first\n were granted me, but all that could be obtained with respect to the\n third was, that the Empress would use quite a small armchair, whilst\n she gave me a chair.\n\n Next day I saw this Royal personage. I own that had I been in her\n place I would have made all the rules of etiquette and ceremony the\n excuse for not being obliged to appear. The Empress was small and\n stout, round as a ball, very ugly, and without dignity or manner. Her\n mind corresponded to her body. She was terribly bigoted, and spent\n her whole day praying. The old and ugly are generally the Almighty\'s\n portion. She received me trembling all over, and was so upset that\n she could not say a word.\n\n After some silence I began the conversation in French. She answered\n me in her Austrian dialect that she could not speak in that language,\n and begged I would speak in German. The conversation did not last\n long, for the Austrian and low Saxon tongues are so different from\n each other that to those acquainted with only one the other is\n unintelligible. This is what happened to us. A third person would\n have laughed at our misunderstandings, for we caught only a word here\n and there, and had to guess the rest. The poor Empress was such a\n slave to etiquette that she would have thought it high treason had she\n spoken to me in a foreign language, though she understood French quite\n well.\n\nMany other extracts might be given from this delightful book, but from\nthe few that have been selected some idea can be formed of the vivacity\nand picturesqueness of the Margravine\'s style. As for her character, it\nis very well summed up by the Princess Christian, who, while admitting\nthat she often appears almost heartless and inconsiderate, yet claims\nthat, \'taken as a whole, she stands out in marked prominence among the\nmost gifted women of the eighteenth century, not only by her mental\npowers, but by her goodness of heart, her self-sacrificing devotion, and\ntrue friendship.\' An interesting sequel to her Memoirs would be her\ncorrespondence with Voltaire, and it is to be hoped that we may shortly\nsee a translation of these letters from the same accomplished pen to\nwhich we owe the present volume. {198}\n\n* * * * *\n\nWomen\'s Voices is an anthology of the most characteristic poems by\nEnglish, Scotch and Irish women, selected and arranged by Mrs. William\nSharp. \'The idea of making this anthology,\' says Mrs. Sharp, in her\npreface, \'arose primarily from the conviction that our women-poets had\nnever been collectively represented with anything like adequate justice;\nthat the works of many are not so widely known as they deserve to be; and\nthat at least some fine fugitive poetry could be thus rescued from\noblivion\'; and Mrs. Sharp proceeds to claim that the \'selections will\nfurther emphasise the value of women\'s work in poetry for those who are\nalready well acquainted with English Literature, and that they will\nconvince many it is as possible to form an anthology of "pure poetry"\nfrom the writings of women as from those of men.\' It is somewhat\ndifficult to define what \'pure poetry\' really is, but the collection is\ncertainly extremely interesting, extending, as it does, over nearly three\ncenturies of our literature. It opens with Revenge, a poem by the\n\'learned, virtuous, and truly noble Ladie,\' Elizabeth Carew, who\npublished a Tragedie of Marian, the faire Queene of Iewry, in 1613, from\nwhich Revenge is taken. Then come some very pretty verses by Margaret,\nDuchess of Newcastle, who produced a volume of poems in 1653. They are\nsupposed to be sung by a sea-goddess, and their fantastic charm and the\ngraceful wilfulness of their fancy are well worthy of note, as these\nfirst stanzas show:\n\n My cabinets are oyster-shells,\n In which I keep my Orient pearls;\n And modest coral I do wear,\n Which blushes when it touches air.\n\n On silvery waves I sit and sing,\n And then the fish lie listening:\n Then resting on a rocky stone\n I comb my hair with fishes\' bone;\n\n The whilst Apollo with his beams\n Doth dry my hair from soaking streams,\n His light doth glaze the water\'s face,\n And make the sea my looking-glass.\n\nThen follow Friendship\'s Mystery, by \'The Matchless Orinda,\' Mrs.\nKatherine Philips; A Song, by Mrs. Aphra Behn, \'the first English woman\nwho adopted literature as a profession\'; and the Countess of Winchelsea\'s\nNocturnal Reverie. Wordsworth once said that, with the exception of this\npoem and Pope\'s Windsor Forest, \'the poetry of the period intervening\nbetween Paradise Lost and The Seasons does not contain a single new image\nof external nature,\' and though the statement is hardly accurate, as it\nleaves Gay entirely out of account, it must be admitted that the simple\nnaturalism of Lady Winchelsea\'s description is extremely remarkable.\nPassing on through Mrs. Sharp\'s collection, we come across poems by Lady\nGrisell Baillie; by Jean Adams, a poor \'sewing-maid in a Scotch manse,\'\nwho died in the Greenock Workhouse; by Isobel Pagan, \'an Ayrshire lucky,\nwho kept an alehouse, and sold whiskey without a license,\' \'and sang her\nown songs as a means of subsistence\'; by Mrs. Thrale, Dr. Johnson\'s\nfriend; by Mrs. Hunter, the wife of the great anatomist; by the worthy\nMrs. Barbauld; and by the excellent Mrs. Hannah More. Here is Miss Anna\nSeward, \'called by her admirers "the Swan of Lichfield,"\' who was so\nangry with Dr. Darwin for plagiarising some of her verses; Lady Anne\nBarnard, whose Auld Robin Gray was described by Sir Walter Scott as\n\'worth all the dialogues Corydon and Phyllis have together spoken from\nthe days of Theocritus downwards\'; Jean Glover, a Scottish weaver\'s\ndaughter, who \'married a strolling player and became the best singer and\nactor of his troop\'; Joanna Baillie, whose tedious dramas thrilled our\ngrandfathers; Mrs. Tighe, whose Psyche was very much admired by Keats in\nhis youthful days; Frances Kemble, Mrs. Siddons\'s niece; poor L. E. L.,\nwhom Disraeli described as \'the personification of Brompton, pink satin\ndress, white satin shoes, red cheeks, snub nose, and her hair a la\nSappho\'; the two beautiful sisters, Lady Dufferin and Mrs. Norton; Emily\nBronte, whose poems are instinct with tragic power and quite terrible in\ntheir bitter intensity of passion, the fierce fire of feeling seeming\nalmost to consume the raiment of form; Eliza Cook, a kindly, vulgar\nwriter; George Eliot, whose poetry is too abstract, and lacks all\nrhythmical life; Mrs. Carlyle, who wrote much better poetry than her\nhusband, though this is hardly high praise; and Mrs. Browning, the first\nreally great poetess in our literature. Nor are contemporary writers\nforgotten. Christina Rossetti, some of whose poems are quite priceless\nin their beauty; Mrs. Augusta Webster, Mrs. Hamilton King, Miss Mary\nRobinson, Mrs. Craik; Jean Ingelow, whose sonnet on An Ancient Chess King\nis like an exquisitely carved gem; Mrs. Pfeiffer; Miss May Probyn, a\npoetess with the true lyrical impulse of song, whose work is as delicate\nas it is delightful; Mrs. Nesbit, a very pure and perfect artist; Miss\nRosa Mulholland, Miss Katharine Tynan, Lady Charlotte Elliot, and many\nother well-known writers, are duly and adequately represented. On the\nwhole, Mrs. Sharp\'s collection is very pleasant reading indeed, and the\nextracts given from the works of living poetesses are extremely\nremarkable, not merely for their absolute artistic excellence, but also\nfor the light they throw upon the spirit of modern culture.\n\nIt is not, however, by any means a complete anthology. Dame Juliana\nBerners is possibly too antiquated in style to be suitable to a modern\naudience. But where is Anne Askew, who wrote a ballad in Newgate; and\nwhere is Queen Elizabeth, whose \'most sweet and sententious ditty\' on\nMary Stuart is so highly praised by Puttenham as an example of\n\'Exargasia,\' or The Gorgeous in Literature? Why is the Countess of\nPembroke excluded? Sidney\'s sister should surely have a place in any\nanthology of English verse. Where is Sidney\'s niece, Lady Mary Wroth, to\nwhom Ben Jonson dedicated The Alchemist? Where is \'the noble ladie Diana\nPrimrose,\' who wrote A Chain of Pearl, or a memorial of the peerless\ngraces and heroic virtues of Queen Elizabeth, of glorious memory? Where\nis Mary Morpeth, the friend and admirer of Drummond of Hawthornden? Where\nis the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I., and where is Anne\nKilligrew, maid of honour to the Duchess of York? The Marchioness of\nWharton, whose poems were praised by Waller; Lady Chudleigh, whose lines\nbeginning--\n\n Wife and servant are the same,\n But only differ in the name,\n\nare very curious and interesting; Rachel Lady Russell, Constantia\nGrierson, Mary Barber, Laetitia Pilkington; Eliza Haywood, whom Pope\nhonoured by a place in The Dunciad; Lady Luxborough, Lord Bolingbroke\'s\nhalf-sister; Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; Lady Temple, whose poems were\nprinted by Horace Walpole; Perdita, whose lines on the snowdrop are very\npathetic; the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, of whom Gibbon said that\n\'she was made for something better than a Duchess\'; Mrs. Ratcliffe, Mrs.\nChapone, and Amelia Opie, all deserve a place on historical, if not on\nartistic, grounds. In fact, the space given by Mrs. Sharp to modern and\nliving poetesses is somewhat disproportionate, and I am sure that those\non whose brows the laurels are still green would not grudge a little room\nto those the green of whose laurels is withered and the music of whose\nlyres is mute.\n\n* * * * *\n\nOne of the most powerful and pathetic novels that has recently appeared\nis A Village Tragedy by Margaret L. Woods. To find any parallel to this\nlurid little story, one must go to Dostoieffski or to Guy de Maupassant.\nNot that Mrs. Woods can be said to have taken either of these two great\nmasters of fiction as her model, but there is something in her work that\nrecalls their method; she has not a little of their fierce intensity,\ntheir terrible concentration, their passionless yet poignant objectivity;\nlike them, she seems to allow life to suggest its own mode of\npresentation; and, like them, she recognises that a frank acceptance of\nthe facts of life is the true basis of all modern imitative art. The\nscene of Mrs. Woods\'s story lies in one of the villages near Oxford; the\ncharacters are very few in number, and the plot is extremely simple. It\nis a romance of modern Arcadia--a tale of the love of a farm-labourer for\na girl who, though slightly above him in social station and education, is\nyet herself also a servant on a farm. True Arcadians they are, both of\nthem, and their ignorance and isolation serve only to intensify the\ntragedy that gives the story its title. It is the fashion nowadays to\nlabel literature, so, no doubt, Mrs. Woods\'s novel will be spoken of as\n\'realistic.\' Its realism, however, is the realism of the artist, not of\nthe reporter; its tact of treatment, subtlety of perception, and fine\ndistinction of style, make it rather a poem than a proces-verbal; and\nthough it lays bare to us the mere misery of life, it suggests something\nof life\'s mystery also. Very delicate, too, is the handling of external\nNature. There are no formal guide-book descriptions of scenery, nor\nanything of what Byron petulantly called \'twaddling about trees,\' but we\nseem to breathe the atmosphere of the country, to catch the exquisite\nscent of the beanfields, so familiar to all who have ever wandered\nthrough the Oxfordshire lanes in June; to hear the birds singing in the\nthicket, and the sheep-bells tinkling from the hill. Characterisation,\nthat enemy of literary form, is such an essential part of the method of\nthe modern writer of fiction, that Nature has almost become to the\nnovelist what light and shade are to the painter--the one permanent\nelement of style; and if the power of A Village Tragedy be due to its\nportrayal of human life, no small portion of its charm comes from its\nTheocritean setting.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIt is, however, not merely in fiction and in poetry that the women of\nthis century are making their mark. Their appearance amongst the\nprominent speakers at the Church Congress, some weeks ago, was in itself\na very remarkable proof of the growing influence of women\'s opinions on\nall matters connected with the elevation of our national life, and the\namelioration of our social conditions. When the Bishops left the\nplatform to their wives, it may be said that a new era began, and the\nchange will, no doubt, be productive of much good. The Apostolic dictum,\nthat women should not be suffered to teach, is no longer applicable to a\nsociety such as ours, with its solidarity of interests, its recognition\nof natural rights, and its universal education, however suitable it may\nhave been to the Greek cities under Roman rule. Nothing in the United\nStates struck me more than the fact that the remarkable intellectual\nprogress of that country is very largely due to the efforts of American\nwomen, who edit many of the most powerful magazines and newspapers, take\npart in the discussion of every question of public interest, and exercise\nan important influence upon the growth and tendencies of literature and\nart. Indeed, the women of America are the one class in the community\nthat enjoys that leisure which is so necessary for culture. The men are,\nas a rule, so absorbed in business, that the task of bringing some\nelement of form into the chaos of daily life is left almost entirely to\nthe opposite sex, and an eminent Bostonian once assured me that in the\ntwentieth century the whole culture of his country would be in\npetticoats. By that time, however, it is probable that the dress of the\ntwo sexes will be assimilated, as similarity of costume always follows\nsimilarity of pursuits.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIn a recent article in La France, M. Sarcey puts this point very well.\nThe further we advance, he says, the more apparent does it become that\nwomen are to take their share as bread-winners in the world. The task is\nno longer monopolised by men, and will, perhaps, be equally shared by the\nsexes in another hundred years. It will be necessary, however, for women\nto invent a suitable costume, as their present style of dress is quite\ninappropriate to any kind of mechanical labour, and must be radically\nchanged before they can compete with men upon their own ground. As to\nthe question of desirability, M. Sarcey refuses to speak. \'I shall not\nsee the end of this revolution,\' he remarks, \'and I am glad of it.\' But,\nas is pointed out in a very sensible article in the Daily News, there is\nno doubt that M. Sarcey has reason and common-sense on his side with\nregard to the absolute unsuitability of ordinary feminine attire to any\nsort of handicraft, or even to any occupation which necessitates a daily\nwalk to business and back again in all kinds of weather. Women\'s dress\ncan easily be modified and adapted to any exigencies of the kind; but\nmost women refuse to modify or adapt it. They must follow the fashion,\nwhether it be convenient or the reverse. And, after all, what is a\nfashion? From the artistic point of view, it is usually a form of\nugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months. From\nthe point of view of science, it not unfrequently violates every law of\nhealth, every principle of hygiene. While from the point of view of\nsimple ease and comfort, it is not too much to say that, with the\nexception of M. Felix\'s charming tea-gowns, and a few English tailor-made\ncostumes, there is not a single form of really fashionable dress that can\nbe worn without a certain amount of absolute misery to the wearer. The\ncontortion of the feet of the Chinese beauty, said Dr. Naftel at the last\nInternational Medical Congress, held at Washington, is no more barbarous\nor unnatural than the panoply of the femme du monde.\n\nAnd yet how sensible is the dress of the London milk-woman, of the Irish\nor Scotch fishwife, of the North-Country factory-girl! An attempt was\nmade recently to prevent the pit-women from working, on the ground that\ntheir costume was unsuited to their sex, but it is really only the idle\nclasses who dress badly. Wherever physical labour of any kind is\nrequired, the costume used is, as a rule, absolutely right, for labour\nnecessitates freedom, and without freedom there is no such thing as\nbeauty in dress at all. In fact, the beauty of dress depends on the\nbeauty of the human figure, and whatever limits, constrains, and\nmutilates is essentially ugly, though the eyes of many are so blinded by\ncustom that they do not notice the ugliness till it has become\nunfashionable.\n\nWhat women\'s dress will be in the future it is difficult to say. The\nwriter of the Daily News article is of opinion that skirts will always be\nworn as distinctive of the sex, and it is obvious that men\'s dress, in\nits present condition, is not by any means an example of a perfectly\nrational costume. It is more than probable, however, that the dress of\nthe twentieth century will emphasise distinctions of occupation, not\ndistinctions of sex.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIt is hardly too much to say that, by the death of the author of John\nHalifax, Gentleman, our literature has sustained a heavy loss. Mrs.\nCraik was one of the finest of our women-writers, and though her art had\nalways what Keats called \'a palpable intention upon one,\' still its\nimaginative qualities were of no mean order. There is hardly one of her\nbooks that has not some distinction of style; there is certainly not one\nof them that does not show an ardent love of all that is beautiful and\ngood in life. The good she, perhaps, loved somewhat more than the\nbeautiful, but her heart had room for both. Her first novel appeared in\n1849, the year of the publication of Charlotte Bronte\'s Jane Eyre, and\nMrs. Gaskell\'s Ruth, and her last work was done for the magazine which I\nhave the honour to edit. She was very much interested in the scheme for\nthe foundation of the Woman\'s World, suggested its title, and promised to\nbe one of its warmest supporters. One article from her pen is already in\nproof and will appear next month, and in a letter I received from her, a\nfew days before she died, she told me that she had almost finished a\nsecond, to be called Between Schooldays and Marriage. Few women have\nenjoyed a greater popularity than Mrs. Craik, or have better deserved it.\nIt is sometimes said that John Halifax is not a real man, but only a\nwoman\'s ideal of a man. Well, let us be grateful for such ideals. No\none can read the story of which John Halifax is the hero without being\nthe better for it. Mrs. Craik will live long in the affectionate memory\nof all who knew her, and one of her novels, at any rate, will always have\na high and honourable place in English fiction. Indeed, for simple\nnarrative power, some of the chapters of John Halifax, Gentleman, are\nalmost unequalled in our prose literature.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe news of the death of Lady Brassey has been also received by the\nEnglish people with every expression of sorrow and sympathy. Though her\nbooks were not remarkable for any perfection of literary style, they had\nthe charm of brightness, vivacity, and unconventionality. They revealed\na fascinating personality, and their touches of domesticity made them\nclassics in many an English household. In all modern movements Lady\nBrassey took a keen interest. She gained a first-class certificate in\nthe South Kensington School of Cookery, scullery department and all; was\none of the most energetic members of the St. John\'s Ambulance\nAssociation, many branches of which she succeeded in founding; and,\nwhether at Normanhurst or in Park Lane, always managed to devote some\nportion of her day to useful and practical work. It is sad to have to\nchronicle in the first number of the Woman\'s World the death of two of\nthe most remarkable Englishwomen of our day.\n\n(1) Memoirs of Wilhelmine Margravine of Baireuth. Translated and edited\nby Her Royal Highness Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess\nof Great Britain and Ireland. (David Stott.)\n\n(2) Women\'s Voices: An Anthology of the most Characteristic Poems by\nEnglish, Scotch, and Irish Women. Selected, edited, and arranged by Mrs.\nWilliam Sharp. (Walter Scott.)\n\n(3) A Village Tragedy. By Margaret L. Woods. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. MAHAFFY\'S NEW BOOK\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 9, 1887.)\n\nMr. Mahaffy\'s new book will be a great disappointment to everybody except\nthe Paper-Unionists and the members of the Primrose League. His subject,\nthe history of Greek Life and Thought: from the Age of Alexander to the\nRoman Conquest, is extremely interesting, but the manner in which the\nsubject is treated is quite unworthy of a scholar, nor can there be\nanything more depressing than Mr. Mahaffy\'s continual efforts to degrade\nhistory to the level of the ordinary political pamphlet of contemporary\nparty warfare. There is, of course, no reason why Mr. Mahaffy should be\ncalled upon to express any sympathy with the aspirations of the old Greek\ncities for freedom and autonomy. The personal preferences of modern\nhistorians on these points are matters of no import whatsoever. But in\nhis attempts to treat the Hellenic world as \'Tipperary writ large,\' to\nuse Alexander the Great as a means of whitewashing Mr. Smith, and to\nfinish the battle of Chaeronea on the plains of Mitchelstown, Mr. Mahaffy\nshows an amount of political bias and literary blindness that is quite\nextraordinary. He might have made his book a work of solid and enduring\ninterest, but he has chosen to give it a merely ephemeral value and to\nsubstitute for the scientific temper of the true historian the prejudice,\nthe flippancy, and the violence of the platform partisan. For the\nflippancy parallels can, no doubt, be found in some of Mr. Mahaffy\'s\nearlier books, but the prejudice and the violence are new, and their\nappearance is very much to be regretted. There is always something\npeculiarly impotent about the violence of a literary man. It seems to\nbear no reference to facts, for it is never kept in check by action. It\nis simply a question of adjectives and rhetoric, of exaggeration and over-\nemphasis. Mr. Balfour is very anxious that Mr. William O\'Brien should\nwear prison clothes, sleep on a plank bed, and be subjected to other\nindignities, but Mr. Mahaffy goes far beyond such mild measures as these,\nand begins his history by frankly expressing his regret that Demosthenes\nwas not summarily put to death for his attempt to keep the spirit of\npatriotism alive among the citizens of Athens! Indeed, he has no\npatience with what he calls \'the foolish and senseless opposition to\nMacedonia\'; regards the revolt of the Spartans against \'Alexander\'s Lord\nLieutenant for Greece\' as an example of \'parochial politics\'; indulges in\nPrimrose League platitudes against a low franchise and the iniquity of\nallowing \'every pauper\' to have a vote; and tells us that the\n\'demagogues\' and \'pretended patriots\' were so lost to shame that they\nactually preached to the parasitic mob of Athens the doctrine of\nautonomy--\'not now extinct,\' Mr. Mahaffy adds regretfully--and\npropounded, as a principle of political economy, the curious idea that\npeople should be allowed to manage their own affairs! As for the\npersonal character of the despots, Mr. Mahaffy admits that if he had to\njudge by the accounts in the Greek historians, from Herodotus downwards,\nhe \'would certainly have said that the ineffaceable passion for autonomy,\nwhich marks every epoch of Greek history, and every canton within its\nlimits, must have arisen from the excesses committed by the officers of\nforeign potentates, or local tyrants,\' but a careful study of the\ncartoons published in United Ireland has convinced him \'that a ruler may\nbe the soberest, the most conscientious, the most considerate, and yet\nhave terrible things said of him by mere political malcontents.\' In\nfact, since Mr. Balfour has been caricatured, Greek history must be\nentirely rewritten! This is the pass to which the distinguished\nprofessor of a distinguished university has been brought. Nor can\nanything equal Mr. Mahaffy\'s prejudice against the Greek patriots, unless\nit be his contempt for those few fine Romans who, sympathising with\nHellenic civilisation and culture, recognised the political value of\nautonomy and the intellectual importance of a healthy national life. He\nmocks at what he calls their \'vulgar mawkishness about Greek liberties,\ntheir anxiety to redress historical wrongs,\' and congratulates his\nreaders that this feeling was not intensified by the remorse that their\nown forefathers had been the oppressors. Luckily, says Mr. Mahaffy, the\nold Greeks had conquered Troy, and so the pangs of conscience which now\nso deeply afflict a Gladstone and a Morley for the sins of their\nancestors could hardly affect a Marcius or a Quinctius! It is quite\nunnecessary to comment on the silliness and bad taste of passages of this\nkind, but it is interesting to note that the facts of history are too\nstrong even for Mr. Mahaffy. In spite of his sneers at the provinciality\nof national feeling and his vague panegyrics on cosmopolitan culture, he\nis compelled to admit that \'however patriotism may be superseded in stray\nindividuals by larger benevolence, bodies of men who abandon it will only\nreplace it by meaner motives,\' and cannot help expressing his regret that\nthe better classes among the Greek communities were so entirely devoid of\npublic spirit that they squandered \'as idle absentees, or still idler\nresidents, the time and means given them to benefit their country,\' and\nfailed to recognise their opportunity of founding a Hellenic Federal\nEmpire. Even when he comes to deal with art, he cannot help admitting\nthat the noblest sculpture of the time was that which expressed the\nspirit of the first great _national_ struggle, the repulse of the Gallic\nhordes which overran Greece in 278 B.C., and that to the patriotic\nfeeling evoked at this crisis we owe the Belvedere Apollo, the Artemis of\nthe Vatican, the Dying Gaul, and the finest achievements of the Perganene\nschool. In literature, also, Mr. Mahaffy is loud in his lamentations\nover what he considers to be the shallow society tendencies of the new\ncomedy, and misses the fine freedom of Aristophanes, with his intense\npatriotism, his vital interest in politics, his large issues and his\ndelight in vigorous national life. He confesses the decay of oratory\nunder the blighting influences of imperialism, and the sterility of those\npedantic disquisitions upon style which are the inevitable consequence of\nthe lack of healthy subject-matter. Indeed, on the last page of his\nhistory Mr. Mahaffy makes a formal recantation of most of his political\nprejudices. He is still of opinion that Demosthenes should have been put\nto death for resisting the Macedonian invasion, but admits that the\nimperialism of Rome, which followed the imperialism of Alexander,\nproduced incalculable mischief, beginning with intellectual decay, and\nending with financial ruin. \'The touch of Rome,\' he says, \'numbed Greece\nand Egypt, Syria and Asia Minor, and if there are great buildings\nattesting the splendour of the Empire, where are the signs of\nintellectual and moral vigour, if we except that stronghold of\nnationality, the little land of Palestine?\' This palinode is, no doubt,\nintended to give a plausible air of fairness to the book, but such a\ndeath-bed repentance comes too late, and makes the whole preceding\nhistory seem not fair but foolish.\n\nIt is a relief to turn to the few chapters that deal directly with the\nsocial life and thought of the Greeks. Here Mr. Mahaffy is very pleasant\nreading indeed. His account of the colleges at Athens and Alexandria,\nfor instance, is extremely interesting, and so is his estimate of the\nschools of Zeno, of Epicurus, and of Pyrrho. Excellent, too, in many\npoints is the description of the literature and art of the period. We do\nnot agree with Mr. Mahaffy in his panegyric of the Laocoon, and we are\nsurprised to find a writer, who is very indignant at what he considers to\nbe the modern indifference to Alexandrine poetry, gravely stating that no\nstudy is \'more wearisome and profitless\' than that of the Greek\nAnthology.\n\nThe criticism of the new comedy, also, seems to us somewhat pedantic. The\naim of social comedy, in Menander no less than in Sheridan, is to mirror\nthe manners, not to reform the morals, of its day, and the censure of the\nPuritan, whether real or affected, is always out of place in literary\ncriticism, and shows a want of recognition of the essential distinction\nbetween art and life. After all, it is only the Philistine who thinks of\nblaming Jack Absolute for his deception, Bob Acres for his cowardice, and\nCharles Surface for his extravagance, and there is very little use in\nairing one\'s moral sense at the expense of one\'s artistic appreciation.\nValuable, also, though modernity of expression undoubtedly is, still it\nrequires to be used with tact and judgment. There is no objection to Mr.\nMahaffy\'s describing Philopoemen as the Garibaldi, and Antigonus Doson as\nthe Victor Emmanuel of his age. Such comparisons have, no doubt, a\ncertain cheap popular value. But, on the other hand, a phrase like\n\'Greek Pre-Raphaelitism\' is rather awkward; not much is gained by\ndragging in an allusion to Mr. Shorthouse\'s John Inglesant in a\ndescription of the Argonautics of Apollonius Rhodius; and when we are\ntold that the superb Pavilion erected in Alexandria by Ptolemy\nPhiladelphus was a \'sort of glorified Holborn Restaurant,\' we must say\nthat the elaborate description of the building given in Athenaeus could\nhave been summed up in a better and a more intelligible epigram.\n\nOn the whole, however, Mr. Mahaffy\'s book may have the effect of drawing\nattention to a very important and interesting period in the history of\nHellenism. We can only regret that, just as he has spoiled his account\nof Greek politics by a foolish partisan bias, so he should have marred\nthe value of some of his remarks on literature by a bias that is quite as\nunmeaning. It is uncouth and harsh to say that \'the superannuated\nschoolboy who holds fellowships and masterships at English colleges\'\nknows nothing of the period in question except what he reads in\nTheocritus, or that a man may be considered in England a distinguished\nGreek professor \'who does not know a single date in Greek history between\nthe death of Alexander and the battle of Cynoscephalae\'; and the\nstatement that Lucian, Plutarch, and the four Gospels are excluded from\nEnglish school and college studies in consequence of the pedantry of\n\'pure scholars, as they are pleased to call themselves,\' is, of course,\nquite inaccurate. In fact, not merely does Mr. Mahaffy miss the spirit\nof the true historian, but he often seems entirely devoid of the temper\nof the true man of letters. He is clever, and, at times, even brilliant,\nbut he lacks reasonableness, moderation, style and charm. He seems to\nhave no sense of literary proportion, and, as a rule, spoils his case by\noverstating it. With all his passion for imperialism, there is something\nabout Mr. Mahaffy that is, if not parochial, at least provincial, and we\ncannot say that this last book of his will add anything to his reputation\neither as an historian, a critic, or a man of taste.\n\nGreek Life and Thought: from the Age of Alexander to the Roman Conquest.\nBy J. P. Mahaffy, Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. MORRIS\'S COMPLETION OF THE ODYSSEY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 24, 1887.)\n\nMr. Morris\'s second volume brings the great romantic epic of Greek\nliterature to its perfect conclusion, and although there can never be an\nultimate translation of either Iliad or Odyssey, as each successive age\nis sure to find pleasure in rendering the two poems in its own manner and\naccording to its own canons of taste, still it is not too much to say\nthat Mr. Morris\'s version will always be a true classic amongst our\nclassical translations. It is not, of course, flawless. In our notice\nof the first volume we ventured to say that Mr. Morris was sometimes far\nmore Norse than Greek, nor does the volume that now lies before us make\nus alter that opinion. The particular metre, also, selected by Mr.\nMorris, although admirably adapted to express \'the strong-winged music of\nHomer,\' as far as its flow and freedom are concerned, misses something of\nits dignity and calm. Here, it must be admitted, we feel a distinct\nloss, for there is in Homer not a little of Milton\'s lofty manner, and if\nswiftness be an essential of the Greek hexameter, stateliness is one of\nits distinguishing qualities in Homer\'s hands. This defect, however, if\nwe must call it a defect, seems almost unavoidable, as for certain\nmetrical reasons a majestic movement in English verse is necessarily a\nslow movement; and, after all that can be said is said, how really\nadmirable is this whole translation! If we set aside its noble qualities\nas a poem and look on it purely from the scholar\'s point of view, how\nstraightforward it is, how honest and direct! Its fidelity to the\noriginal is far beyond that of any other verse-translation in our\nliterature, and yet it is not the fidelity of a pedant to his text but\nrather the fine loyalty of poet to poet.\n\nWhen Mr. Morris\'s first volume appeared many of the critics complained\nthat his occasional use of archaic words and unusual expressions robbed\nhis version of the true Homeric simplicity. This, however, is not a very\nfelicitous criticism, for while Homer is undoubtedly simple in his\nclearness and largeness of vision, his wonderful power of direct\nnarration, his wholesome sanity, and the purity and precision of his\nmethod, simple in language he undoubtedly is not. What he was to his\ncontemporaries we have, of course, no means of judging, but we know that\nthe Athenian of the fifth century B.C. found him in many places difficult\nto understand, and when the creative age was succeeded by the age of\ncriticism and Alexandria began to take the place of Athens as the centre\nof culture for the Hellenistic world, Homeric dictionaries and glossaries\nseem to have been constantly published. Indeed, Athenaeus tells us of a\nwonderful Byzantine blue-stocking, a precieuse from the Propontis, who\nwrote a long hexameter poem, called Mnemosyne, full of ingenious\ncommentaries on difficulties in Homer, and in fact, it is evident that,\nas far as the language is concerned, such a phrase as \'Homeric\nsimplicity\' would have rather amazed an ancient Greek. As for Mr.\nMorris\'s tendency to emphasise the etymological meaning of words, a point\ncommented on with somewhat flippant severity in a recent number of\nMacmillan\'s Magazine, here Mr. Morris seems to us to be in complete\naccord, not merely with the spirit of Homer, but with the spirit of all\nearly poetry. It is quite true that language is apt to degenerate into a\nsystem of almost algebraic symbols, and the modern city-man who takes a\nticket for Blackfriars Bridge, naturally never thinks of the Dominican\nmonks who once had their monastery by Thames-side, and after whom the\nspot is named. But in earlier times it was not so. Men were then keenly\nconscious of the real meaning of words, and early poetry, especially, is\nfull of this feeling, and, indeed, may be said to owe to it no small\nportion of its poetic power and charm. These old words, then, and this\nold use of words which we find in Mr. Morris\'s Odyssey can be amply\njustified upon historical grounds, and as for their artistic effect, it\nis quite excellent. Pope tried to put Homer into the ordinary language\nof his day, with what result we know only too well; but Mr. Morris, who\nuses his archaisms with the tact of a true artist, and to whom indeed\nthey seem to come absolutely naturally, has succeeded in giving to his\nversion by their aid that touch, not of \'quaintness,\' for Homer is never\nquaint, but of old-world romance and old-world beauty, which we moderns\nfind so pleasurable, and to which the Greeks themselves were so keenly\nsensitive.\n\nAs for individual passages of special merit, Mr. Morris\'s translation is\nno robe of rags sewn with purple patches for critics to sample. Its real\nvalue lies in the absolute rightness and coherence of the whole, in the\ngrand architecture of the swift, strong verse, and in the fact that the\nstandard is not merely high but everywhere sustained. It is impossible,\nhowever, to resist the temptation of quoting Mr. Morris\'s rendering of\nthat famous passage in the twenty-third book of the epic, in which\nOdysseus eludes the trap laid for him by Penelope, whose very faith in\nthe certainty of her husband\'s return makes her sceptical of his identity\nwhen he stands before her; an instance, by the way, of Homer\'s wonderful\npsychological knowledge of human nature, as it is always the dreamer\nhimself who is most surprised when his dream comes true.\n\n Thus she spake to prove her husband; but Odysseus, grieved at heart,\n Spake thus unto his bed-mate well-skilled in gainful art:\n \'O woman, thou sayest a word exceeding grievous to me!\n Who hath otherwhere shifted my bedstead? full hard for him should it\n be,\n For as deft as he were, unless soothly a very God come here,\n Who easily, if he willed it, might shift it otherwhere.\n But no mortal man is living, how strong soe\'er in his youth,\n Who shall lightly hale it elsewhere, since a mighty wonder forsooth\n Is wrought in that fashioned bedstead, and I wrought it, and I alone.\n In the close grew a thicket of olive, a long-leaved tree full-grown,\n That flourished and grew goodly as big as a pillar about,\n So round it I built my bride-room, till I did the work right out\n With ashlar stone close-fitting; and I roofed it overhead,\n And thereto joined doors I made me, well-fitting in their stead.\n Then I lopped away the boughs of the long-leafed olive-tree,\n And shearing the bole from the root up full well and cunningly,\n I planed it about with the brass, and set the rule thereto,\n And shaping thereof a bed-post, with the wimble I bored it through.\n So beginning, I wrought out the bedstead, and finished it utterly,\n And with gold enwrought it about, and with silver and ivory,\n And stretched on it a thong of oxhide with the purple dye made bright.\n Thus then the sign I have shown thee; nor, woman, know I aright\n If my bed yet bideth steadfast, or if to another place\n Some man hath moved it, and smitten the olive-bole from its base.\'\n\nThese last twelve books of the Odyssey have not the same marvel of\nromance, adventure and colour that we find in the earlier part of the\nepic. There is nothing in them that we can compare to the exquisite\nidyll of Nausicaa or to the Titanic humour of the episode in the Cyclops\'\ncave. Penelope has not the glamour of Circe, and the song of the Sirens\nmay sound sweeter than the whizz of the arrows of Odysseus as he stands\non the threshold of his hall. Yet, for sheer intensity of passionate\npower, for concentration of intellectual interest and for masterly\ndramatic construction, these latter books are quite unequalled. Indeed,\nthey show very clearly how it was that, as Greek art developed, the epos\npassed into the drama. The whole scheme of the argument, the return of\nthe hero in disguise, his disclosure of himself to his son, his terrible\nvengeance on his enemies and his final recognition by his wife, reminds\nus of the plot of more than one Greek play, and shows us what the great\nAthenian poet meant when he said that his own dramas were merely scraps\nfrom Homer\'s table. In rendering this splendid poem into English verse,\nMr. Morris has done our literature a service that can hardly be\nover-estimated, and it is pleasant to think that, even should the\nclassics be entirely excluded from our educational systems, the English\nboy will still be able to know something of Homer\'s delightful tales, to\ncatch an echo of his grand music and to wander with the wise Odysseus\nround \'the shores of old romance.\'\n\nThe Odyssey of Homer. Done into English Verse by William Morris, Author\nof The Earthly Paradise. Volume II. (Reeves and Turner.)\n\n\n\n\nSIR CHARLES BOWEN\'S VIRGIL\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 30, 1887.)\n\nSir Charles Bowen\'s translation of the Eclogues and the first six books\nof the AEneid is hardly the work of a poet, but it is a very charming\nversion for all that, combining as it does the fine loyalty and learning\nof a scholar with the graceful style of a man of letters, two essential\nqualifications for any one who would render in English verse the\npicturesque pastorals of Italian provincial life, or the stately and\npolished epic of Imperial Rome. Dryden was a true poet, but, for some\nreason or other, he failed to catch the real Virgilian spirit. His own\nqualities became defects when he accepted the task of a translator. He\nis too robust, too manly, too strong. He misses Virgil\'s strange and\nsubtle sweetness and has but little of his exquisite melody. Professor\nConington, on the other hand, was an admirable and painstaking scholar,\nbut he was so entirely devoid of literary tact and artistic insight that\nhe thought that the majesty of Virgil could be rendered in the jingling\nmanner of Marmion, and though there is certainly far more of the mediaeval\nknight than of the moss-trooper about AEneas, even Mr. Morris\'s version\nis not by any means perfect. Compared with professor Conington\'s bad\nballad it is, of course, as gold to brass; considered simply as a poem it\nhas noble and enduring qualities of beauty, music and strength; but it\nhardly conveys to us the sense that the AEneid is the literary epic of a\nliterary age. There is more of Homer in it than of Virgil, and the\nordinary reader would hardly realise from the flow and spirit of its\nswinging lines that Virgil was a self-conscious artist, the Laureate of a\ncultured Court. The AEneid bears almost the same relation to the Iliad\nthat the Idylls of the King do to the old Celtic romances of Arthur. Like\nthem it is full of felicitous modernisms, of exquisite literary echoes\nand of delicate and delightful pictures; as Lord Tennyson loves England\nso did Virgil love Rome; the pageants of history and the purple of empire\nare equally dear to both poets; but neither of them has the grand\nsimplicity or the large humanity of the early singers, and, as a hero,\nAEneas is no less a failure than Arthur. Sir Charles Bowen\'s version\nhardly gives us this peculiar literary quality of Virgil\'s verse, and,\nnow and then, it reminds us, by some awkward inversion, of the fact that\nit is a translation; still, on the whole, it is extremely pleasant to\nread, and, if it does not absolutely mirror Virgil, it at least brings us\nmany charming memories of him.\n\nThe metre Sir Charles Bowen has selected is a form of English hexameter,\nwith the final dissyllable shortened into a foot of a single syllable\nonly. It is, of course, accentual not quantitative, and though it misses\nthat element of sustained strength which is given by the dissyllabic\nending of the Latin verse, and has consequently a tendency to fall into\ncouplets, the increased facility of rhyming gained by the change is of no\nsmall value. To any English metre that aims at swiftness of movement\nrhyme seems to be an absolute essential, and there are not enough double\nrhymes in our language to admit of the retention of this final\ndissyllabic foot.\n\nAs an example of Sir Charles Bowen\'s method we would take his rendering\nof the famous passage in the fifth Eclogue on the death of Daphnis:\n\n All of the nymphs went weeping for Daphnis cruelly slain:\n Ye were witnesses, hazels and river waves, of the pain\n When to her son\'s sad body the mother clave with a cry,\n Calling the great gods cruel, and cruel the stars of the sky.\n None upon those dark days their pastured oxen did lead,\n Daphnis, to drink of the cold clear rivulet; never a steed\n Tasted the flowing waters, or cropped one blade in the mead.\n Over thy grave how the lions of Carthage roared in despair,\n Daphnis, the echoes of mountain wild and of forest declare.\n Daphnis was first who taught us to guide, with a chariot rein,\n Far Armenia\'s tigers, the chorus of Iacchus to train,\n Led us with foliage waving the pliant spear to entwine.\n As to the tree her vine is a glory, her grapes to the vine,\n Bull to the horned herd, and the corn to a fruitful plain,\n Thou to thine own wert beauty; and since fate robbed us of thee,\n Pales herself, and Apollo are gone from meadow and lea.\n\n\'Calling the great gods cruel, and cruel the stars of the sky\' is a very\nfelicitous rendering of \'Atque deos atque astra vocat crudelia mater,\'\nand so is \'Thou to thine own wert beauty\' for \'Tu decus omne tuis.\' This\npassage, too, from the fourth book of the AEneid is good:\n\n Now was the night. Tired limbs upon earth were folded to sleep,\n Silent the forests and fierce sea-waves; in the firmament deep\n Midway rolled heaven\'s stars; no sound on the meadow stirred;\n Every beast of the field, each bright-hued feathery bird\n Haunting the limpid lakes, or the tangled briary glade,\n Under the silent night in sleep were peacefully laid:\n All but the grieving Queen. She yields her never to rest,\n Takes not the quiet night to her eyelids or wearied breast.\n\nAnd this from the sixth book is worth quoting:\n\n \'Never again such hopes shall a youth of the lineage of Troy\n Rouse in his great forefathers of Latium! Never a boy\n Nobler pride shall inspire in the ancient Romulus land!\n Ah, for his filial love! for his old-world faith! for his hand\n Matchless in battle! Unharmed what foemen had offered to stand\n Forth in his path, when charging on foot for the enemy\'s ranks\n Or when plunging the spur in his foam-flecked courser\'s flanks!\n Child of a nation\'s sorrow! if thou canst baffle the Fates\'\n Bitter decrees, and break for a while their barrier gates,\n Thine to become Marcellus! I pray thee bring me anon\n Handfuls of lilies, that I bright flowers may strew on my son,\n Heap on the shade of the boy unborn these gifts at the least,\n Doing the dead, though vainly, the last sad service.\'\n He ceased.\n\n\'Thine to become Marcellus\' has hardly the simple pathos of \'Tu Marcellus\neris,\' but \'Child of a nation\'s sorrow\' is a graceful rendering of \'Heu,\nmiserande puer.\' Indeed, there is a great deal of feeling in the whole\ntranslation, and the tendency of the metre to run into couplets, of which\nwe have spoken before, is corrected to a certain degree in the passage\nquoted above from the Eclogues by the occasional use of the triplet, as,\nelsewhere, by the introduction of alternate, not successive, rhymes.\n\nSir Charles Bowen is to be congratulated on the success of his version.\nIt has both style and fidelity to recommend it. The metre he has chosen\nseems to us more suited to the sustained majesty of the AEneid than it is\nto the pastoral note of the Eclogues. It can bring us something of the\nstrength of the lyre but has hardly caught the sweetness of the pipe.\nStill, it is in many points a very charming translation, and we gladly\nwelcome it as a most valuable addition to the literature of echoes.\n\nVirgil in English Verse. Eclogues and AEneid I.-VI. By the Right Hon.\nSir Charles Bowen, one of Her Majesty\'s Lords Justices of Appeal. (John\nMurray.)\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--II\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, December 1887.)\n\nLady Bellairs\'s Gossips with Girls and Maidens contains some very\ninteresting essays, and a quite extraordinary amount of useful\ninformation on all matters connected with the mental and physical\ntraining of women. It is very difficult to give good advice without\nbeing irritating, and almost impossible to be at once didactic and\ndelightful; but Lady Bellairs manages very cleverly to steer a middle\ncourse between the Charybdis of dulness and the Scylla of flippancy.\nThere is a pleasing intimite about her style, and almost everything that\nshe says has both good sense and good humour to recommend it. Nor does\nshe confine herself to those broad generalisations on morals, which are\nso easy to make, so difficult to apply. Indeed, she seems to have a\nwholesome contempt for the cheap severity of abstract ethics, enters into\nthe most minute details for the guidance of conduct, and draws out\nelaborate lists of what girls should avoid, and what they should\ncultivate.\n\nHere are some specimens of \'What to Avoid\':--\n\n A loud, weak, affected, whining, harsh, or shrill tone of voice.\n Extravagancies in conversation--such phrases as \'Awfully this,\'\n \'Beastly that,\' \'Loads of time,\' \'Don\'t you know,\' \'hate\' for\n \'dislike,\' etc.\n Sudden exclamations of annoyance, surprise, or joy--often dangerously\n approaching to \'female swearing\'--as \'Bother!\' \'Gracious!\' \'How\n jolly!\'\n Yawning when listening to any one.\n Talking on family matters, even to your bosom friends.\n Attempting any vocal or instrumental piece of music that you cannot\n execute with ease.\n Crossing your letters.\n Making a short, sharp nod with the head, intended to do duty for a\n bow.\n All nonsense in the shape of belief in dreams, omens, presentiments,\n ghosts, spiritualism, palmistry, etc.\n Entertaining wild flights of the imagination, or empty idealistic\n aspirations.\n\nI am afraid that I have a good deal of sympathy with what are called\n\'empty idealistic aspirations\'; and \'wild flights of the imagination\' are\nso extremely rare in the nineteenth century that they seem to me\ndeserving rather of praise than of censure. The exclamation \'Bother!\'\nalso, though certainly lacking in beauty, might, I think, be permitted\nunder circumstances of extreme aggravation, such as, for instance, the\nrejection of a manuscript by the editor of a magazine; but in all other\nrespects the list seems to be quite excellent. As for \'What to\nCultivate,\' nothing could be better than the following:\n\n An unaffected, low, distinct, silver-toned voice.\n The art of pleasing those around you, and seeming pleased with them,\n and all they may do for you.\n The charm of making little sacrifices quite naturally, as if of no\n account to yourself.\n The habit of making allowances for the opinions, feelings, or\n prejudices of others.\n An erect carriage--that is, a sound body.\n A good memory for faces, and facts connected with them--thus avoiding\n giving offence through not recognising or bowing to people, or saying\n to them what had best been left unsaid.\n The art of listening without impatience to prosy talkers, and smiling\n at the twice-told tale or joke.\n\nI cannot help thinking that the last aphorism aims at too high a\nstandard. There is always a certain amount of danger in any attempt to\ncultivate impossible virtues. However, it is only fair to add that Lady\nBellairs recognises the importance of self-development quite as much as\nthe importance of self-denial; and there is a great deal of sound sense\nin everything that she says about the gradual growth and formation of\ncharacter. Indeed, those who have not read Aristotle upon this point\nmight with advantage read Lady Bellairs.\n\nMiss Constance Naden\'s little volume, A Modern Apostle and Other Poems,\nshows both culture and courage--culture in its use of language, courage\nin its selection of subject-matter. The modern apostle of whom Miss\nNaden sings is a young clergyman who preaches Pantheistic Socialism in\nthe Free Church of some provincial manufacturing town, converts\neverybody, except the woman whom he loves, and is killed in a street\nriot. The story is exceedingly powerful, but seems more suitable for\nprose than for verse. It is right that a poet should be full of the\nspirit of his age, but the external forms of modern life are hardly, as\nyet, expressive of that spirit. They are truths of fact, not truths of\nthe imagination, and though they may give the poet an opportunity for\nrealism, they often rob the poem of the reality that is so essential to\nit. Art, however, is a matter of result, not of theory, and if the fruit\nis pleasant, we should not quarrel about the tree. Miss Naden\'s work is\ndistinguished by rich imagery, fine colour, and sweet music, and these\nare things for which we should be grateful, wherever we find them. In\npoint of mere technical skill, her longer poems are the best; but some of\nthe shorter poems are very fascinating. This, for instance, is pretty:\n\n The copyist group was gathered round\n A time-worn fresco, world-renowned,\n Whose central glory once had been\n The face of Christ, the Nazarene.\n\n And every copyist of the crowd\n With his own soul that face endowed,\n Gentle, severe, majestic, mean;\n But which was Christ, the Nazarene?\n\n Then one who watched them made complaint,\n And marvelled, saying, \'Wherefore paint\n Till ye be sure your eyes have seen\n The face of Christ, the Nazarene?\'\n\nAnd this sonnet is full of suggestion:\n\n The wine-flushed monarch slept, but in his ear\n An angel breathed--\'Repent, or choose the flame\n Quenchless.\' In dread he woke, but not in shame,\n Deep musing--\'Sin I love, yet hell I fear.\'\n\n Wherefore he left his feasts and minions dear,\n And justly ruled, and died a saint in name.\n But when his hasting spirit heavenward came,\n A stern voice cried--\'O Soul! what dost thou here?\'\n\n \'Love I forswore, and wine, and kept my vow\n To live a just and joyless life, and now\n I crave reward.\' The voice came like a knell--\n \'Fool! dost thou hope to find again thy mirth,\n And those foul joys thou didst renounce on earth?\n Yea, enter in! My heaven shall be thy hell.\'\n\nMiss Constance Naden deserves a high place among our living poetesses,\nand this, as Mrs. Sharp has shown lately in her volume, entitled Women\'s\nVoices, is no mean distinction.\n\nPhyllis Browne\'s Life of Mrs. Somerville forms part of a very interesting\nlittle series, called \'The World\'s Workers\'--a collection of short\nbiographies catholic enough to include personalities so widely different\nas Turner and Richard Cobden, Handel and Sir Titus Salt, Robert\nStephenson and Florence Nightingale, and yet possessing a certain\ndefinite aim. As a mathematician and a scientist, the translator and\npopulariser of La Mecanique Celeste, and the author of an important book\non physical geography, Mrs. Somerville is, of course, well known. The\nscientific bodies of Europe covered her with honours; her bust stands in\nthe hall of the Royal Society, and one of the Women\'s Colleges at Oxford\nbears her name. Yet, considered simply in the light of a wife and a\nmother, she is no less admirable; and those who consider that stupidity\nis the proper basis for the domestic virtues, and that intellectual women\nmust of necessity be helpless with their hands, cannot do better than\nread Phyllis Browne\'s pleasant little book, in which they will find that\nthe greatest woman-mathematician of any age was a clever needlewoman, a\ngood housekeeper, and a most skilful cook. Indeed, Mrs. Somerville seems\nto have been quite renowned for her cookery. The discoverers of the\nNorth-West Passage christened an island \'Somerville,\' not as a tribute to\nthe distinguished mathematician, but as a recognition of the excellence\nof some orange marmalade which the distinguished mathematician had\nprepared with her own hands and presented to the ships before they left\nEngland; and to the fact that she was able to make currant jelly at a\nvery critical moment she owed the affection of some of her husband\'s\nrelatives, who up to that time had been rather prejudiced against her on\nthe ground that she was merely an unpractical Blue-stocking.\n\nNor did her scientific knowledge ever warp or dull the tenderness and\nhumanity of her nature. For birds and animals she had always a great\nlove. We hear of her as a little girl watching with eager eyes the\nswallows as they built their nests in summer or prepared for their flight\nin the autumn; and when snow was on the ground she used to open the\nwindows to let the robins hop in and pick crumbs on the breakfast-table.\nOn one occasion she went with her father on a tour in the Highlands, and\nfound on her return that a pet goldfinch, which had been left in the\ncharge of the servants, had been neglected by them and had died of\nstarvation. She was almost heart-broken at the event, and in writing her\nRecollections, seventy years after, she mentioned it and said that, as\nshe wrote, she felt deep pain. Her chief pet in her old age was a\nmountain sparrow, which used to perch on her arm and go to sleep there\nwhile she was writing. One day the sparrow fell into the water-jug and\nwas drowned, to the great grief of its mistress who could hardly be\nconsoled for its loss, though later on we hear of a beautiful paroquet\ntaking the place of le moineau d\'Uranie, and becoming Mrs. Somerville\'s\nconstant companion. She was also very energetic, Phyllis Browne tells\nus, in trying to get a law passed in the Italian Parliament for the\nprotection of animals, and said once, with reference to this subject, \'We\nEnglish cannot boast of humanity so long as our sportsmen find pleasure\nin shooting down tame pigeons as they fly terrified out of a cage\'--a\nremark with which I entirely agree. Mr. Herbert\'s Bill for the\nprotection of land birds gave her immense pleasure, though, to quote her\nown words, she was \'grieved to find that "the lark, which at heaven\'s\ngate sings," is thought unworthy of man\'s protection\'; and she took a\ngreat fancy to a gentleman who, on being told of the number of singing\nbirds that is eaten in Italy--nightingales, goldfinches, and\nrobins--exclaimed in horror, \'What! robins! our household birds! I would\nas soon eat a child!\' Indeed, she believed to some extent in the\nimmortality of animals on the ground that, if animals have no future, it\nwould seem as if some were created for uncompensated misery--an idea\nwhich does not seem to me to be either extravagant or fantastic, though\nit must be admitted that the optimism on which it is based receives\nabsolutely no support from science.\n\nOn the whole, Phyllis Browne\'s book is very pleasant reading. Its only\nfault is that it is far too short, and this is a fault so rare in modern\nliterature that it almost amounts to a distinction. However, Phyllis\nBrowne has managed to crowd into the narrow limits at her disposal a\ngreat many interesting anecdotes. The picture she gives of Mrs.\nSomerville working away at her translation of Laplace in the same room\nwith her children is very charming, and reminds one of what is told of\nGeorge Sand; there is an amusing account of Mrs. Somerville\'s visit to\nthe widow of the young Pretender, the Countess of Albany, who, after\ntalking with her for some time, exclaimed, \'So you don\'t speak Italian.\nYou must have had a very bad education\'! And this story about the\nWaverley Novels may possibly be new to some of my readers:\n\n A very amusing circumstance in connection with Mrs. Somerville\'s\n acquaintance with Sir Walter arose out of the childish inquisitiveness\n of Woronzow Greig, Mrs. Somerville\'s little boy.\n\n During the time Mrs. Somerville was visiting Abbotsford the Waverley\n Novels were appearing, and were creating a great sensation; yet even\n Scott\'s intimate friends did not know that he was the author; he\n enjoyed keeping the affair a mystery. But little Woronzow discovered\n what he was about. One day when Mrs. Somerville was talking about a\n novel that had just been published, Woronzow said, \'I knew all these\n stories long ago, for Mr. Scott writes on the dinner-table; when he\n has finished he puts the green cloth with the papers in a corner of\n the dining-room, and when he goes out Charlie Scott and I read the\n stories.\'\n\nPhyllis Browne remarks that this incident shows \'that persons who want to\nkeep a secret ought to be very careful when children are about\'; but the\nstory seems to me to be far too charming to require any moral of the\nkind.\n\nBound up in the same volume is a Life of Miss Mary Carpenter, also\nwritten by Phyllis Browne. Miss Carpenter does not seem to me to have\nthe charm and fascination of Mrs. Somerville. There is always something\nabout her that is formal, limited, and precise. When she was about two\nyears old she insisted on being called \'Doctor Carpenter\' in the nursery;\nat the age of twelve she is described by a friend as a sedate little\ngirl, who always spoke like a book; and before she entered on her\neducational schemes she wrote down a solemn dedication of herself to the\nservice of humanity. However, she was one of the practical, hardworking\nsaints of the nineteenth century, and it is no doubt quite right that the\nsaints should take themselves very seriously. It is only fair also to\nremember that her work of rescue and reformation was carried on under\ngreat difficulties. Here, for instance, is the picture Miss Cobbe gives\nus of one of the Bristol night-schools:\n\n It was a wonderful spectacle to see Mary Carpenter sitting patiently\n before the large school gallery in St. James\'s Back, teaching,\n singing, and praying with the wild street-boys, in spite of endless\n interruptions caused by such proceedings as shooting marbles at any\n object behind her, whistling, stamping, fighting, shrieking out \'Amen\'\n in the middle of a prayer, and sometimes rising en masse and tearing\n like a troop of bisons in hob-nailed shoes down from the gallery,\n round the great schoolroom, and down the stairs, and into the street.\n These irrepressible outbreaks she bore with infinite good humour.\n\nHer own account is somewhat pleasanter, and shows that \'the troop of\nbisons in hob-nailed shoes\' was not always so barbarous.\n\n I had taken to my class on the preceding week some specimens of ferns\n neatly gummed on white paper. . . . This time I took a piece of coal-\n shale, with impressions of ferns, to show them. . . . I told each to\n examine the specimen, and tell me what he thought it was. W. gave so\n bright a smile that I saw he knew; none of the others could tell; he\n said they were ferns, like what I showed them last week, but he\n thought they were chiselled on the stone. Their surprise and pleasure\n were great when I explained the matter to them.\n\n The history of Joseph: they all found a difficulty in realising that\n this had actually occurred. One asked if Egypt existed now, and if\n people lived in it. When I told them that buildings now stood which\n had been erected about the time of Joseph, one said that it was\n impossible, as they must have fallen down ere this. I showed them the\n form of a pyramid, and they were satisfied. One asked if _all_ books\n were true.\n\n The story of Macbeth impressed them very much. They knew the name of\n Shakespeare, having seen his name over a public-house.\n\nA boy defined conscience as \'a thing a gentleman hasn\'t got, who, when a\nboy finds his purse and gives it back to him, doesn\'t give the boy\nsixpence.\'\n\nAnother boy was asked, after a Sunday evening lecture on \'Thankfulness,\'\nwhat pleasure he enjoyed most in the course of a year. He replied\ncandidly, \'Cock-fightin\', ma\'am; there\'s a pit up by the "Black Boy" as\nis worth anythink in Brissel.\'\n\nThere is something a little pathetic in the attempt to civilise the rough\nstreet-boy by means of the refining influence of ferns and fossils, and\nit is difficult to help feeling that Miss Carpenter rather overestimated\nthe value of elementary education. The poor are not to be fed upon\nfacts. Even Shakespeare and the Pyramids are not sufficient; nor is\nthere much use in giving them the results of culture, unless we also give\nthem those conditions under which culture can be realised. In these\ncold, crowded cities of the North, the proper basis for morals, using the\nword in its wide Hellenic signification, is to be found in architecture,\nnot in books.\n\nStill, it would be ungenerous not to recognise that Mary Carpenter gave\nto the children of the poor not merely her learning, but her love. In\nearly life, her biographer tells us, she had longed for the happiness of\nbeing a wife and a mother; but later she became content that her\naffection could be freely given to all who needed it, and the verse in\nthe prophecies, \'I have given thee children whom thou hast not borne,\'\nseemed to her to indicate what was to be her true mission. Indeed, she\nrather inclined to Bacon\'s opinion, that unmarried people do the best\npublic work. \'It is quite striking,\' she says in one of her letters, \'to\nobserve how much the useful power and influence of woman has developed of\nlate years. Unattached ladies, such as widows and unmarried women, have\nquite ample work to do in the world for the good of others to absorb all\ntheir powers. Wives and mothers have a very noble work given them by\nGod, and want no more.\' The whole passage is extremely interesting, and\nthe phrase \'unattached ladies\' is quite delightful, and reminds one of\nCharles Lamb.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIsmay\'s Children is by the clever authoress of that wonderful little\nstory Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor, a story which delighted the\nrealists by its truth, fascinated Mr. Ruskin by its beauty, and remains\nto the present day the most perfect picture of street-arab life in all\nEnglish prose fiction. The scene of the novel is laid in the south of\nIreland, and the plot is extremely dramatic and ingenious. Godfrey\nMauleverer, a reckless young Irishman, runs away with Ismay D\'Arcy, a\npretty, penniless governess, and is privately married to her in Scotland.\nSome time after the birth of her third child, Ismay died, and her\nhusband, who had never made his marriage public, nor taken any pains to\nestablish the legitimacy of his children, is drowned while yachting off\nthe coast of France. The care of Ismay\'s children then devolves on an\nold aunt, Miss Juliet D\'Arcy, who brings them back to Ireland to claim\ntheir inheritance for them. But a sudden stroke of paralysis deprives\nher of her memory, and she forgets the name of the little Scotch village\nin which Ismay\'s informal marriage took place. So Tighe O\'Malley holds\nBarrettstown, and Ismay\'s children live in an old mill close to the great\npark of which they are the rightful heirs. The boy, who is called\nGodfrey after his father, is a fascinating study, with his swarthy\nforeign beauty, his fierce moods of love and hate, his passionate pride,\nand his passionate tenderness. The account of his midnight ride to warn\nhis enemy of an impending attack of Moonlighters is most powerful and\nspirited; and it is pleasant to meet in modern fiction a character that\nhas all the fine inconsistencies of life, and is neither too fantastic an\nexception to be true, nor too ordinary a type to be common. Excellent\nalso, in its direct simplicity of rendering, is the picture of Miss\nJuliet D\'Arcy; and the scene in which, at the moment of her death, the\nold woman\'s memory returns to her is quite admirable, both in conception\nand in treatment. To me, however, the chief interest of the book lies in\nthe little lifelike sketches of Irish character with which it abounds.\nModern realistic art has not yet produced a Hamlet, but at least it may\nclaim to have studied Guildenstern and Rosencrantz very closely; and, for\npure fidelity and truth to nature, nothing could be better than the minor\ncharacters in Ismay\'s Children. Here we have the kindly old priest who\narranges all the marriages in his parish, and has a strong objection to\npeople who insist on making long confessions; the important young curate\nfresh from Maynooth, who gives himself more airs than a bishop, and has\nto be kept in order; the professional beggars, with their devout faith,\ntheir grotesque humour, and their incorrigible laziness; the shrewd\nshopkeeper, who imports arms in flour-barrels for the use of the\nMoonlighters and, as soon as he has got rid of them, gives information of\ntheir whereabouts to the police; the young men who go out at night to be\ndrilled by an Irish-American; the farmers with their wild land-hunger,\nbidding secretly against each other for every vacant field; the\ndispensary doctor, who is always regretting that he has not got a Trinity\nCollege degree; the plain girls, who want to go into convents; the pretty\ngirls, who want to get married; and the shopkeepers\' daughters, who want\nto be thought young ladies. There is a whole pell-mell of men and women,\na complete panorama of provincial life, an absolutely faithful picture of\nthe peasant in his own home. This note of realism in dealing with\nnational types of character has always been a distinguishing\ncharacteristic of Irish fiction, from the days of Miss Edgeworth down to\nour own days, and it is not difficult to see in Ismay\'s Children some\ntraces of the influence of Castle Rack-rent. I fear, however, that few\npeople read Miss Edgeworth nowadays, though both Scott and Tourgenieff\nacknowledged their indebtedness to her novels, and her style is always\nadmirable in its clearness and precision.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss Leffler-Arnim\'s statement, in a lecture delivered recently at St.\nSaviour\'s Hospital, that \'she had heard of instances where ladies were so\ndetermined not to exceed the fashionable measurement that they had\nactually held on to a cross-bar while their maids fastened the fifteen-\ninch corset,\' has excited a good deal of incredulity, but there is\nnothing really improbable in it. From the sixteenth century to our own\nday there is hardly any form of torture that has not been inflicted on\ngirls, and endured by women, in obedience to the dictates of an\nunreasonable and monstrous Fashion. \'In order to obtain a real Spanish\nfigure,\' says Montaigne, \'what a Gehenna of suffering will not women\nendure, drawn in and compressed by great coches entering the flesh; nay,\nsometimes they even die thereof.\' \'A few days after my arrival at\nschool,\' Mrs. Somerville tells us in her memoirs, \'although perfectly\nstraight and well made, I was enclosed in stiff stays, with a steel busk\nin front; while above my frock, bands drew my shoulders back till the\nshoulder-blades met. Then a steel rod with a semicircle, which went\nunder my chin, was clasped to the steel busk in my stays. In this\nconstrained state I and most of the younger girls had to prepare our\nlessons\'; and in the life of Miss Edgeworth we read that, being sent to a\ncertain fashionable establishment, \'she underwent all the usual tortures\nof back-boards, iron collars and dumbs, and also (because she was a very\ntiny person) the unusual one of being hung by the neck to draw out the\nmuscles and increase the growth,\' a signal failure in her case. Indeed,\ninstances of absolute mutilation and misery are so common in the past\nthat it is unnecessary to multiply them; but it is really sad to think\nthat in our own day a civilised woman can hang on to a cross-bar while\nher maid laces her waist into a fifteen-inch circle. To begin with, the\nwaist is not a circle at all, but an oval; nor can there be any greater\nerror than to imagine that an unnaturally small waist gives an air of\ngrace, or even of slightness; to the whole figure. Its effect, as a\nrule, is simply to exaggerate the width of the shoulders and the hips;\nand those whose figures possess that stateliness which is called\nstoutness by the vulgar, convert what is a quality into a defect by\nyielding to the silly edicts of Fashion on the subject of tight-lacing.\nThe fashionable English waist, also, is not merely far too small, and\nconsequently quite out of proportion to the rest of the figure, but it is\nworn far too low down. I use the expression \'worn\' advisedly, for a\nwaist nowadays seems to be regarded as an article of apparel to be put on\nwhen and where one likes. A long waist always implies shortness of the\nlower limbs, and, from the artistic point of view, has the effect of\ndiminishing the height; and I am glad to see that many of the most\ncharming women in Paris are returning to the idea of the Directoire style\nof dress. This style is not by any means perfect, but at least it has\nthe merit of indicating the proper position of the waist. I feel quite\nsure that all English women of culture and position will set their faces\nagainst such stupid and dangerous practices as are related by Miss\nLeffler-Arnim. Fashion\'s motto is: Il faut souffrir pour etre belle; but\nthe motto of art and of common-sense is: Il faut etre bete pour souffrir.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTalking of Fashion, a critic in the Pall Mall Gazette expresses his\nsurprise that I should have allowed an illustration of a hat, covered\nwith \'the bodies of dead birds,\' to appear in the first number of the\nWoman\'s World; and as I have received many letters on the subject, it is\nonly right that I should state my exact position in the matter. Fashion\nis such an essential part of the mundus muliebris of our day, that it\nseems to me absolutely necessary that its growth, development, and phases\nshould be duly chronicled; and the historical and practical value of such\na record depends entirely upon its perfect fidelity to fact. Besides, it\nis quite easy for the children of light to adapt almost any fashionable\nform of dress to the requirements of utility and the demands of good\ntaste. The Sarah Bernhardt tea-gown, for instance, figured in the\npresent issue, has many good points about it, and the gigantic\ndress-improver does not appear to me to be really essential to the mode;\nand though the Postillion costume of the fancy dress ball is absolutely\ndetestable in its silliness and vulgarity, the so-called Late Georgian\ncostume in the same plate is rather pleasing. I must, however, protest\nagainst the idea that to chronicle the development of Fashion implies any\napproval of the particular forms that Fashion may adopt.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMrs. Craik\'s article on the condition of the English stage will, I feel\nsure, be read with great interest by all who are watching the development\nof dramatic art in this country. It was the last thing written by the\nauthor of John Halifax, Gentleman, and reached me only a few days before\nher lamented death. That the state of things is such as Mrs. Craik\ndescribes, few will be inclined to deny; though, for my own part, I must\nacknowledge that I see more vulgarity than vice in the tendencies of the\nmodern stage; nor do I think it possible to elevate dramatic art by\nlimiting its subject-matter. On tue une litterature quand on lui\ninterdit la verite humaine. As far as the serious presentation of life\nis concerned, what we require is more imaginative treatment, greater\nfreedom from theatric language and theatric convention. It may be\nquestioned, also, whether the consistent reward of virtue and punishment\nof wickedness be really the healthiest ideal for an art that claims to\nmirror nature. However, it is impossible not to recognise the fine\nfeeling that actuates every line of Mrs. Craik\'s article; and though one\nmay venture to disagree with the proposed method, one cannot but\nsympathise with the purity and delicacy of the thought, and the high\nnobility of the aim.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe French Minister of Education, M. Spuller, has paid Racine a very\ngraceful and appropriate compliment, in naming after him the second\ncollege that has been opened in Paris for the higher education of girls.\nRacine was one of the privileged few who was allowed to read the\ncelebrated Traite de l\'Education des Filles before it appeared in print;\nhe was charged, along with Boileau, with the task of revising the text of\nthe constitution and rules of Madame de Maintenon\'s great college; it was\nfor the Demoiselles de St. Cyr that he composed Athalie; and he devoted a\ngreat deal of his time to the education of his own children. The Lycee\nRacine will, no doubt, become as important an institution as the Lycee\nFenelon, and the speech delivered by M. Spuller on the occasion of its\nopening was full of the happiest augury for the future. M. Spuller dwelt\nat great length on the value of Goethe\'s aphorism, that the test of a\ngood wife is her capacity to take her husband\'s place and to become a\nfather to his children, and mentioned that the thing that struck him most\nin America was the wonderful Brooklyn Bridge, a superb titanic structure,\nwhich was completed under the direction of the engineer\'s wife, the\nengineer himself having died while the building of the bridge was in\nprogress. \'Il me semble,\' said M. Spuller, \'que la femme de l\'ingenieur\ndu pont de Brooklyn a realise la pensee de Goethe, et que non seulement\nelle est devenue un pere pour ses enfants, mais un autre pere pour\nl\'oeuvre admirable, vraiment unique, qui a immortalise le nom qu\'elle\nportait avec son mari.\' M. Spuller also laid great stress on the\nnecessity of a thoroughly practical education, and was extremely severe\non the \'Blue-stockings\' of literature. \'Il ne s\'agit pas de former ici\ndes "femmes savantes." Les "femmes savantes" ont ete marquees pour\njamais par un des plus grands genies de notre race d\'une legere teinte de\nridicule. Non, ce n\'est pas des femmes savantes que nous voulons: ce\nsont tout simplement des femmes: des femmes dignes de ce pays de France,\nqui est la patrie du bons sens, de la mesure, et de la grace; des femmes\nayant la notion juste et le sens exquis du role qui doit leur appartenir\ndans la societe moderne.\' There is, no doubt, a great deal of truth in\nM. Spuller\'s observations, but we must not mistake a caricature for the\nreality. After all, Les Precieuses Ridicules contrasted very favourably\nwith the ordinary type of womanhood of their day, not merely in France,\nbut also in England; and an uncritical love of sonnets is preferable, on\nthe whole, to coarseness, vulgarity and ignorance.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI am glad to see that Miss Ramsay\'s brilliant success at Cambridge is not\ndestined to remain an isolated instance of what women can do in\nintellectual competitions with men. At the Royal University in Ireland,\nthe Literature Scholarship of 100 pounds a year for five years has been\nwon by Miss Story, the daughter of a North of Ireland clergyman. It is\npleasant to be able to chronicle an item of Irish news that has nothing\nto do with the violence of party politics or party feeling, and that\nshows how worthy women are of that higher culture and education which has\nbeen so tardily and, in some instances, so grudgingly granted to them.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe Empress of Japan has been ordering a whole wardrobe of fashionable\ndresses in Paris for her own use and the use of her ladies-in-waiting.\nThe chrysanthemum (the imperial flower of Japan) has suggested the tints\nof most of the Empress\'s own gowns, and in accordance with the colour-\nschemes of other flowers the rest of the costumes have been designed. The\nsame steamer, however, that carries out the masterpieces of M. Worth and\nM. Felix to the Land of the Rising Sun, also brings to the Empress a\nletter of formal and respectful remonstrance from the English Rational\nDress Society. I trust that, even if the Empress rejects the sensible\narguments of this important Society, her own artistic feeling may induce\nher to reconsider her resolution to abandon Eastern for Western costume.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI hope that some of my readers will interest themselves in the\nMinistering Children\'s League for which Mr. Walter Crane has done the\nbeautiful and suggestive design of The Young Knight. The best way to\nmake children good is to make them happy, and happiness seems to me an\nessential part of Lady Meath\'s admirable scheme.\n\n(1) Gossips with Girls and Maidens Betrothed and Free. By Lady Bellairs.\n(Blackwood and Sons.)\n\n(2) A Modern Apostle and Other Poems. By Constance Naden. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(3) Mrs. Somerville and Mary Carpenter. By Phyllis Browne, Author of\nWhat Girls Can Do, etc. (Cassell and Co.)\n\n(4) Ismay\'s Children. By the Author of Hogan, M.P.; Flitters, Tatters,\nand the Counsellor, etc. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nARISTOTLE AT AFTERNOON TEA\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 16, 1887.)\n\nIn society, says Mr. Mahaffy, every civilised man and woman ought to feel\nit their duty to say something, even when there is hardly anything to be\nsaid, and, in order to encourage this delightful art of brilliant\nchatter, he has published a social guide without which no debutante or\ndandy should ever dream of going out to dine. Not that Mr. Mahaffy\'s\nbook can be said to be, in any sense of the word, popular. In discussing\nthis important subject of conversation, he has not merely followed the\nscientific method of Aristotle which is, perhaps, excusable, but he has\nadopted the literary style of Aristotle for which no excuse is possible.\nThere is, also, hardly a single anecdote, hardly a single illustration,\nand the reader is left to put the Professor\'s abstract rules into\npractice, without either the examples or the warnings of history to\nencourage or to dissuade him in his reckless career. Still, the book can\nbe warmly recommended to all who propose to substitute the vice of\nverbosity for the stupidity of silence. It fascinates in spite of its\nform and pleases in spite of its pedantry, and is the nearest approach,\nthat we know of, in modern literature to meeting Aristotle at an\nafternoon tea.\n\nAs regards physical conditions, the only one that is considered by Mr.\nMahaffy as being absolutely essential to a good conversationalist, is the\npossession of a musical voice. Some learned writers have been of opinion\nthat a slight stammer often gives peculiar zest to conversation, but Mr.\nMahaffy rejects this view and is extremely severe on every eccentricity\nfrom a native brogue to an artificial catchword. With his remarks on the\nlatter point, the meaningless repetition of phrases, we entirely agree.\nNothing can be more irritating than the scientific person who is always\nsaying \'_Exactly_ so,\' or the commonplace person who ends every sentence\nwith \'_Don\'t you know_?\' or the pseudo-artistic person who murmurs\n\'_Charming, charming_,\' on the smallest provocation. It is, however,\nwith the mental and moral qualifications for conversation that Mr.\nMahaffy specially deals. Knowledge he, naturally, regards as an absolute\nessential, for, as he most justly observes, \'an ignorant man is seldom\nagreeable, except as a butt.\' Upon the other hand, strict accuracy\nshould be avoided. \'Even a consummate liar,\' says Mr. Mahaffy, is a\nbetter ingredient in a company than \'the scrupulously truthful man, who\nweighs every statement, questions every fact, and corrects every\ninaccuracy.\' The liar at any rate recognises that recreation, not\ninstruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilised\nbeing than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story\nwhich is told simply for the amusement of the company. Mr. Mahaffy,\nhowever, makes an exception in favour of the eminent specialist and tells\nus that intelligent questions addressed to an astronomer, or a pure\nmathematician, will elicit many curious facts which will pleasantly\nbeguile the time. Here, in the interest of Society, we feel bound to\nenter a formal protest. Nobody, even in the provinces, should ever be\nallowed to ask an intelligent question about pure mathematics across a\ndinner-table. A question of this kind is quite as bad as inquiring\nsuddenly about the state of a man\'s soul, a sort of coup which, as Mr.\nMahaffy remarks elsewhere, \'many pious people have actually thought a\ndecent introduction to a conversation.\'\n\nAs for the moral qualifications of a good talker, Mr. Mahaffy, following\nthe example of his great master, warns us against any disproportionate\nexcess of virtue. Modesty, for instance, may easily become a social\nvice, and to be continually apologising for one\'s ignorance or stupidity\nis a grave injury to conversation, for, \'what we want to learn from each\nmember is his free opinion on the subject in hand, not his own estimate\nof the value of that opinion.\' Simplicity, too, is not without its\ndangers. The enfant terrible, with his shameless love of truth, the raw\ncountry-bred girl who always says what she means, and the plain, blunt\nman who makes a point of speaking his mind on every possible occasion,\nwithout ever considering whether he has a mind at all, are the fatal\nexamples of what simplicity leads to. Shyness may be a form of vanity,\nand reserve a development of pride, and as for sympathy, what can be more\ndetestable than the man, or woman, who insists on agreeing with\neverybody, and so makes \'a discussion, which implies differences in\nopinion,\' absolutely impossible? Even the unselfish listener is apt to\nbecome a bore. \'These silent people,\' says Mr. Mahaffy, \'not only take\nall they can get in Society for nothing, but they take it without the\nsmallest gratitude, and have the audacity afterwards to censure those who\nhave laboured for their amusement.\' Tact, which is an exquisite sense of\nthe symmetry of things, is, according to Mr. Mahaffy, the highest and\nbest of all the moral conditions for conversation. The man of tact, he\nmost wisely remarks, \'will instinctively avoid jokes about Blue Beard\' in\nthe company of a woman who is a man\'s third wife; he will never be guilty\nof talking like a book, but will rather avoid too careful an attention to\ngrammar and the rounding of periods; he will cultivate the art of\ngraceful interruption, so as to prevent a subject being worn threadbare\nby the aged or the inexperienced; and should he be desirous of telling a\nstory, he will look round and consider each member of the party, and if\nthere be a single stranger present will forgo the pleasure of anecdotage\nrather than make the social mistake of hurting even one of the guests. As\nfor prepared or premeditated art, Mr. Mahaffy has a great contempt for it\nand tells us of a certain college don (let us hope not at Oxford or\nCambridge) who always carried a jest-book in his pocket and had to refer\nto it when he wished to make a repartee. Great wits, too, are often very\ncruel, and great humourists often very vulgar, so it will be better to\ntry and \'make good conversation without any large help from these\nbrilliant but dangerous gifts.\'\n\nIn a tete-a-tete one should talk about persons, and in general Society\nabout things. The state of the weather is always an excusable exordium,\nbut it is convenient to have a paradox or heresy on the subject always\nready so as to direct the conversation into other channels. Really\ndomestic people are almost invariably bad talkers as their very virtues\nin home life have dulled their interest in outer things. The very best\nmothers will insist on chattering of their babies and prattling about\ninfant education. In fact, most women do not take sufficient interest in\npolitics, just as most men are deficient in general reading. Still,\nanybody can be made to talk, except the very obstinate, and even a\ncommercial traveller may be drawn out and become quite interesting. As\nfor Society small talk, it is impossible, Mr. Mahaffy tells us, for any\nsound theory of conversation to depreciate gossip, \'which is perhaps the\nmain factor in agreeable talk throughout Society.\' The retailing of\nsmall personal points about great people always gives pleasure, and if\none is not fortunate enough to be an Arctic traveller or an escaped\nNihilist, the best thing one can do is to relate some anecdote of \'Prince\nBismarck, or King Victor Emmanuel, or Mr. Gladstone.\' In the case of\nmeeting a genius and a Duke at dinner, the good talker will try to raise\nhimself to the level of the former and to bring the latter down to his\nown level. To succeed among one\'s social superiors one must have no\nhesitation in contradicting them. Indeed, one should make bold\ncriticisms and introduce a bright and free tone into a Society whose\ngrandeur and extreme respectability make it, Mr. Mahaffy remarks, as\npathetically as inaccurately, \'perhaps somewhat dull.\' The best\nconversationalists are those whose ancestors have been bilingual, like\nthe French and Irish, but the art of conversation is really within the\nreach of almost every one, except those who are morbidly truthful, or\nwhose high moral worth requires to be sustained by a permanent gravity of\ndemeanour and a general dulness of mind.\n\nThese are the broad principles contained in Mr. Mahaffy\'s clever little\nbook, and many of them will, no doubt, commend themselves to our readers.\nThe maxim, \'If you find the company dull, blame yourself,\' seems to us\nsomewhat optimistic, and we have no sympathy at all with the professional\nstory-teller who is really a great bore at a dinner-table; but Mr.\nMahaffy is quite right in insisting that no bright social intercourse is\npossible without equality, and it is no objection to his book to say that\nit will not teach people how to talk cleverly. It is not logic that\nmakes men reasonable, nor the science of ethics that makes men good, but\nit is always useful to analyse, to formularise and to investigate. The\nonly thing to be regretted in the volume is the arid and jejune character\nof the style. If Mr. Mahaffy would only write as he talks, his book\nwould be much pleasanter reading.\n\nThe Principles of the Art of Conversation: A Social Essay. By J. P.\nMahaffy. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nEARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 17, 1887.)\n\nThe want of a good series of popular handbooks on Irish art has long been\nfelt, the works of Sir William Wilde, Petrie and others being somewhat\ntoo elaborate for the ordinary student; so we are glad to notice the\nappearance, under the auspices of the Committee of Council on Education,\nof Miss Margaret Stokes\'s useful little volume on the early Christian art\nof her country. There is, of course, nothing particularly original in\nMiss Stokes\'s book, nor can she be said to be a very attractive or\npleasing writer, but it is unfair to look for originality in primers, and\nthe charm of the illustrations fully atones for the somewhat heavy and\npedantic character of the style.\n\nThis early Christian art of Ireland is full of interest to the artist,\nthe archaeologist and the historian. In its rudest forms, such as the\nlittle iron hand-bell, the plain stone chalice and the rough wooden\nstaff, it brings us back to the simplicity of the primitive Christian\nChurch, while to the period of its highest development we owe the great\nmasterpieces of Celtic metal-work. The stone chalice is now replaced by\nthe chalice of silver and gold; the iron bell has its jewel-studded\nshrine, and the rough staff its gorgeous casing; rich caskets and\nsplendid bindings preserve the holy books of the Saints and, instead of\nthe rudely carved symbol of the early missionaries, we have such\nbeautiful works of art as the processional cross of Cong Abbey. Beautiful\nthis cross certainly is with its delicate intricacy of ornamentation, its\ngrace of proportion and its marvel of mere workmanship, nor is there any\ndoubt about its history. From the inscriptions on it, which are\ncorroborated by the annals of Innisfallen and the book of Clonmacnoise,\nwe learn that it was made for King Turlough O\'Connor by a native artist\nunder the superintendence of Bishop O\'Duffy, its primary object being to\nenshrine a portion of the true cross that was sent to the king in 1123.\nBrought to Cong some years afterwards, probably by the archbishop, who\ndied there in 1150, it was concealed at the time of the Reformation, but\nat the beginning of the present century was still in the possession of\nthe last abbot, and at his death it was purchased by professor MacCullagh\nand presented by him to the museum of the Royal Irish Academy. This\nwonderful work is alone well worth a visit to Dublin, but not less lovely\nis the chalice of Ardagh, a two-handled silver cup, absolutely classical\nin its perfect purity of form, and decorated with gold and amber and\ncrystal and with varieties of cloisonne and champleve enamel. There is\nno mention of this cup, or of the so-called Tara brooch, in ancient Irish\nhistory. All that we know of them is that they were found accidentally,\nthe former by a boy who was digging potatoes near the old Rath of Ardagh,\nthe latter by a poor child who picked it up near the seashore. They\nboth, however, belong probably to the tenth century.\n\nOf all these works, as well as of the bell shrines, book-covers,\nsculptured crosses and illuminated designs in manuscripts, excellent\npictures are given in Miss Stokes\'s handbook. The extremely interesting\nFiachal Phadrig, or shrine of St. Patrick\'s tooth, might have been\nfigured and noted as an interesting example of the survival of ornament,\nand one of the old miniatures of the scribe or Evangelist writing would\nhave given an additional interest to the chapter on Irish MSS. On the\nwhole, however, the book is wonderfully well illustrated, and the\nordinary art student will be able to get some useful suggestions from it.\nIndeed, Miss Stokes, echoing the aspirations of many of the great Irish\narchaeologists, looks forward to the revival of a native Irish school in\narchitecture, sculpture, metal-work and painting. Such an aspiration is,\nof course, very laudable, but there is always a danger of these revivals\nbeing merely artificial reproductions, and it may be questioned whether\nthe peculiar forms of Irish ornamentation could be made at all expressive\nof the modern spirit. A recent writer on house decoration has gravely\nsuggested that the British householder should take his meals in a Celtic\ndining-room adorned with a dado of Ogham inscriptions, and such wicked\nproposals may serve as a warning to all who fancy that the reproduction\nof a form necessarily implies a revival of the spirit that gave the form\nlife and meaning, and who fail to recognise the difference between art\nand anachronisms. Miss Stokes\'s proposal for an ark-shaped church in\nwhich the mural painter is to repeat the arcades and \'follow the\narchitectural compositions of the grand pages of the Eusebian canons in\nthe Book of Kells,\' has, of course, nothing grotesque about it, but it is\nnot probable that the artistic genius of the Irish people will, even when\n\'the land has rest,\' find in such interesting imitations its healthiest\nor best expression. Still, there are certain elements of beauty in\nancient Irish art that the modern artist would do well to study. The\nvalue of the intricate illuminations in the Book of Kells, as far as\ntheir adaptability to modern designs and modern material goes, has been\nvery much overrated, but in the ancient Irish torques, brooches, pins,\nclasps and the like, the modern goldsmith will find a rich and,\ncomparatively speaking, an untouched field; and now that the Celtic\nspirit has become the leaven of our politics, there is no reason why it\nshould not contribute something to our decorative art. This result,\nhowever, will not be obtained by a patriotic misuse of old designs, and\neven the most enthusiastic Home Ruler must not be allowed to decorate his\ndining-room with a dado of Oghams.\n\nEarly Christian Art in Ireland. By Margaret Stokes. (Published for the\nCommittee of Council on Education by Chapman and Hall.)\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--III\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, January 1888.)\n\nMadame Ristori\'s Etudes et Souvenirs is one of the most delightful books\non the stage that has appeared since Lady Martin\'s charming volume on the\nShakespearian heroines. It is often said that actors leave nothing\nbehind them but a barren name and a withered wreath; that they subsist\nsimply upon the applause of the moment; that they are ultimately doomed\nto the oblivion of old play-bills; and that their art, in a word, dies\nwith them, and shares their own mortality. \'Chippendale, the cabinet-\nmaker,\' says the clever author of Obiter Dicta, \'is more potent than\nGarrick the actor. The vivacity of the latter no longer charms (save in\nBoswell); the chairs of the former still render rest impossible in a\nhundred homes.\' This view, however, seems to me to be exaggerated. It\nrests on the assumption that acting is simply a mimetic art, and takes no\naccount of its imaginative and intellectual basis. It is quite true, of\ncourse, that the personality of the player passes away, and with it that\npleasure-giving power by virtue of which the arts exist. Yet the\nartistic method of a great actor survives. It lives on in tradition, and\nbecomes part of the science of a school. It has all the intellectual\nlife of a principle. In England, at the present moment, the influence of\nGarrick on our actors is far stronger than that of Reynolds on our\npainters of portraits, and if we turn to France it is easy to discern the\ntradition of Talma, but where is the tradition of David?\n\nMadame Ristori\'s memoirs, then, have not merely the charm that always\nattaches to the autobiography of a brilliant and beautiful woman, but\nhave also a definite and distinct artistic value. Her analysis of the\ncharacter of Lady Macbeth, for instance, is full of psychological\ninterest, and shows us that the subtleties of Shakespearian criticism are\nnot necessarily confined to those who have views on weak endings and\nrhyming tags, but may also be suggested by the art of acting itself. The\nauthor of Obiter Dicta seeks to deny to actors all critical insight and\nall literary appreciation. The actor, he tells us, is art\'s slave, not\nher child, and lives entirely outside literature, \'with its words for\never on his lips, and none of its truths engraven on his heart.\' But\nthis seems to me to be a harsh and reckless generalisation. Indeed, so\nfar from agreeing with it, I would be inclined to say that the mere\nartistic process of acting, the translation of literature back again into\nlife, and the presentation of thought under the conditions of action, is\nin itself a critical method of a very high order; nor do I think that a\nstudy of the careers of our great English actors will really sustain the\ncharge of want of literary appreciation. It may be true that actors pass\ntoo quickly away from the form, in order to get at the feeling that gives\nthe form beauty and colour, and that, where the literary critic studies\nthe language, the actor looks simply for the life; and yet, how well the\ngreat actors have appreciated that marvellous music of words which in\nShakespeare, at any rate, is so vital an element of poetic power, if,\nindeed, it be not equally so in the case of all who have any claim to be\nregarded as true poets. \'The sensual life of verse,\' says Keats, in a\ndramatic criticism published in the Champion, \'springs warm from the lips\nof Kean, and to one learned in Shakespearian hieroglyphics, learned in\nthe spiritual portion of those lines to which Kean adds a sensual\ngrandeur, his tongue must seem to have robbed the Hybla bees and left\nthem honeyless.\' This particular feeling, of which Keats speaks, is\nfamiliar to all who have heard Salvini, Sarah Bernhardt, Ristori, or any\nof the great artists of our day, and it is a feeling that one cannot, I\nthink, gain merely by reading the passage to oneself. For my own part, I\nmust confess that it was not until I heard Sarah Bernhardt in Phedre that\nI absolutely realised the sweetness of the music of Racine. As for Mr.\nBirrell\'s statement that actors have the words of literature for ever on\ntheir lips, but none of its truths engraved on their hearts, all that one\ncan say is that, if it be true, it is a defect which actors share with\nthe majority of literary critics.\n\nThe account Madame Ristori gives of her own struggles, voyages and\nadventures, is very pleasant reading indeed. The child of poor actors,\nshe made her first appearance when she was three months old, being\nbrought on in a hamper as a New Year\'s gift to a selfish old gentleman\nwho would not forgive his daughter for having married for love. As,\nhowever, she began to cry long before the hamper was opened, the comedy\nbecame a farce, to the immense amusement of the public. She next\nappeared in a mediaeval melodrama, being then three years of age, and was\nso terrified at the machinations of the villain that she ran away at the\nmost critical moment. However, her stage-fright seems to have\ndisappeared, and we find her playing Silvio Pellico\'s Francesco, da\nRimini at fifteen, and at eighteen making her debut as Marie Stuart. At\nthis time the naturalism of the French method was gradually displacing\nthe artificial elocution and academic poses of the Italian school of\nacting. Madame Ristori seems to have tried to combine simplicity with\nstyle, and the passion of nature with the self-restraint of the artist.\n\'J\'ai voulu fondre les deux manieres,\' she tells us, \'car je sentais que\ntoutes choses etant susceptibles de progres, l\'art dramatique aussi etait\nappele a subir des transformations.\' The natural development, however,\nof the Italian drama was almost arrested by the ridiculous censorship of\nplays then existing in each town under Austrian or Papal rule. The\nslightest allusion to the sentiment of nationality or the spirit of\nfreedom was prohibited. Even the word patria was regarded as\ntreasonable, and Madame Ristori tells us an amusing story of the\nindignation of a censor who was asked to license a play, in which a dumb\nman returns home after an absence of many years, and on his entrance upon\nthe stage makes gestures expressive of his joy in seeing his native land\nonce more. \'Gestures of this kind,\' said the censor, \'are obviously of a\nvery revolutionary tendency, and cannot possibly be allowed. The only\ngestures that I could think of permitting would be gestures expressive of\na dumb man\'s delight in scenery generally.\'\n\nThe stage directions were accordingly altered, and the word \'landscape\'\nsubstituted for \'native land\'! Another censor was extremely severe on an\nunfortunate poet who had used the expression \'the beautiful Italian sky,\'\nand explained to him that \'the beautiful Lombardo-Venetian sky\' was the\nproper official expression to use. Poor Gregory in Romeo and Juliet had\nto be rechristened, because Gregory is a name dear to the Popes; and the\n\n Here I have a pilot\'s thumb,\n Wrecked as homeward he did come,\n\nof the first witch in Macbeth was ruthlessly struck out as containing an\nobvious allusion to the steersman of St. Peter\'s bark. Finally, bored\nand bothered by the political and theological Dogberrys of the day, with\ntheir inane prejudices, their solemn stupidity, and their entire\nignorance of the conditions necessary for the growth of sane and healthy\nart, Madame Ristori made up her mind to leave the stage. She, however,\nwas extremely anxious to appear once before a Parisian audience, Paris\nbeing at that time the centre of dramatic activity, and after some\nconsideration left Italy for France in the year 1855. There she seems to\nhave been a great success, particularly in the part of Myrrha; classical\nwithout being cold, artistic without being academic, she brought to the\ninterpretation of the character of Alfieri\'s great heroine the colour-\nelement of passion, the form-element of style. Jules Janin was loud in\nhis praises, the Emperor begged Ristori to join the troupe of the Comedie\nFrancaise, and Rachel, with the strange narrow jealousy of her nature,\ntrembled for her laurels. Myrrha was followed by Marie Stuart, and Marie\nStuart by Medea. In the latter part Madame Ristori excited the greatest\nenthusiasm. Ary Scheffer designed her costumes for her; and the Niobe\nthat stands in the Uffizzi Gallery at Florence, suggested to Madame\nRistori her famous pose in the scene with the children. She would not\nconsent, however, to remain in France, and we find her subsequently\nplaying in almost every country in the world from Egypt to Mexico, from\nDenmark to Honolulu. Her representations of classical plays seem to have\nbeen always immensely admired. When she played at Athens, the King\noffered to arrange for a performance in the beautiful old theatre of\nDionysos, and during her tour in Portugal she produced Medea before the\nUniversity of Coimbra. Her description of the latter engagement is\nextremely interesting. On her arrival at the University, she was\nreceived by the entire body of the undergraduates, who still wear a\ncostume almost mediaeval in character. Some of them came on the stage in\nthe course of the play as the handmaidens of Creusa, hiding their black\nbeards beneath heavy veils, and as soon as they had finished their parts\nthey took their places gravely among the audience, to Madame Ristori\'s\nhorror, still in their Greek dress, but with their veils thrown back, and\nsmoking long cigars. \'Ce n\'est pas la premiere fois,\' she says, \'que\nj\'ai du empecher, par un effort de volonte, la tragedie de se terminer en\nfarce.\' Very interesting, also, is her account of the production of\nMontanelli\'s Camma, and she tells an amusing story of the arrest of the\nauthor by the French police on the charge of murder, in consequence of a\ntelegram she sent to him in which the words \'body of the victim\'\noccurred. Indeed, the whole book is full of cleverly written stories,\nand admirable criticisms on dramatic art. I have quoted from the French\nversion, which happens to be the one that lies before me, but whether in\nFrench or Italian the book is one of the most fascinating autobiographies\nthat has appeared for some time, even in an age like ours when literary\negotism has been brought to such an exquisite pitch of perfection.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe New Purgatory and Other Poems, by Miss E. R. Chapman, is, in some\nrespects, a very remarkable little volume. It used to be said that women\nwere too poetical by nature to make great poets, too receptive to be\nreally creative, too well satisfied with mere feeling to search after the\nmarble splendour of form. But we must not judge of woman\'s poetic power\nby her achievements in days when education was denied to her, for where\nthere is no faculty of expression no art is possible. Mrs. Browning, the\nfirst great English poetess, was also an admirable scholar, though she\nmay not have put the accents on her Greek, and even in those poems that\nseem most remote from classical life, such as Aurora Leigh, for instance,\nit is not difficult to trace the fine literary influence of a classical\ntraining. Since Mrs. Browning\'s time, education has become, not the\nprivilege of a few women, but the inalienable inheritance of all; and, as\na natural consequence of the increased faculty of expression thereby\ngained, the women poets of our day hold a very high literary position.\nCuriously enough, their poetry is, as a rule, more distinguished for\nstrength than for beauty; they seem to love to grapple with the big\nintellectual problems of modern life; science, philosophy and metaphysics\nform a large portion of their ordinary subject-matter; they leave the\ntriviality of triolets to men, and try to read the writing on the wall,\nand to solve the last secret of the Sphinx. Hence Robert Browning, not\nKeats, is their idol; Sordello moves them more than the Ode on a Grecian\nUrn; and all Lord Tennyson\'s magic and music seems to them as nothing\ncompared with the psychological subtleties of The Ring and the Book, or\nthe pregnant questions stirred in the dialogue between Blougram and\nGigadibs. Indeed I remember hearing a charming young Girtonian,\nforgetting for a moment the exquisite lyrics in Pippa Passes, and the\nsuperb blank verse of Men and Women, state quite seriously that the\nreason she admired the author of Red-Cotton Night-Cap Country was that he\nhad headed a reaction against beauty in poetry!\n\nMiss Chapman is probably one of Mr. Browning\'s disciples. She does not\nimitate him, but it is easy to discern his influence on her verse, and\nshe has caught something of his fine, strange faith. Take, for instance,\nher poem, A Strong-minded Woman:\n\n See her? Oh, yes!--Come this way--hush! this way,\n Here she is lying,\n Sweet--with the smile her face wore yesterday,\n As she lay dying.\n Calm, the mind-fever gone, and, praise God! gone\n All the heart-hunger;\n Looking the merest girl at forty-one--\n You guessed her younger?\n Well, she\'d the flower-bloom that children have,\n Was lithe and pliant,\n With eyes as innocent blue as they were brave,\n Resolved, defiant.\n Yourself--you worship art! Well, at that shrine\n She too bowed lowly,\n Drank thirstily of beauty, as of wine,\n Proclaimed it holy.\n But could you follow her when, in a breath,\n She knelt to science,\n Vowing to truth true service to the death,\n And heart-reliance?\n Nay,--then for you she underwent eclipse,\n Appeared as alien\n As once, before he prayed, those ivory lips\n Seemed to Pygmalion.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Hear from your heaven, my dear, my lost delight,\n You who were woman\n To your heart\'s heart, and not more pure, more white,\n Than warmly human.\n How shall I answer? How express, reveal\n Your true life-story?\n How utter, if they cannot guess--not feel\n Your crowning glory?\n This way. Attend my words. The rich, we know,\n Do into heaven\n Enter but hardly; to the poor, the low,\n God\'s kingdom\'s given.\n Well, there\'s another heaven--a heaven on earth--\n (That\'s love\'s fruition)\n Whereto a certain lack--a certain dearth--\n Gains best admission.\n Here, too, she was too rich--ah, God! if less\n Love had been lent her!--\n Into the realm of human happiness\n These look--not enter.\n\nWell, here we have, if not quite an echo, at least a reminiscence of the\nmetre of The Grammarian\'s Funeral; and the peculiar blending together of\nlyrical and dramatic forms, seems essentially characteristic of Mr.\nBrowning\'s method. Yet there is a distinct personal note running all\nthrough the poem, and true originality is to be found rather in the use\nmade of a model than in the rejection of all models and masters. Dans\nl\'art comme dans la nature on est toujours fils de quelqu\'un, and we\nshould not quarrel with the reed if it whispers to us the music of the\nlyre. A little child once asked me if it was the nightingale who taught\nthe linnets how to sing.\n\nMiss Chapman\'s other poems contain a great deal that is interesting. The\nmost ambitious is The New Purgatory, to which the book owes its title. It\nis a vision of a strange garden in which, cleansed and purified of all\nstain and shame, walk Judas of Cherioth, Nero the Lord of Rome, Ysabel\nthe wife of Ahab, and others, around whose names cling terrible memories\nof horror, or awful splendours of sin. The conception is fine, but the\ntreatment is hardly adequate. There are, however, some good strong lines\nin it, and, indeed, almost all of Miss Chapman\'s poems are worth reading,\nif not for their absolute beauty, at least for their intellectual\nintention.\n\n* * * * *\n\nNothing is more interesting than to watch the change and development of\nthe art of novel-writing in this nineteenth century--\'this so-called\nnineteenth century,\' as an impassioned young orator once termed it, after\na contemptuous diatribe against the evils of modern civilisation. In\nFrance they have had one great genius, Balzac, who invented the modern\nmethod of looking at life; and one great artist, Flaubert, who is the\nimpeccable master of style; and to the influence of these two men we may\ntrace almost all contemporary French fiction. But in England we have had\nno schools worth speaking of. The fiery torch lit by the Brontes has not\nbeen passed on to other hands; Dickens has influenced only journalism;\nThackeray\'s delightful superficial philosophy, superb narrative power,\nand clever social satire have found no echoes; nor has Trollope left any\ndirect successors behind him--a fact which is not much to be regretted,\nhowever, as, admirable though Trollope undoubtedly is for rainy\nafternoons and tedious railway journeys, from the point of view of\nliterature he is merely the perpetual curate of Pudlington Parva. As for\nGeorge Meredith, who could hope to reproduce him? His style is chaos\nillumined by brilliant flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered\neverything, except language; as a novelist he can do everything, except\ntell a story; as an artist he is everything, except articulate. Too\nstrange to be popular, too individual to have imitators, the author of\nRichard Feverel stands absolutely alone. It is easy to disarm criticism,\nbut he has disarmed the disciple. He gives us his philosophy through the\nmedium of wit, and is never so pathetic as when he is humorous. To turn\ntruth into a paradox is not difficult, but George Meredith makes all his\nparadoxes truths, and no Theseus can thread his labyrinth, no OEdipus\nsolve his secret.\n\nHowever, it is only fair to acknowledge that there are some signs of a\nschool springing up amongst us. This school is not native, nor does it\nseek to reproduce any English master. It may be described as the result\nof the realism of Paris filtered through the refining influence of\nBoston. Analysis, not action, is its aim; it has more psychology than\npassion, and it plays very cleverly upon one string, and this is the\ncommonplace.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAs a reaction against this school, it is pleasant to come across a novel\nlike Lady Augusta Noel\'s Hithersea Mere. If this story has any definite\ndefect, it comes from its delicacy and lightness of treatment. An\nindustrious Bostonian would have made half a dozen novels out of it, and\nhave had enough left for a serial. Lady Augusta Noel is content to\nvivify her characters, and does not care about vivisection; she suggests\nrather than explains; and she does not seek to make life too obviously\nrational. Romance, picturesqueness, charm--these are the qualities of\nher book. As for its plot, it has so many plots that it is difficult to\ndescribe them. We have the story of Rhona Somerville, the daughter of a\ngreat popular preacher, who tries to write her father\'s life, and, on\nlooking over his papers and early diaries, finds struggle where she\nexpected calm, and doubt where she looked for faith, and is afraid to\nkeep back the truth, and yet dares not publish it. Rhona is quite\ncharming; she is like a little flower that takes itself very seriously,\nand she shows us how thoroughly nice and natural a narrow-minded girl may\nbe. Then we have the two brothers, John and Adrian Mowbray. John is the\nhard-working, vigorous clergyman, who is impatient of all theories,\nbrings his faith to the test of action, not of intellect, lives what he\nbelieves, and has no sympathy for those who waver or question--a\nthoroughly admirable, practical, and extremely irritating man. Adrian is\nthe fascinating dilettante, the philosophic doubter, a sort of romantic\nrationalist with a taste for art. Of course, Rhona marries the brother\nwho needs conversion, and their gradual influence on each other is\nindicated by a few subtle touches. Then we have the curious story of\nOlga, Adrian Mowbray\'s first love. She is a wonderful and mystical girl,\nlike a little maiden out of the Sagas, with the blue eyes and fair hair\nof the North. An old Norwegian nurse is always at her side, a sort of\nLapland witch who teaches her how to see visions and to interpret dreams.\nAdrian mocks at this superstition, as he calls it, but as a consequence\nof disregarding it, Olga\'s only brother is drowned skating, and she never\nspeaks to Adrian again. The whole story is told in the most suggestive\nway, the mere delicacy of the touch making what is strange seem real. The\nmost delightful character in the whole book, however, is a girl called\nHilary Marston, and hers also is the most tragic tale of all. Hilary is\nlike a little woodland faun, half Greek and half gipsy; she knows the\nnote of every bird, and the haunt of every animal; she is terribly out of\nplace in a drawing-room, but is on intimate terms with every young\npoacher in the district; squirrels come and sit on her shoulder, which is\npretty, and she carries ferrets in her pockets, which is dreadful; she\nnever reads a book, and has not got a single accomplishment, but she is\nfascinating and fearless, and wiser, in her own way, than any pedant or\nbookworm. This poor little English Dryad falls passionately in love with\na great blind helpless hero, who regards her as a sort of pleasant tom-\nboy; and her death is most touching and pathetic. Lady Augusta Noel has\na charming and winning style, her descriptions of Nature are quite\nadmirable, and her book is one of the most pleasantly-written novels that\nhas appeared this winter.\n\nMiss Alice Corkran\'s Margery Merton\'s Girlhood has the same lightness of\ntouch and grace of treatment. Though ostensibly meant for young people,\nit is a story that all can read with pleasure, for it is true without\nbeing harsh, and beautiful without being affected, and its rejection of\nthe stronger and more violent passions of life is artistic rather than\nascetic. In a word, it is a little piece of true literature, as dainty\nas it is delicate, and as sweet as it is simple. Margery Merton is\nbrought up in Paris by an old maiden aunt, who has an elaborate theory of\neducation, and strict ideas about discipline. Her system is an excellent\none, being founded on the science of Darwin and the wisdom of Solomon,\nbut it comes to terrible grief when put into practice; and finally she\nhas to procure a governess, Madame Reville, the widow of a great and\nunappreciated French painter. From her Margery gets her first feeling\nfor art, and the chief interest of the book centres round a competition\nfor an art scholarship, into which Margery and the other girls of the\nconvent school enter. Margery selects Joan of Arc as her subject; and,\nrather to the horror of the good nuns, who think that the saint should\nhave her golden aureole, and be as gorgeous and as ecclesiastical as\nbright paints and bad drawing can make her, the picture represents a\ncommon peasant girl, standing in an old orchard, and listening in\nignorant terror to the strange voices whispering in her ear. The scene\nin which she shows her sketch for the first time to the art master and\nthe Mother Superior is very cleverly rendered indeed, and shows\nconsiderable dramatic power.\n\nOf course, a good deal of opposition takes place, but ultimately Margery\nhas her own way and, in spite of a wicked plot set on foot by a jealous\ncompetitor, who persuades the Mother Superior that the picture is not\nMargery\'s own work, she succeeds in winning the prize. The whole account\nof the gradual development of the conception in the girl\'s mind, and the\nvarious attempts she makes to give her dream its perfect form, is\nextremely interesting and, indeed, the book deserves a place among what\nSir George Trevelyan has happily termed \'the art-literature\' of our day.\nMr. Ruskin in prose, and Mr. Browning in poetry, were the first who drew\nfor us the workings of the artist soul, the first who led us from the\npainting or statue to the hand that fashioned it, and the brain that gave\nit life. They seem to have made art more expressive for us, to have\nshown us a passionate humanity lying behind line and colour. Theirs was\nthe seed of this new literature, and theirs, too, is its flower; but it\nis pleasant to note their influence on Miss Corkran\'s little story, in\nwhich the creation of a picture forms the dominant motif.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMrs. Pfeiffer\'s Women and Work is a collection of most interesting essays\non the relation to health and physical development of the higher\neducation of girls, and the intellectual or more systematised effort of\nwoman. Mrs. Pfeiffer, who writes a most admirable prose style, deals in\nsuccession with the sentimental difficulty, with the economic problem,\nand with the arguments of physiologists. She boldly grapples with\nProfessor Romanes, whose recent article in the Nineteenth Century, on the\nleading characters which mentally differentiate men and women, attracted\nso much attention, and produces some very valuable statistics from\nAmerica, where the influence of education on health has been most\ncarefully studied. Her book is a most important contribution to the\ndiscussion of one of the great social problems of our day. The extended\nactivity of women is now an accomplished fact; its results are on their\ntrial; and Mrs. Pfeiffer\'s excellent essays sum up the situation very\ncompletely, and show the rational and scientific basis of the movement\nmore clearly and more logically than any other treatise I have as yet\nseen.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIt is interesting to note that many of the most advanced modern ideas on\nthe subject of the education of women are anticipated by Defoe in his\nwonderful Essay upon Projects, where he proposes that a college for women\nshould be erected in every county in England, and ten colleges of the\nkind in London. \'I have often thought of it, \'he says,\' as one of the\nmost barbarous customs in the world that we deny the advantages of\nlearning to women. Their youth is spent to teach them to stitch and sew,\nor make baubles. They are taught to read, indeed, and perhaps to write\ntheir names or so, and that is the height of a woman\'s education. And I\nwould but ask any who slight the sex for their understanding, "What is a\nman (a gentleman I mean) good for that is taught no more?" What has the\nwoman done to forfeit the privilege of being taught? Shall we upbraid\nwomen with folly when it is only the error of this inhuman custom that\nhindered them being made wiser?\' Defoe then proceeds to elaborate his\nscheme for the foundation of women\'s colleges, and enters into minute\ndetails about the architecture, the general curriculum, and the\ndiscipline. His suggestion that the penalty of death should be inflicted\non any man who ventured to make a proposal of marriage to any of the girl\nstudents during term time possibly suggested the plot of Lord Tennyson\'s\nPrincess, so its harshness may be excused, and in all other respects his\nideas are admirable. I am glad to see that this curious little volume\nforms one of the National Library series. In its anticipations of many\nof our most modern inventions it shows how thoroughly practical all\ndreamers are.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI am sorry to see that Mrs. Fawcett deprecates the engagement of ladies\nof education as dressmakers and milliners, and speaks of it as being\ndetrimental to those who have fewer educational advantages. I myself\nwould like to see dressmaking regarded not merely as a learned\nprofession, but as a fine art. To construct a costume that will be at\nonce rational and beautiful requires an accurate knowledge of the\nprinciples of proportion, a thorough acquaintance with the laws of\nhealth, a subtle sense of colour, and a quick appreciation of the proper\nuse of materials, and the proper qualities of pattern and design. The\nhealth of a nation depends very largely on its mode of dress; the\nartistic feeling of a nation should find expression in its costume quite\nas much as in its architecture; and just as the upholstering tradesman\nhas had to give place to the decorative artist, so the ordinary milliner,\nwith her lack of taste and lack of knowledge, her foolish fashions and\nher feeble inventions, will have to make way for the scientific and\nartistic dress designer. Indeed, so far from it being wise to discourage\nwomen of education from taking up the profession of dressmakers, it is\nexactly women of education who are needed, and I am glad to see in the\nnew technical college for women at Bedford, millinery and dressmaking are\nto be taught as part of the ordinary curriculum. There has also been\nstarted in London a Society of Lady Dressmakers for the purpose of\nteaching educated girls and women, and the Scientific Dress Association\nis, I hear, doing very good work in the same direction.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI have received some very beautiful specimens of Christmas books from\nMessrs. Griffith and Farran. Treasures of Art and Song, edited by Robert\nEllice Mack, is a real edition de luxe of pretty poems and pretty\npictures; and Through the Year is a wonderfully artistic calendar.\n\nMessrs. Hildesheimer and Faulkner have also sent me Rhymes and Roses,\nillustrated by Ernest Wilson and St. Clair Simmons; Cape Town Dicky, a\nchild\'s book, with some very lovely pictures by Miss Alice Havers; a\nwonderful edition of The Deserted Village, illustrated by Mr. Charles\nGregory and Mr. Hines; and some really charming Christmas cards, those by\nMiss Alice Havers, Miss Edwards, and Miss Dealy being especially good.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe most perfect and the most poisonous of all modern French poets once\nremarked that a man can live for three days without bread, but that no\none can live for three days without poetry. This, however, can hardly be\nsaid to be a popular view, or one that commends itself to that curiously\nuncommon quality which is called common-sense. I fancy that most people,\nif they do not actually prefer a salmis to a sonnet, certainly like their\nculture to repose on a basis of good cookery, and as there is something\nto be said for this attitude, I am glad to see that several ladies are\ninteresting themselves in cookery classes. Mrs. Marshall\'s brilliant\nlectures are, of course, well known, and besides her there is Madame\nLebour-Fawssett, who holds weekly classes in Kensington. Madame Fawssett\nis the author of an admirable little book, entitled Economical French\nCookery for Ladies, and I am glad to hear that her lectures are so\nsuccessful. I was talking the other day to a lady who works a great deal\nat the East End of London, and she told me that no small part of the\npermanent misery of the poor is due to their entire ignorance of the\ncleanliness and economy necessary for good cooking.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe Popular Ballad Concert Society has been reorganised under the name of\nthe Popular Musical Union. Its object will be to train the working\nclasses thoroughly in the enjoyment and performance of music, and to\nprovide the inhabitants of the crowded districts of the East End with\nconcerts and oratorios, to be performed as far as possible by trained\nmembers of the working classes; and, though money is urgently required,\nit is proposed to make the Society to a certain degree self-supporting by\ngiving something in the form of high-class concerts in return for\nsubscriptions and donations. The whole scheme is an excellent one, and I\nhope that the readers of the Woman\'s World will give it their valuable\nsupport. Mrs. Ernest Hart is the secretary, and the treasurer is the\nRev. S. Barnett.\n\n(1) Etudes et Souvenirs. By Madame Ristori. (Paul Ollendorff.)\n\n(2) The New Purgatory and Other Poems. By Elizabeth Rachel Chapman.\n(Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(3) Hithersea Mere. By Lady Augusta Noel, Author of Wandering Willie,\nFrom Generation to Generation, etc. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(4) Margery Merton\'s Girlhood. By Alice Corkran. (Blackie and Son.)\n\n(5) Women and Work. By Emily Pfeiffer. (Trubner and Co.)\n\n(6) Treasures of Art and Song. Edited by Robert Ellice Mack. (Griffith\nand Farren.)\n\n(7) Rhymes and Roses. Illustrated by Ernest Wilson and St. Clair Simons.\nCape Town Dicky. Illustrated by Alice Havers. The Deserted Pillage.\nIllustrated by Charles Gregory and John Hines. (Hildesheimer and\nFaulkner.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--IV\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 20, 1888.)\n\nA cynical critic once remarked that no great poet is intelligible and no\nlittle poet worth understanding, but that otherwise poetry is an\nadmirable thing. This, however, seems to us a somewhat harsh view of the\nsubject. Little poets are an extremely interesting study. The best of\nthem have often some new beauty to show us, and though the worst of them\nmay bore yet they rarely brutalise. Poor Folks\' Lives, for instance, by\nthe Rev. Frederick Langbridge, is a volume that could do no possible harm\nto any one. These poems display a healthy, rollicking, G. R. Sims tone\nof feeling, an almost unbounded regard for the converted drunkard, and a\nstrong sympathy with the sufferings of the poor. As for their theology,\nit is of that honest, downright and popular kind, which in these\nrationalistic days is probably quite as useful as any other form of\ntheological thought. Here is the opening of a poem called A Street\nSermon, which is an interesting example of what muscular Christianity can\ndo in the sphere of verse-making:\n\n What, God fight shy of the city?\n He\'s t\' other side up I guess;\n If you ever want to find Him,\n Whitechapel\'s the right address.\n\nThose who prefer pseudo-poetical prose to really prosaic poetry will wish\nthat Mr. Dalziel had converted most of his Pictures in the Fire into\nleaders for the Daily Telegraph, as, from the literary point of view,\nthey have all the qualities dear to the Asiatic school. What a splendid\nleader the young lions of Fleet Street would have made out of The\nPrestige of England, for instance, a poem suggested by the opening of the\nZulu war in 1879.\n\n Now away sail our ships far away o\'er the sea,\n Far away with our gallant and brave;\n The loud war-cry is sounding like wild revelrie,\n And our heroes dash on to their grave;\n For the fierce Zulu tribes have arisen in their might,\n And in thousands swept down on our few;\n But these braves only yielded when crushed in the fight,\n Man to man to their colours were true.\n\nThe conception of the war-cry sounding \'like wild revelrie\' is quite in\nthe true Asiatic spirit, and indeed the whole poem is full of the daring\nEnglish of a special correspondent. Personally, we prefer Mr. Dalziel\nwhen he is not quite so military. The Fairies, for instance, is a very\npretty poem, and reminds us of some of Dicky Doyle\'s charming drawings,\nand Nat Bentley is a capital ballad in its way. The Irish poems,\nhowever, are rather vulgar and should be expunged. The Celtic element in\nliterature is extremely valuable, but there is absolutely no excuse for\nshrieking \'Shillelagh!\' and \'O Gorrah!\'\n\nWomen must Weep, by Professor Harald Williams, has the most dreadful\ncover of any book that we have come across for some time past. It is\npossibly intended to symbolise the sorrow of the world, but it merely\nsuggests the decorative tendencies of an undertaker and is as depressing\nas it is detestable. However, as the cowl does not make the monk, so the\nbinding, in the case of the Savile Club school, does not make the poet,\nand we open the volume without prejudice. The first poem that we come to\nis a vigorous attack on those wicked and misguided people who believe\nthat Beauty is its own reason for existing, and that Art should have no\nother aim but her own perfection. Here are some of the Professor\'s\ngravest accusations:\n\n Why do they patch, in their fatal choice,\n When at secrets such the angels quake,\n But a play of the Vision and the Voice?--\n Oh, it\'s all for Art\'s sake.\n\n Why do they gather what should be left,\n And leave behind what they ought to take,\n And exult in the basest blank or theft?--\n Oh, it\'s all for Art\'s sake.\n\nIt certainly must be admitted that to \'patch\' or to \'exult in the basest\nblank\' is a form of conduct quite unbefitting an artist, the very\nobscurity and incomprehensible character of such a crime adding something\nto its horror. However, while fully recognising the wickedness of\n\'patching\' we cannot but think that Professor Harald Williams is happier\nin his criticism of life than he is in his art criticism. His poem\nBetween the Banks, for instance, has a touch of sincerity and fine\nfeeling that almost atones for its over-emphasis.\n\nMr. Buchan\'s blank verse drama Joseph and His Brethren bears no\nresemblance to that strange play on the same subject which Mr. Swinburne\nso much admires. Indeed, it may be said to possess all the fatal\noriginality of inexperience. However, Mr. Buchan does not leave us in\nany doubt about his particular method of writing. \'As to the dialogue,\'\nhe says, \'I have put the language of real life into the mouths of the\nspeakers, except when they may be supposed to be under strong emotion;\nthen their utterances become more rapid--broken--figurative--in short\nmore poetical.\' Well, here is the speech of Potiphar\'s wife under strong\nemotion:\n\n ZULEEKHA (seizing him). Love me! or death!\n Ha! dost thou think thou wilt not, and yet live?\n By Isis, no. And thou wilt turn away,\n Iron, marble mockman! Ah! I hold thy life!\n Love feeds on death. It swallows up all life,\n Hugging, or killing. I to woo, and thou--\n Unhappy me! Oh!\n\nThe language here is certainly rapid and broken, and the expression\n\'marble mockman\' is, we suppose, figurative, but the passage can scarcely\nbe described as poetical, though it fulfils all Mr. Buchan\'s conditions.\nStill, tedious as Zuleekha and Joseph are, the Chorus of Ancients is much\nworse. These \'ideal spectators\' seem to spend their lives in uttering\nthose solemn platitudes that with the aged pass for wisdom. The chief\noffenders are the members of what Mr. Buchan calls \'The\n2nd.--Semi-chorus,\' who have absolutely no hesitation in interrupting the\nprogress of the play with observations of this kind:\n\n 2ND.--semi-chorus\n\n Ah! but favour extreme shown to one\n Among equals who yet stand apart,\n Awakeneth, say ye, if naturally,\n The demons--jealousy, envy, hate,--\n In the breast of those passed by.\n\nIt is a curious thing that when minor poets write choruses to a play they\nshould always consider it necessary to adopt the style and language of a\nbad translator. We fear that Mr. Bohn has much to answer for.\n\nGod\'s Garden is a well-meaning attempt to use Nature for theological and\neducational purposes. It belongs to that antiquated school of thought\nthat, in spite of the discoveries of modern science, invites the sluggard\nto look at the ant, and the idle to imitate the bee. It is full of false\nanalogies and dull eighteenth-century didactics. It tells us that the\nflowering cactus should remind us that a dwarf may possess mental and\nmoral qualities, that the mountain ash should teach us the precious\nfruits of affliction, and that a fond father should learn from the\nexample of the chestnut that the most beautiful children often turn out\nbadly! We must admit that we have no sympathy with this point of view,\nand we strongly protest against the idea that\n\n The flaming poppy, with its black core, tells\n Of anger\'s flushing face, and heart of sin.\n\nThe worst use that man can make of Nature is to turn her into a mirror\nfor his own vices, nor are Nature\'s secrets ever disclosed to those who\napproach her in this spirit. However, the author of this irritating\nlittle volume is not always botanising and moralising in this reckless\nand improper fashion. He has better moments, and those who sympathise\nwith the Duke of Westminster\'s efforts to provide open spaces for the\npeople, will no doubt join in the aspiration--\n\n God bless wise Grosvenors whose hearts incline,\n Workmen to fete, and grateful souls refine;\n\nthough they may regret that so noble a sentiment is expressed in so\ninadequate a form.\n\nIt is difficult to understand why Mr. Cyrus Thornton should have called\nhis volume Voices of the Street. However, poets have a perfect right to\nchristen their own children, and if the wine is good no one should\nquarrel with the bush. Mr. Thornton\'s verse is often graceful and\nmelodious, and some of his lines, such as--\n\n And the wise old Roman bondsman saw no terror in the dead--\n Children when the play was over, going softly home to bed,\n\nhave a pleasant Tennysonian ring. The Ballad of the Old Year is rather\ndepressing. \'Bury the Old Year Solemnly\' has been said far too often,\nand the sentiment is suitable only for Christmas crackers. The best\nthing in the book is The Poet\'s Vision of Death, which is quite above the\naverage.\n\nMrs. Dobell informs us that she has already published sixteen volumes of\npoetry and that she intends to publish two more. The volume that now\nlies before us is entitled In the Watches of the Night, most of the poems\nthat it contains having been composed \'in the neighbourhood of the sea,\nbetween the hours of ten and two o\'clock.\' Judging from the following\nextract we cannot say that we consider this a very favourable time for\ninspiration, at any rate in the case of Mrs. Dobell:\n\n Were Anthony Trollope and George Eliot\n Alive--which unfortunately they are not--\n As regards the subject of \'quack-snubbing,\' you know,\n To support me I am sure they hadn\'t been slow--\n For they, too, hated the wretched parasite\n That fattens on the freshest, the most bright\n Of the blossoms springing from the--Public Press!--\n And that oft are flowers that even our quacks should bless!\n\n(1) Poor Folks\' Lives. By the Rev. Frederick Langbridge. (Simpkin,\nMarshall and Co.)\n\n(2) Pictures in the Fire. By George Dalziel. (Privately Printed.)\n\n(3) Women Must Weep. By Professor F. Harald Williams. (Swan\nSonnenschein and Co.)\n\n(4) Joseph and His Brethren: a Trilogy. By Alexander Buchan. (Digby and\nLong.)\n\n(5) God\'s Garden. By Heartsease. (James Nisbet and Co.)\n\n(6) Voices of the Street. By Cyrus Thornton. (Elliot Stock.)\n\n(7) In the Watches of the Night. By Mrs. Horace Dobell. (Remington and\nCo.)\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--IV\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, February 1888.)\n\nCanute The Great, by Michael Field, is in many respects a really\nremarkable work of art. Its tragic element is to be found in life, not\nin death; in the hero\'s psychological development, not in his moral\ndeclension or in any physical calamity; and the author has borrowed from\nmodern science the idea that in the evolutionary struggle for existence\nthe true tragedy may be that of the survivor. Canute, the rough generous\nViking, finds himself alienated from his gods, his forefathers, his very\ndreams. With centuries of Pagan blood in his veins, he sets himself to\nthe task of becoming a great Christian governor and lawgiver to men; and\nyet he is fully conscious that, while he has abandoned the noble impulses\nof his race, he still retains that which in his nature is most fierce or\nfearful. It is not by faith that he reaches the new creed, nor through\ngentleness that he seeks after the new culture. The beautiful Christian\nwoman whom he has made queen of his life and lands teaches him no mercy,\nand knows nothing of forgiveness. It is sin and not suffering that\npurifies him--mere sin itself. \'Be not afraid,\' he says in the last\ngreat scene of the play:\n\n \'Be not afraid;\n I have learnt this, sin is a mighty bond\n \'Twixt God and man. Love that has ne\'er forgiven\n Is virgin and untender; spousal passion\n Becomes acquainted with life\'s vilest things,\n Transmutes them, and exalts. Oh, wonderful,\n This touch of pardon,--all the shame cast out;\n The heart a-ripple with the gaiety,\n The leaping consciousness that Heaven knows all,\n And yet esteems us royal. Think of it--\n The joy, the hope!\'\n\nThis strange and powerful conception is worked out in a manner as strong\nas it is subtle; and, indeed, almost every character in the play seems to\nsuggest some new psychological problem. The mere handling of the verse\nis essentially characteristic of our modern introspective method, as it\npresents to us, not thought in its perfected form, but the involutions of\nthought seeking for expression. We seem to witness the very workings of\nthe mind, and to watch the passion struggling for utterance. In plays of\nthis kind (plays that are meant to be read, not to be acted) it must be\nadmitted that we often miss that narrative and descriptive element which\nin the epic is so great a charm, and, indeed, may be said to be almost\nessential to the perfect literary presentation of any story. This\nelement the Greek managed to retain by the introduction of chorus and\nmessenger; but we seem to have been unable to invent any substitute for\nit. That there is here a distinct loss cannot, I think, be denied. There\nis something harsh, abrupt, and inartistic in such a stage-direction as\n\'Canute strangles Edric, flings his body into the stream, and gazes out.\'\nIt strikes no dramatic note, it conveys no picture, it is meagre and\ninadequate. If acted it might be fine; but as read, it is unimpressive.\nHowever, there is no form of art that has not got its limitations, and\nthough it is sad to see the action of a play relegated to a formal\nfootnote, still there is undoubtedly a certain gain in psychological\nanalysis and psychological concentration.\n\nIt is a far cry from the Knutlinga Saga to Rossetti\'s note-book, but\nMichael Field passes from one to the other without any loss of power.\nIndeed, most readers will probably prefer The Cup of Water, which is the\nsecond play in this volume, to the earlier historical drama. It is more\npurely poetical; and if it has less power, it has certainly more beauty.\nRossetti conceived the idea of a story in which a young king falls\npassionately in love with a little peasant girl who gives him a cup of\nwater, and is by her beloved in turn, but being betrothed to a noble\nlady, he yields her in marriage to his friend, on condition that once a\nyear--on the anniversary of their meeting--she brings him a cup of water.\nThe girl dies in childbirth, leaving a daughter who grows into her\nmother\'s perfect likeness, and comes to meet the king when he is hunting.\nJust, however, as he is about to take the cup from her hand, a second\nfigure, in her exact likeness, but dressed in peasant\'s clothes, steps to\nher side, looks in the king\'s face, and kisses him on the mouth. He\nfalls forward on his horse\'s neck, and is lifted up dead. Michael Field\nhas struck out the supernatural element so characteristic of Rossetti\'s\ngenius, and in some other respects modified for dramatic purposes\nmaterial Rossetti left unused. The result is a poem of exquisite and\npathetic grace. Cara, the peasant girl, is a creation as delicate as it\nis delightful, and it deserves to rank beside the Faun of Callirhoe. As\nfor the young king who loses all the happiness of his life through one\nnoble moment of unselfishness, and who recognised as he stands over\nCara\'s dead body that\n\n women are not chattels,\n To deal with as one\'s generosity\n May prompt or straiten, . . .\n\nand that\n\n we must learn\n To drink life\'s pleasures if we would be pure,\n\nhe is one of the most romantic figures in all modern dramatic work.\nLooked at from a purely technical point of view, Michael Field\'s verse is\nsometimes lacking in music, and has no sustained grandeur of movement;\nbut it is extremely dramatic, and its method is admirably suited to\nexpress those swift touches of nature and sudden flashes of thought which\nare Michael Field\'s distinguishing qualities. As for the moral contained\nin these plays, work that has the rich vitality of life has always\nsomething of life\'s mystery also; it cannot be narrowed down to a formal\ncreed, nor summed up in a platitude; it has many answers, and more than\none secret.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss Frances Martin\'s Life of Elizabeth Gilbert is an extremely\ninteresting book. Elizabeth Gilbert was born at a time when, as her\nbiographer reminds us, kindly and intelligent men and women could gravely\nimplore the Almighty to \'take away\' a child merely because it was blind;\nwhen they could argue that to teach the blind to read, or to attempt to\nteach them to work, was to fly in the face of Providence; and her whole\nlife was given to the endeavour to overcome this prejudice and\nsuperstition; to show that blindness, though a great privation, is not\nnecessarily a disqualification; and that blind men and women can learn,\nlabour, and fulfil all the duties of life. Before her day all that the\nblind were taught was to commit texts from the Bible to memory. She saw\nthat they could learn handicrafts, and be made industrious and\nself-supporting. She began with a small cellar in Holborn, at the rent\nof eighteenpence a week, but before her death she could point to large\nand well-appointed workshops in almost every city of England where blind\nmen and women are employed, where tools have been invented by or modified\nfor them, and where agencies have been established for the sale of their\nwork. The whole story of her life is full of pathos and of beauty. She\nwas not born blind, but lost her sight through an attack of scarlet fever\nwhen she was three years old. For a long time she could not realise her\nposition, and we hear of the little child making earnest appeals to be\ntaken \'out of the dark room,\' or to have a candle lighted; and once she\nwhispered to her father, \'If I am a very good little girl, may I see my\ndoll to-morrow?\' However, all memory of vision seems to have faded from\nher before she left the sick-room, though, taught by those around her,\nshe soon began to take an imaginary interest in colour, and a very real\none in form and texture. An old nurse is still alive who remembers\nmaking a pink frock for her when she was a child, her delight at its\nbeing pink and her pleasure in stroking down the folds; and when in 1835\nthe young Princess Victoria visited Oxford with her mother, Bessie, as\nshe was always called, came running home, exclaiming, \'Oh, mamma, I have\nseen the Duchess of Kent, and she had on a brown silk dress.\' Her\nyouthful admiration of Wordsworth was based chiefly upon his love of\nflowers, but also on personal knowledge. When she was about ten years\nold, Wordsworth went to Oxford to receive the honorary degree of D.C.L.\nfrom the University. He stayed with Dr. Gilbert, then Principal of\nBrasenose, and won Bessie\'s heart the first day by telling at the dinner\ntable how he had almost leapt off the coach in Bagley Wood to gather the\nblue veronica. But she had a better reason for remembering that visit.\nOne day she was in the drawing-room alone, and Wordsworth entered. For a\nmoment he stood silent before the blind child, the little sensitive face,\nwith its wondering, inquiring look, turned towards him. Then he gravely\nsaid, \'Madam, I hope I do not disturb you.\' She never forgot that\n\'Madam\'--grave, solemn, almost reverential.\n\nAs for the great practical work of her life, the amelioration of the\ncondition of the blind, Miss Martin gives a wonderful account of her\nnoble efforts and her noble success; and the volume contains a great many\ninteresting letters from eminent people, of which the following\ncharacteristic note from Mr. Ruskin is not the least interesting:\n\n DENMARK HILL, 2nd September 1871.\n\n MADAM,--I am obliged by your letter, and I deeply sympathise with the\n objects of the institution over which you preside. But one of my main\n principles of work is that every one must do their best, and spend\n their all in their own work, and mine is with a much lower race of\n sufferers than you plead for--with those who \'have eyes and see\n not.\'--I am, Madam, your faithful servant, J. Ruskin.\n\nMiss Martin is a most sympathetic biographer, and her book should be read\nby all who care to know the history of one of the remarkable women of our\ncentury.\n\n* * * * *\n\nOurselves and Our Neighbours is a pleasant volume of social essays from\nthe pen of one of the most graceful and attractive of all American\npoetesses, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton. Mrs. Moulton, who has a very\nlight literary touch, discusses every important modern problem--from\nSociety rosebuds and old bachelors, down to the latest fashions in\nbonnets and in sonnets. The best chapter in the book is that entitled\n\'The Gospel of Good Gowns,\' which contains some very excellent remarks on\nthe ethics of dress. Mrs. Moulton sums up her position in the following\npassage:--\n\n The desire to please is a natural characteristic of unspoiled\n womanhood. \'If I lived in the woods, I should dress for the trees,\'\n said a woman widely known for taste and for culture. Every woman\'s\n dress should be, and if she has any ideality will be, an expression of\n herself. . . . The true gospel of dress is that of fitness and taste.\n Pictures are painted, and music is written, and flowers are fostered,\n that life may be made beautiful. Let women delight our eyes like\n pictures, be harmonious as music, and fragrant as flowers, that they\n also may fulfil their mission of grace and of beauty. By\n companionship with beautiful thoughts shall their tastes be so formed\n that their toilets will never be out of harmony with their means or\n their position. They will be clothed almost as unconsciously as the\n lilies of the field; but each one will be herself, and there will be\n no more uniformity in their attire than in their faces.\n\nThe modern Dryad who is ready to \'dress for the trees\' seems to me a\ncharming type; but I hardly think that Mrs. Moulton is right when she\nsays that the woman of the future will be clothed \'almost as\nunconsciously as the lilies of the field.\' Possibly, however, she means\nmerely to emphasise the distinction between dressing and dressing-up, a\ndistinction which is often forgotten.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWarring\' Angels is a very sad and suggestive story. It contains no\nimpossible heroine and no improbable hero, but is simply a faithful\ntranscript from life, a truthful picture of men and women as they are.\nDarwin could not have enjoyed it, as it does not end happily. There is,\nat least, no distribution of cakes and ale in the last chapter. But,\nthen, scientific people are not always the best judges of literature.\nThey seem to think that the sole aim of art should be to amuse, and had\nthey been consulted on the subject would have banished Melpomene from\nParnassus. It may be admitted, however, that not a little of our modern\nart is somewhat harsh and painful. Our Castaly is very salt with tears,\nand we have bound the brows of the Muses with cypress and with yew. We\nare often told that we are a shallow age, yet we have certainly the\nsaddest literature of all the ages, for we have made Truth and not Beauty\nthe aim of art, and seem to value imitation more than imagination. This\ntendency is, of course, more marked in fiction than it is in poetry.\nBeauty of form is always in itself a source of joy; the mere _technique_\nof verse has an imaginative and spiritual element; and life must, to a\ncertain degree, be transfigured before it can find its expression in\nmusic. But ordinary fiction, rejecting the beauty of form in order to\nrealise the facts of life, seems often to lack the vital element of\ndelight, to miss that pleasure-giving power in virtue of which the arts\nexist. It would not, however, be fair to regard Warring Angels simply as\na specimen of literary photography. It has a marked distinction of\nstyle, a definite grace and simplicity of manner. There is nothing crude\nin it, though it is to a certain degree inexperienced; nothing violent,\nthough it is often strong. The story it has to tell has frequently been\ntold before, but the treatment makes it new; and Lady Flower, for whose\nwhite soul the angels of good and evil are at war, is admirably\nconceived, and admirably drawn.\n\n* * * * *\n\nA Song of Jubilee and Other Poems contains some pretty, picturesque\nverses. Its author is Mrs. De Courcy Laffan, who, under the name of Mrs.\nLeith Adams, is well known as a novelist and story writer. The Jubilee\nOde is quite as good as most of the Jubilee Odes have been, and some of\nthe short poems are graceful. This from The First Butterfly is pretty:\n\n O little bird without a song! I love\n Thy silent presence, floating in the light--\n A living, perfect thing, when scarcely yet\n The snow-white blossom crawls along the wall,\n And not a daisy shows its star-like head\n Amid the grass.\n\nMiss Bella Duffy\'s Life of Madame de Stael forms part of that admirable\n\'Eminent Women\' Series, which is so well edited by Mr. John H. Ingram.\nThere is nothing absolutely new in Miss Duffy\'s book, but this was not to\nbe expected. Unpublished correspondence, that delight of the eager\nbiographer, is not to be had in the case of Madame de Stael, the De\nBroglie family having either destroyed or successfully concealed all the\npapers which might have revealed any facts not already in the possession\nof the world. Upon the other hand, the book has the excellent quality of\ncondensation, and gives us in less than two hundred pages a very good\npicture of Madame de Stael and her day. Miss Duffy\'s criticism of\nCorinne is worth quoting:\n\n Corinne is a classic of which everybody is bound to speak with\n respect. The enormous admiration which it exacted at the time of its\n appearance may seem somewhat strange in this year of grace; but then\n it must be remembered that Italy was not the over-written country it\n has since become. Besides this, Madame de Stael was the most\n conspicuous personage of her day. Except Chateaubriand, she had\n nobody to dispute with her the palm of literary glory in France. Her\n exile, her literary circle, her courageous opinions, had kept the eyes\n of Europe fixed on her for years, so that any work from her pen was\n sure to excite the liveliest curiosity.\n\n Corinne is a kind of glorified guide-book, with some of the qualities\n of a good novel. It is very long winded, but the appetite of the age\n was robust in that respect, and the highly-strung emotions of the hero\n and heroine could not shock a taste which had been formed by the\n Sorrows of Werther. It is extremely moral, deeply sentimental, and of\n a deadly earnestness--three characteristics which could not fail to\n recommend it to a dreary and ponderous generation, the most deficient\n in taste that ever trod the earth.\n\n But it is artistic in the sense that the interest is concentrated from\n first to last on the central figure, and the drama, such as it is,\n unfolds itself naturally from its starting point, which is the\n contrast between the characters of Oswald and Corinne.\n\nThe \'dreary and ponderous generation, the most deficient in taste that\never trod the earth,\' seems to me a somewhat exaggerated mode of\nexpression, but \'glorified guide-book\' is a not unfelicitous description\nof the novel that once thrilled Europe. Miss Duffy sums up her opinion\nof Madame de Stael as a writer in the following passage:\n\n Her mind was strong of grasp and wide in range, but continuous effort\n fatigued it. She could strike out isolated sentences alternately\n brilliant, exhaustive, and profound, but she could not link them to\n other sentences so as to form an organic whole. Her thought was\n definite singly, but vague as a whole. She always saw things\n separately, and tried to combine them arbitrarily, and it is generally\n difficult to follow out any idea of hers from its origin to its end.\n Her thoughts are like pearls of price profusely scattered, or\n carelessly strung together, but not set in any design. On closing one\n of her books, the reader is left with no continuous impression. He\n has been dazzled and delighted, enlightened also by flashes; but the\n horizons disclosed have vanished again, and the outlook is enriched by\n no new vistas.\n\n Then she was deficient in the higher qualities of the imagination. She\n could analyse, but not characterise; construct, but not create. She\n could take one defect like selfishness, or one passion like love, and\n display its workings; or she could describe a whole character, like\n Napoleon\'s, with marvellous penetration; but she could not make her\n personages talk, or act like human beings. She lacked pathos, and had\n no sense of humour. In short, hers was a mind endowed with enormous\n powers of comprehension, and an amazing richness of ideas, but\n deficient in perception of beauty, in poetry, and in true originality.\n She was a great social personage, but her influence on literature was\n not destined to be lasting, because, in spite of foreseeing too much,\n she had not the true prophetic sense of proportion, and confused the\n things of the present with those of the future--the accidental with\n the enduring.\n\nI cannot but think that in this passage Miss Duffy rather underrates\nMadame de Stael\'s influence on the literature of the nineteenth century.\nIt is true that she gave our literature no new form, but she was one of\nthose who gave it a new spirit, and the romantic movement owes her no\nsmall debt. However, a biography should be read for its pictures more\nthan for its criticisms, and Miss Duffy shows a remarkable narrative\npower, and tells with a good deal of esprit the wonderful adventures of\nthe brilliant woman whom Heine termed \'a whirlwind in petticoats.\'\n\n* * * * *\n\nMr. Harcourt\'s reprint of John Evelyn\'s Life of Mrs. Godolphin is a\nwelcome addition to the list of charming library books. Mr. Harcourt\'s\ngrandfather, the Archbishop of York, himself John Evelyn\'s great-great-\ngrandson, inherited the manuscript from his distinguished ancestor, and\nin 1847 entrusted it for publication to Samuel Wilberforce, then Bishop\nof Oxford. As the book has been for a long time out of print, this new\nedition is sure to awake fresh interest in the life of the noble and\nvirtuous lady whom John Evelyn so much admired. Margaret Godolphin was\none of the Queen\'s Maids of Honour at the Court of Charles II., and was\ndistinguished for the delicate purity of her nature, as well as for her\nhigh intellectual attainments. Some of the extracts Evelyn gives from\nher Diary seem to show an austere, formal, almost ascetic spirit; but it\nwas inevitable that a nature so refined as hers should have turned in\nhorror from such ideals of life as were presented by men like Buckingham\nand Rochester, like Etheridge, Killigrew, and Sedley, like the King\nhimself, to whom she could scarcely bring herself to speak. After her\nmarriage she seems to have become happier and brighter, and her early\ndeath makes her a pathetic and interesting figure in the history of the\ntime. Evelyn can see no fault in her, and his life of her is the most\nwonderful of all panegyrics.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAmongst the Maids-of-Honour mentioned by John Evelyn is Frances Jennings,\nthe elder sister of the great Duchess of Marlborough. Miss Jennings, who\nwas one of the most beautiful women of her day, married first Sir George\nHamilton, brother of the author of the Memoires de Grammont, and\nafterwards Richard Talbot, who was made Duke of Tyrconnel by James II.\nWilliam\'s successful occupation of Ireland, where her husband was Lord\nDeputy, reduced her to poverty and obscurity, and she was probably the\nfirst Peeress who ever took to millinery as a livelihood. She had a\ndressmaker\'s shop in the Strand, and, not wishing to be detected, sat in\na white mask and a white dress, and was known by the name of the \'White\nWidow.\'\n\nI was reminded of the Duchess when I read Miss Emily Faithfull\'s\nadmirable article in Gralignani on \'Ladies as Shopkeepers.\' \'The most\ndaring innovation in England at this moment,\' says Miss Faithfull, \'is\nthe lady shopkeeper. At present but few people have had the courage to\nbrave the current social prejudice. We draw such fine distinctions\nbetween the wholesale and retail traders that our cotton-spinners, calico-\nmakers, and general merchants seem to think that they belong to a totally\ndifferent sphere, from which they look down on the lady who has had\nsufficient brains, capital, and courage to open a shop. But the old\nworld moves faster than it did in former days, and before the end of the\nnineteenth century it is probable that a gentlewoman will be recognised\nin spite of her having entered on commercial pursuits, especially as we\nare growing accustomed to see scions of our noblest families on our Stock\nExchange and in tea-merchants\' houses; one Peer of the realm is now doing\nan extensive business in coals, and another is a cab proprietor.\' Miss\nFaithfull then proceeds to give a most interesting account of the London\ndairy opened by the Hon. Mrs. Maberley, of Madame Isabel\'s millinery\nestablishment, and of the wonderful work done by Miss Charlotte Robinson,\nwho has recently been appointed Decorator to the Queen. About three\nyears ago, Miss Faithfull tells us, Miss Robinson came to Manchester, and\nopened a shop in King Street, and, regardless of that bugbear which\nterrifies most women--the loss of social status--she put up her own name\nover the door, and without the least self-assertion quietly entered into\ncompetition with the sterner sex. The result has been eminently\nsatisfactory. This year Miss Robinson has exhibited at Saltaire and at\nManchester, and next year she proposes to exhibit at Glasgow, and,\npossibly, at Brussels. At first she had some difficulty in making people\nunderstand that her work is really commercial, not charitable; she feels\nthat, until a healthy public opinion is created, women will pose as\n\'destitute ladies,\' and never take a dignified position in any calling\nthey adopt. Gentlemen who earn their own living are not spoken of as\n\'destitute,\' and we must banish this idea in connection with ladies who\nare engaged in an equally honourable manner. Miss Faithfull concludes\nher most valuable article as follows: \'The more highly educated our women\nof business are, the better for themselves, their work, and the whole\ncommunity. Many of the professions to which ladies have hitherto turned\nare overcrowded, and when once the fear of losing social position is\nboldy disregarded, it will be found that commercial life offers a variety\nof more or less lucrative employments to ladies of birth and capital, who\nfind it more congenial to their tastes and requirements to invest their\nmoney and spend their energies in a business which yields a fair return\nrather than sit at home content with a scanty pittance.\'\n\nI myself entirely agree with Miss Faithfull, though I feel that there is\nsomething to be said in favour of the view put forward by Lady Shrewsbury\nin the Woman\'s World, {289} and a great deal to be said in favour of Mrs.\nJoyce\'s scheme for emigration. Mr. Walter Besant, if we are to judge\nfrom his last novel, is of Lady Shrewsbury\'s way of thinking.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI hope that some of my readers will be interested in Miss Beatrice\nCrane\'s little poem, Blush-Roses, for which her father, Mr. Walter Crane,\nhas done so lovely and graceful a design. Mrs. Simon, of Birkdale Park,\nSouthport, tells me that she offered a prize last term at her school for\nthe best sonnet on any work of art. The poems were sent to Professor\nDowden, who awarded the prize to the youthful authoress of the following\nsonnet on Mr. Watts\'s picture of Hope:\n\n She sits with drooping form and fair bent head,\n Low-bent to hear the faintly-sounding strain\n That thrills her with the sweet uncertain pain\n Of timid trust and restful tears unshed.\n Around she feels vast spaces. Awe and dread\n\n Encompass her.\n And the dark doubt she fain\n Would banish, sees the shuddering fear remain,\n And ever presses near with stealthy tread.\n\n But not for ever will the misty space\n Close down upon her meekly-patient eyes.\n The steady light within them soon will ope\n Their heavy lids, and then the sweet fair face,\n Uplifted in a sudden glad surprise,\n Will find the bright reward which comes to Hope.\n\nI myself am rather inclined to prefer this sonnet on Mr. Watts\'s Psyche.\nThe sixth line is deficient; but, in spite of the faulty _technique_,\nthere is a great deal that is suggestive in it:\n\n Unfathomable boundless mystery,\n Last work of the Creator, deathless, vast,\n Soul--essence moulded of a changeful past;\n Thou art the offspring of Eternity;\n Breath of his breath, by his vitality\n Engendered, in his image cast,\n Part of the Nature-song whereof the last\n Chord soundeth never in the harmony.\n \'Psyche\'! Thy form is shadowed o\'er with pain\n Born of intensest longing, and the rain\n Of a world\'s weeping lieth like a sea\n Of silent soundless sorrow in thine eyes.\n Yet grief is not eternal, for clouds rise\n From out the ocean everlastingly.\n\nI have to thank Mr. William Rossetti for kindly allowing me to reproduce\nDante Gabriel Rossetti\'s drawing of the authoress of Goblin Market; and\nthanks are also due to Mr. Lafayette, of Dublin, for the use of his\nphotograph of H.R.H. the Princess of Wales in her Academic Robes as\nDoctor of Music, which served as our frontispiece last month, and to\nMessrs. Hills and Saunders, of Oxford, and Mr. Lord and Mr. Blanchard, of\nCambridge, for a similar courtesy in the case of the article on Greek\nPlays at the Universities.\n\n(1) Canute the Great. By Michael Field. (Bell and Sons.)\n\n(2) Life of Elizabeth Gilbert. By Frances Martin. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(3) Ourselves and Our Neighbours. By Louise Chandler Moulton. (Ward and\nDowney.)\n\n(4) Warring Angels. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(5) A Song of Jubilee and Other Poems. By Mrs. De Courcy Laffan. (Kegan\nPaul.)\n\n(6) Life of Madame de Stael. By Bella Duffy. \'Eminent Women\' Series.\n\n(7) Life of Mrs. Godolphin. By John Evelyn, Esq., of Wooton. Edited by\nWilliam Harcourt of Nuneham. (Sampson Low, Marston and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--V\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 15, 1888.)\n\nMr. Heywood\'s Salome seems to have thrilled the critics of the United\nStates. From a collection of press notices prefixed to the volume we\nlearn that Putnam\'s Magazine has found in it \'the simplicity and grace of\nnaked Grecian statues,\' and that Dr. Jos. G. Cogswell, LL.D., has\ndeclared that it will live to be appreciated \'as long as the English\nlanguage endures.\' Remembering that prophecy is the most gratuitous form\nof error, we will not attempt to argue with Dr. Jos. G. Cogswell, LL.D.,\nbut will content ourselves with protesting against such a detestable\nexpression as \'naked Grecian statues.\' If this be the literary style of\nthe future the English language will not endure very long. As for the\npoem itself, the best that one can say of it is that it is a triumph of\nconscientious industry. From an artistic point of view it is a very\ncommonplace production indeed, and we must protest against such blank\nverse as the following:\n\n From the hour I saw her first, I was entranced,\n Or embosomed in a charmed world, circumscribed\n By its proper circumambient atmosphere,\n Herself its centre, and wide pervading spirit.\n The air all beauty of colour held dissolved,\n And tints distilled as dew are shed by heaven.\n\nMr. Griffiths\' Sonnets and Other Poems are very simple, which is a good\nthing, and very sentimental, which is a thing not quite so good. As a\ngeneral rule, his verse is full of pretty echoes of other writers, but in\none sonnet he makes a distinct attempt to be original and the result is\nextremely depressing.\n\n Earth wears her grandest robe, by autumn spun,\n Like some stout matron who of youth has run\n The course, . . .\n\nis the most dreadful simile we have ever come across even in poetry. Mr.\nGriffiths should beware of originality. Like beauty, it is a fatal gift.\n\nImitators of Mr. Browning are, unfortunately, common enough, but\nimitators of Mr. and Mrs. Browning combined are so very rare that we have\nread Mr. Francis Prevost\'s Fires of Green Wood with great interest. Here\nis a curious reproduction of the manner of Aurora Leigh:\n\n But Spring! that part at least our unchaste eyes\n Infer from some wind-blown philactery,\n (It wears its breast bare also)--chestnut buds,\n Pack\'d in white wool as though sent here from heaven,\n Stretching wild stems to reach each climbing lark\n That shouts against the fading stars.\n\nAnd here is a copy of Mr. Browning\'s mannerisms. We do not like it quite\nso well:\n\n If another\n Save all bother,\n Hold that perhaps loaves grow like parsnips:\n Call the baker\n Heaven\'s care-taker,\n Live, die; Death may show him where the farce nips.\n Not I; truly\n He may duly\n Into church or church-day shunt God;\n Chink his pocket,\n Win your locket;--\n Down we go together to confront God.\n\nYet, in spite of these ingenious caricatures there are some good poems,\nor perhaps we should say some good passages, in Mr. Prevost\'s volume. The\nWhitening of the Thorn-tree, for instance, opens admirably, and is, in\nsome respects, a rather remarkable story. We have no doubt that some day\nMr. Prevost will be able to study the great masters without stealing from\nthem.\n\nMr. John Cameron Grant has christened himself \'England\'s Empire Poet,\'\nand, lest we should have any doubts upon the subject, tells us that he\n\'dare not lie,\' a statement which in a poet seems to show a great want of\ncourage. Protection and Paper-Unionism are the gods of Mr. Grant\'s\nidolatry, and his verse is full of such fine fallacies and masterly\nmisrepresentations that he should be made Laureate to the Primrose League\nat once. Such a stanza as--\n\n Ask the ruined Sugar-worker if he loves the foreign beet--\n Rather, one can hear him answer, would I see my children eat--\n\nwould thrill any Tory tea-party in the provinces, and it would be\ndifficult for the advocates of Coercion to find a more appropriate or a\nmore characteristic peroration for a stump speech than\n\n We have not to do with justice, right depends on point of view,\n The one question for our thought is, what\'s our neighbour going to do.\n\nThe hymn to the Union Jack, also, would make a capital leaflet for\ndistribution in boroughs where the science of heraldry is absolutely\nunknown, and the sonnet on Mr. Gladstone is sure to be popular with all\nwho admire violence and vulgarity in literature. It is quite worthy of\nThersites at his best.\n\nMr. Evans\'s Caesar Borgia is a very tedious tragedy. Some of the\npassages are in the true \'Ercles\' vein,\' like the following:\n\n CAESAR (starting up).\n Help, Michelotto, help! Begone! Begone!\n Fiends! torments! devils! Gandia! What, Gandia?\n O turn those staring eyes away. See! See\n He bleeds to death! O fly! Who are those fiends\n That tug me by the throat? O! O! O! O! (Pauses.)\n\nBut, as a rule, the style is of a more commonplace character. The other\npoems in the volume are comparatively harmless, though it is sad to find\nShakespeare\'s \'Bacchus with pink eyne\' reappearing as \'pinky-eyed\nSilenus.\'\n\nThe Cross and the Grail is a collection of poems on the subject of\ntemperance. Compared to real poetry these verses are as \'water unto\nwine,\' but no doubt this was the effect intended. The illustrations are\nquite dreadful, especially one of an angel appearing to a young man from\nChicago who seems to be drinking brown sherry.\n\nJuvenal in Piccadilly and The Excellent Mystery are two fierce social\nsatires and, like most satires, they are the product of the corruption\nthey pillory. The first is written on a very convenient principle. Blank\nspaces are left for the names of the victims and these the reader can\nfill up as he wishes.\n\n Must--bluster,--give the lie,\n --wear the night out,--sneer!\n\nis an example of this anonymous method. It does not seem to us very\neffective. The Excellent Mystery is much better. It is full of clever\nepigrammatic lines, and its wit fully atones for its bitterness. It is\nhardly a poem to quote but it is certainly a poem to read.\n\nThe Chronicle of Mites is a mock-heroic poem about the inhabitants of a\ndecaying cheese who speculate about the origin of their species and hold\nlearned discussions upon the meaning of evolution and the Gospel\naccording to Darwin. This cheese-epic is a rather unsavoury production\nand the style is at times so monstrous and so realistic that the author\nshould be called the Gorgon-Zola of literature.\n\n(1) Salome. By J. C. Heywood. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(2) Sonnets and Other Poems. By William Griffiths. (Digby and Long.)\n\n(3) Fires of Green Wood. By Francis Prevost. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(4) Vanclin and Other Verses. By John Cameron Grant. (E. W. Allen.)\n\n(5) Caesar Borgia. By W. Evans, M.A. (William Maxwell and Son.)\n\n(6) The Cross and the Grail. (Women\'s Temperance Association, Chicago.)\n\n(7) Juvenal in Piccadilly. By Oxoniensis. (Vizetelly and Co.)\n\n(8) The Excellent Mystery: A Matrimonial Satire. By Lord Pimlico.\n(Vizetelly and Co.)\n\n(9) The Chronicle of Mites. By James Aitchison. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nVENUS OR VICTORY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 24, 1888.)\n\nThere are certain problems in archaeology that seem to possess a real\nromantic interest, and foremost among these is the question of the so-\ncalled Venus of Melos. Who is she, this marble mutilated goddess whom\nGautier loved, to whom Heine bent his knee? What sculptor wrought her,\nand for what shrine? Whose hands walled her up in that rude niche where\nthe Melian peasant found her? What symbol of her divinity did she carry?\nWas it apple of gold or shield of bronze? Where is her city and what was\nher name among gods and men? The last writer on this fascinating subject\nis Mr. Stillman, who in a most interesting book recently published in\nAmerica, claims that the work of art in question is no sea-born and foam-\nborn Aphrodite, but the very Victory Without Wings that once stood in the\nlittle chapel outside the gates of the Acropolis at Athens. So long ago\nas 1826, that is to say six years after the discovery of the statue, the\nVenus hypothesis was violently attacked by Millingen, and from that time\nto this the battle of the archaeologists has never ceased. Mr. Stillman,\nwho fights, of course, under Millingen\'s banner, points out that the\nstatue is not of the Venus type at all, being far too heroic in character\nto correspond to the Greek conception of Aphrodite at any period of their\nartistic development, but that it agrees distinctly with certain well-\nknown statues of Victory, such as the celebrated \'Victory of Brescia.\'\nThe latter is in bronze, is later, and has the wings, but the type is\nunmistakable, and though not a reproduction it is certainly a\nrecollection of the Melian statue. The representation of Victory on the\ncoin of Agathocles is also obviously of the Melian type, and in the\nmuseum of Naples is a terra-cotta Victory in almost the identical action\nand drapery. As for Dumont d\'Urville\'s statement that, when the statue\nwas discovered, one hand held an apple and the other a fold of the\ndrapery, the latter is obviously a mistake, and the whole evidence on the\nsubject is so contradictory that no reliance can be placed on the\nstatement made by the French Consul and the French naval officers, none\nof whom seems to have taken the trouble to ascertain whether the arm and\nhand now in the Louvre were really found in the same niche as the statue\nat all. At any rate, these fragments seem to be of extremely inferior\nworkmanship, and they are so imperfect that they are quite worthless as\ndata for measure or opinion. So far, Mr. Stillman is on old ground. His\nreal artistic discovery is this. In working about the Acropolis of\nAthens, some years ago, he photographed among other sculptures the\nmutilated Victories in the Temple of Nike Apteros, the \'Wingless\nVictory,\' the little Ionic temple in which stood that statue of Victory\nof which it was said that \'_the Athenians made her without wings that she\nmight never leave Athens_.\' Looking over the photographs afterwards,\nwhen the impression of the comparatively diminutive size had passed, he\nwas struck with the close resemblance of the type to that of the Melian\nstatue. Now, this resemblance is so striking that it cannot be\nquestioned by any one who has an eye for form. There are the same large\nheroic proportions, the same ampleness of physical development, and the\nsame treatment of drapery, and there is also that perfect spiritual\nkinship which, to any true antiquarian, is one of the most valuable modes\nof evidence. Now it is generally admitted on both sides that the Melian\nstatue is probably Attic in its origin, and belongs certainly to the\nperiod between Phidias and Praxiteles, that is to say, to the age of\nScopas, if it be not actually the work of Scopas himself; and as it is to\nScopas that these bas-reliefs have been always attributed, the similarity\nof style can, on Mr. Stillman\'s hypothesis, be easily accounted for.\n\nAs regards the appearance of the statue in Melos, Mr. Stillman points out\nthat Melos belonged to Athens as late as she had any Greek allegiance,\nand that it is probable that the statue was sent there for concealment on\nthe occasion of some siege or invasion. When this took place, Mr.\nStillman does not pretend to decide with any degree of certainty, but it\nis evident that it must have been subsequent to the establishment of the\nRoman hegemony, as the brickwork of the niche in which the statue was\nfound is clearly Roman in character, and before the time of Pausanias and\nPliny, as neither of these antiquaries mentions the statue. Accepting,\nthen, the statue as that of the Victory Without Wings, Mr. Stillman\nagrees with Millingen in supposing that in her left hand she held a\nbronze shield, the lower rim of which rested on the left knee where some\nmarks of the kind are easily recognisable, while with her right hand she\ntraced, or had just finished tracing, the names of the great heroes of\nAthens. Valentin\'s objection, that if this were so the left thigh would\nincline outwards so as to secure a balance, Mr. Stillman meets partly by\nthe analogy of the Victory of Brescia and partly by the evidence of\nNature herself; for he has had a model photographed in the same position\nas the statue and holding a shield in the manner he proposes in his\nrestoration. The result is precisely the contrary to that which Valentin\nassumes. Of course, Mr. Stillman\'s solution of the whole matter must not\nbe regarded as an absolutely scientific demonstration. It is simply an\ninduction in which a kind of artistic instinct, not communicable or\nequally valuable to all people, has had the greatest part, but to this\nmode of interpretation archaeologists as a class have been far too\nindifferent; and it is certain that in the present case it has given us a\ntheory which is most fruitful and suggestive.\n\nThe little temple of Nike Apteros has had, as Mr. Stillman reminds us, a\ndestiny unique of its kind. Like the Parthenon, it was standing little\nmore than two hundred years ago, but during the Turkish occupation it was\nrazed, and its stones all built into the great bastion which covered the\nfront of the Acropolis and blocked up the staircase to the Propylaea. It\nwas dug out and restored, nearly every stone in its place, by two German\narchitects during the reign of Otho, and it stands again just as\nPausanias described it on the spot where old AEgeus watched for the\nreturn of Theseus from Crete. In the distance are Salamis and AEgina,\nand beyond the purple hills lies Marathon. If the Melian statue be\nindeed the Victory Without Wings, she had no unworthy shrine.\n\nThere are some other interesting essays in Mr. Stillman\'s book on the\nwonderful topographical knowledge of Ithaca displayed in the Odyssey, and\ndiscussions of this kind are always interesting as long as there is no\nattempt to represent Homer as the ordinary literary man; but the article\non the Melian statue is by far the most important and the most\ndelightful. Some people will, no doubt, regret the possibility of the\ndisappearance of the old name, and as Venus not as Victory will still\nworship the stately goddess, but there are others who will be glad to see\nin her the image and ideal of that spiritual enthusiasm to which Athens\nowed her liberty, and by which alone can liberty be won.\n\nOn the Track of Ulysses; together with an Excursion in Quest of the So-\ncalled Venus of Melos. By W. J. Stillman. (Houghton, Mifflin and Co.,\nBoston.)\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--V\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, March 1888.)\n\nThe Princess Emily Ruete of Oman and Zanzibar, whose efforts to introduce\nwomen doctors into the East are so well known, has just published a most\ninteresting account of her life, under the title of Memoirs of an Arabian\nPrincess. The Princess is the daughter of the celebrated Sejid Said,\nImam of Mesket and Sultan of Zanzibar, and her long residence in Germany\nhas given her the opportunity of comparing Eastern with Western\ncivilisation. She writes in a very simple and unaffected manner; and\nthough she has many grievances against her brother, the present Sultan\n(who seems never to have forgiven her for her conversion to Christianity\nand her marriage with a German subject), she has too much tact, esprit,\nand good humour to trouble her readers with any dreary record of family\nquarrels and domestic differences. Her book throws a great deal of light\non the question of the position of women in the East, and shows that much\nof what has been written on this subject is quite inaccurate. One of the\nmost curious passages is that in which the Princess gives an account of\nher mother:\n\n My mother was a Circassian by birth, who in early youth had been torn\n away from her home. Her father had been a farmer, and she had always\n lived peacefully with her parents and her little brother and sister.\n War broke out suddenly, and the country was overrun by marauding\n bands. On their approach, the family fled into an underground place,\n as my mother called it--she probably meant a cellar, which is not\n known in Zanzibar. Their place of refuge was, however, invaded by a\n merciless horde, the parents were slain, and the children carried off\n by three mounted Arnauts.\n\n She came into my father\'s possession when quite a child, probably at\n the tender age of seven or eight years, as she cast her first tooth in\n our house. She was at once adopted as playmate by two of my sisters,\n her own age, with whom she was educated and brought up. Together with\n them she learnt to read, which raised her a good deal above her\n equals, who, as a rule, became members of our family at the age of\n sixteen or eighteen years, or older still, when they had outgrown\n whatever taste they might once have had for schooling. She could\n scarcely be called pretty; but she was tall and shapely, had black\n eyes, and hair down to her knees. Of a very gentle disposition, her\n greatest pleasure consisted in assisting other people, in looking\n after and nursing any sick person in the house; and I well remember\n her going about with her books from one patient to another, reading\n prayers to them.\n\n She was in great favour with my father, who never refused her\n anything, though she interceded mostly for others; and when she came\n to see him, he always rose to meet her half-way--a distinction he\n conferred but very rarely. She was as kind and pious as she was\n modest, and in all her dealings frank and open. She had another\n daughter besides myself, who had died quite young. Her mental powers\n were not great, but she was very clever at needlework. She had always\n been a tender and loving mother to me, but this did not hinder her\n from punishing me severely when she deemed it necessary.\n\n She had many friends at Bet-il-Mtoni, which is rarely to be met with\n in an Arab harem. She had the most unshaken and firmest trust in God.\n When I was about five years old, I remember a fire breaking out in the\n stables close by, one night while my father was at his city residence.\n A false alarm spread over the house that we, too, were in imminent\n danger; upon which the good woman hastened to take me on her arm, and\n her big kuran (we pronounce the word thus) on the other, and hurried\n into the open air. On the rest of her possessions she set no value in\n this hour of danger.\n\nHere is a description of Schesade, the Sultan\'s second legitimate wife:\n\n She was a Persian Princess of entrancing beauty, and of inordinate\n extravagance. Her little retinue was composed of one hundred and\n fifty cavaliers, all Persians, who lived on the ground floor; with\n them she hunted and rode in the broad day--rather contrary to Arab\n notions. The Persian women are subjected to quite a Spartan training\n in bodily exercise; they enjoy great liberty, much more so than Arab\n women, but they are also more rude in mind and action.\n\n Schesade is said to have carried on her extravagant style of life\n beyond bounds; her dresses, cut always after the Persian fashion, were\n literally covered with embroideries of pearls. A great many of these\n were picked up nearly every morning by the servants in her rooms,\n where she had dropped them from her garments, but the Princess would\n never take any of these precious jewels back again. She did not only\n drain my father\'s exchequer most wantonly, but violated many of our\n sacred laws; in fact, she had only married him for his high station\n and wealth, and had loved some one else all the time. Such a state of\n things could, of course, only end in a divorce; fortunately Schesade\n had no children of her own. There is a rumour still current among us\n that beautiful Schesade was observed, some years after this event,\n when my father carried on war in Persia, and had the good fortune of\n taking the fortress of Bender Abbas on the Persian Gulf, heading her\n troops, and taking aim at the members of our family herself.\n\nAnother of the remarkable women mentioned by the Princess was her\nstepmother, Azze-bint-Zef, who seems to have completely ruled the Sultan,\nand to have settled all questions of home and foreign policy; while her\ngreat-aunt, the Princess Asche, was regent of the empire during the\nSultan\'s minority, and was the heroine of the siege of Mesket. Of her\nthe Princess gives the following account:\n\n Dressed in man\'s clothes, she inspected the outposts herself at night,\n she watched and encouraged the soldiers in all exposed places, and was\n saved several times only by the speed of her horse in unforeseen\n attacks. One night she rode out, oppressed with care, having just\n received information that the enemy was about to attempt an entrance\n into the city by means of bribery that night, and with intent to\n massacre all; and now she went to convince herself of the loyalty of\n her troops. Very cautiously she rode up to a guard, requesting to\n speak to the \'Akid\' (the officer in charge), and did all in her power\n to seduce him from his duty by great offers of reward on the part of\n the besiegers. The indignation of the brave man, however, completely\n allayed her fears as to the fidelity of the troops, but the experiment\n nearly cost her her own life. The soldiers were about to massacre the\n supposed spy on the spot, and it required all her presence of mind to\n make good her escape.\n\n The situation grew, however, to be very critical at Mesket. Famine at\n last broke out, and the people were well-nigh distracted, as no\n assistance or relief could be expected from without. It was therefore\n decided to attempt a last sortie in order to die at least with glory.\n There was just sufficient powder left for one more attack, but there\n was no more lead for either guns or muskets. In this emergency the\n regent ordered iron nails and pebbles to be used in place of balls.\n The guns were loaded with all the old iron and brass that could be\n collected, and she opened her treasury to have bullets made out of her\n own silver dollars. Every nerve was strained, and the sally succeeded\n beyond all hope. The enemy was completely taken by surprise and fled\n in all directions, leaving more than half their men dead and wounded\n on the field. Mesket was saved, and, delivered out of her deep\n distress, the brave woman knelt down on the battlefield and thanked\n God in fervent prayer.\n\n From that time her Government was a peaceful one, and she ruled so\n wisely that she was able to transfer to her nephew, my father, an\n empire so unimpaired as to place him in a position to extend the\n empire by the conquest of Zanzibar. It is to my great-aunt,\n therefore, that we owe, and not to an inconsiderable degree, the\n acquisition of this second empire.\n\nShe, too, was an Eastern woman!\n\nAll through her book the Princess protests against the idea that Oriental\nwomen are degraded or oppressed, and in the following passage she points\nout how difficult it is for foreigners to get any real information on the\nsubject:\n\n The education of the children is left entirely to the mother, whether\n she be legitimate wife or purchased slave, and it constitutes her\n chief happiness. Some fashionable mothers in Europe shift this duty\n on to the nurse, and, by-and-by, on the governess, and are quite\n satisfied with looking up their children, or receiving their visits,\n once a day. In France the child is sent to be nursed in the country,\n and left to the care of strangers. An Arab mother, on the other hand,\n looks continually after her children. She watches and nurses them\n with the greatest affection, and never leaves them as long as they may\n stand in need of her motherly care, for which she is rewarded by the\n fondest filial love.\n\n If foreigners had more frequent opportunities to observe the\n cheerfulness, the exuberance of spirits even, of Eastern women, they\n would soon and more easily be convinced of the untruth of all those\n stories afloat about the degraded, oppressed, and listless state of\n their life. It is impossible to gain a true insight into the actual\n domesticity in a few moments\' visit; and the conversation carried on,\n on those formal occasions, hardly deserves that name; there is barely\n more than the exchange of a few commonplace remarks--and it is\n questionable if even these have been correctly interpreted.\n\n Notwithstanding his innate hospitality, the Arab has the greatest\n possible objection to having his home pried into by those of another\n land and creed. Whenever, therefore, a European lady called on us,\n the enormous circumference of her hoops (which were the fashion then,\n and took up the entire width of the stairs) was the first thing to\n strike us dumb with wonder; after which, the very meagre conversation\n generally confined itself on both sides to the mysteries of different\n costumes; and the lady retired as wise as she was when she came, after\n having been sprinkled over with attar of roses, and being the richer\n for some parting presents. It is true she had entered a harem; she\n had seen the much-pitied Oriental ladies (though only through their\n veils); she had with her own eyes seen our dresses, our jewellery, the\n nimbleness with which we sat down on the floor--and that was all. She\n could not boast of having seen more than any other foreign lady who\n had called before her. She is conducted upstairs and downstairs, and\n is watched all the time. Rarely she sees more than the\n reception-room, and more rarely still can she guess or find out who\n the veiled lady is with whom she conversed. In short, she has had no\n opportunity whatsoever of learning anything of domestic life, or the\n position of Eastern women.\n\nNo one who is interested in the social position of women in the East\nshould fail to read these pleasantly-written memoirs. The Princess is\nherself a woman of high culture, and the story of her life is as\ninstructive as history and as fascinating as fiction.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMrs. Oliphant\'s Makers of Venice is an admirable literary pendant to the\nsame writer\'s charming book on Florence, though there is a wide\ndifference between the beautiful Tuscan city and the sea-city of the\nAdriatic. Florence, as Mrs. Oliphant points out, is a city full of\nmemories of the great figures of the past. The traveller cannot pass\nalong her streets without treading in the very traces of Dante, without\nstepping on soil made memorable by footprints never to be effaced. The\ngreatness of the surroundings, the palaces, churches, and frowning\nmediaeval castles in the midst of the city, are all thrown into the\nbackground by the greatness, the individuality, the living power and\nvigour of the men who are their originators, and at the same time their\ninspiring soul. But when we turn to Venice the effect is very different.\nWe do not think of the makers of that marvellous city, but rather of what\nthey made. The idealised image of Venice herself meets us everywhere.\nThe mother is not overshadowed by the too great glory of any of her sons.\nIn her records the city is everything--the republic, the worshipped ideal\nof a community in which every man for the common glory seems to have been\nwilling to sink his own. We know that Dante stood within the red walls\nof the arsenal, and saw the galleys making and mending, and the pitch\nflaming up to heaven; Petrarch came to visit the great Mistress of the\nSea, taking refuge there, \'in this city, true home of the human race,\'\nfrom trouble, war and pestilence outside; and Byron, with his facile\nenthusiasms and fervent eloquence, made his home for a time in one of the\nstately, decaying palaces; but with these exceptions no great poet has\never associated himself with the life of Venice. She had architects,\nsculptors and painters, but no singer of her own. The arts through which\nshe gave her message to the world were visible and imitative. Mrs.\nOliphant, in her bright, picturesque style, tells the story of Venice\npleasantly and well. Her account of the two Bellinis is especially\ncharming; and the chapters on Titian and Tintoret are admirably written.\nShe concludes her interesting and useful history with the following\nwords, which are well worthy of quotation, though I must confess that the\n\'alien modernisms\' trouble me not a little:\n\n The critics of recent days have had much to say as to the\n deterioration of Venice in her new activity, and the introduction of\n alien modernisms, in the shape of steamboats and other new industrial\n agents, into her canals and lagoons. But in this adoption of every\n new development of power, Venice is only proving herself the most\n faithful representative of the vigorous republic of old. Whatever\n prejudice or angry love may say, we cannot doubt that the Michiels,\n the Dandolos, the Foscari, the great rulers who formed Venice, had\n steamboats existed in their day, serving their purpose better than\n their barges and peati, would have adopted them without hesitation,\n without a thought of what any critics might say. The wonderful new\n impulse which has made Italy a great power has justly put strength and\n life before those old traditions of beauty, which made her not only\n the \'woman country\' of Europe, but a sort of Odalisque trading upon\n her charms, rather than the nursing mother of a noble and independent\n nation. That in her recoil from that somewhat degrading position, she\n may here and there have proved too regardless of the claims of\n antiquity, we need not attempt to deny; the new spring of life in her\n is too genuine and great to keep her entirely free from this evident\n danger. But it is strange that any one who loves Italy, and sincerely\n rejoices in her amazing resurrection, should fail to recognise how\n venial is this fault.\n\nMiss Mabel Robinson\'s last novel, The Plan of Campaign, is a very\npowerful study of modern political life. As a concession to humanity,\neach of the politicians is made to fall in love, and the charm of their\nvarious romances fully atones for the soundness of the author\'s theory of\nrent. Miss Robinson dissects, describes, and discourses with keen\nscientific insight and minute observation. Her style, though somewhat\nlacking in grace, is, at its best, simple and strong. Richard Talbot and\nElinor Fetherston are admirably conceived and admirably drawn, and the\nwhole account of the murder of Lord Roeglass is most dramatic.\n\nA Year in Eden, by Harriet Waters Preston, is a chronicle of New England\nlife, and is full of the elaborate subtlety of the American school of\nfiction. The Eden in question is the little village of Pierpont, and the\nEve of this provincial paradise is a beautiful girl called Monza\nMiddleton, a fascinating, fearless creature, who brings ruin and misery\non all who love her. Miss Preston writes an admirable prose style, and\nthe minor characters in the book are wonderfully lifelike and true.\n\nThe Englishwoman\'s Year-Book contains a really extraordinary amount of\nuseful information on every subject connected with woman\'s work. In the\ncensus taken in 1831 (six years before the Queen ascended the Throne), no\noccupation whatever was specified as appertaining to women, except that\nof domestic service; but in the census of 1881, the number of occupations\nmentioned as followed by women is upwards of three hundred and thirty.\nThe most popular occupations seem to be those of domestic service, school\nteaching, and dressmaking; the lowest numbers on the list are those of\nbankers, gardeners, and persons engaged in scientific pursuits. Besides\nthese, the Year-Book makes mention of stockbroking and conveyancing as\nprofessions that women are beginning to adopt. The historical account of\nthe literary work done by Englishwomen in this century, as given in the\nYear-Book, is curiously inadequate, and the list of women\'s magazines is\nnot complete, but in all other respects the publication seems a most\nuseful and excellent one.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWordsworth, in one of his interesting letters to Lady Beaumont, says that\nit is \'an awful truth that there neither is nor can be any genuine\nenjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who\nlive or wish to live in the broad light of the world--among those who\neither are, or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration\nin society,\' adding that the mission of poetry is \'to console the\nafflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier; to\nteach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel,\nand, therefore, to become more actively and securely virtuous.\' I am,\nhowever, rather disposed to think that the age in which we live is one\nthat has a very genuine enjoyment of poetry, though we may no longer\nagree with Wordsworth\'s ideas on the subject of the poet\'s proper\nmission; and it is interesting to note that this enjoyment manifests\nitself by creation even more than by criticism. To realise the\npopularity of the great poets, one should turn to the minor poets and see\nwhom they follow, what master they select, whose music they echo. At\npresent, there seems to be a reaction in favour of Lord Tennyson, if we\nare to judge by Rachel and Other Poems, which is a rather remarkable\nlittle volume in its way. The poem that gives its title to the book is\nfull of strong lines and good images; and, in spite of its Tennysonian\nechoes, there is something attractive in such verses as the following:\n\n Day by day along the Orient faintly glows the tender dawn,\n Day by day the pearly dewdrops tremble on the upland lawn:\n\n Day by day the star of morning pales before the coming ray,\n And the first faint streak of radiance brightens to the perfect day.\n\n Day by day the rosebud gathers to itself, from earth and sky,\n Fragrant stores and ampler beauty, lovelier form and deeper dye:\n\n Day by day a richer crimson mantles in its glowing breast--\n Every golden hour conferring some sweet grace that crowns the rest.\n\n And thou canst not tell the moment when the day ascends her throne,\n When the morning star hath vanished, and the rose is fully blown.\n\n So each day fulfils its purpose, calm, unresting, strong, and sure,\n Moving onward to completion, doth the work of God endure.\n\n How unlike man\'s toil and hurry! how unlike the noise, the strife,\n All the pain of incompleteness, all the weariness of life!\n\n Ye look upward and take courage. He who leads the golden hours,\n Feeds the birds, and clothes the lily, made these human hearts of\n ours:\n\n Knows their need, and will supply it, manna falling day by day,\n Bread from heaven, and food of angels, all along the desert way.\n\nThe Secretary of the International Technical College at Bedford has\nissued a most interesting prospectus of the aims and objects of the\nInstitution. The College seems to be intended chiefly for ladies who\nhave completed their ordinary course of English studies, and it will be\ndivided into two departments, Educational and Industrial. In the latter,\nclasses will be held for various decorative and technical arts, and for\nwood-carving, etching, and photography, as well as sick-nursing,\ndressmaking, cookery, physiology, poultry-rearing, and the cultivation of\nflowers. The curriculum certainly embraces a wonderful amount of\nsubjects, and I have no doubt that the College will supply a real want.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe Ladies\' Employment Society has been so successful that it has moved\nto new premises in Park Street, Grosvenor Square, where there are some\nvery pretty and useful things for sale. The children\'s smocks are quite\ncharming, and seem very inexpensive. The subscription to the Society is\none guinea a year, and a commission of five per cent. is charged on each\nthing sold.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss May Morris, whose exquisite needle-work is well known, has just\ncompleted a pair of curtains for a house in Boston. They are amongst the\nmost perfect specimens of modern embroidery that I have seen, and are\nfrom Miss Morris\'s own design. I am glad to hear that Miss Morris has\ndetermined to give lessons in embroidery. She has a thorough knowledge\nof the art, her sense of beauty is as rare as it is refined, and her\npower of design is quite remarkable.\n\nMrs. Jopling\'s life-classes for ladies have been such a success that a\nsimilar class has been started in Chelsea by Mr. Clegg Wilkinson at the\nCarlyle Studios, King\'s Road. Mr. Wilkinson (who is a very brilliant\nyoung painter) is strongly of opinion that life should be studied from\nlife itself, and not from that abstract presentation of life which we\nfind in Greek marbles--a position which I have always held very strongly\nmyself.\n\n(1) Memoirs of an Arabian Princess. By the Princess Emily Ruete of Oman\nand Zanzibar. (Ward and Downey.)\n\n(2) Makers of Venice. By Mrs. Oliphant. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(3) The Plan of Campaign. By Mabel Robinson. (Vizetelly and Co.)\n\n(4) A Year in Eden. By Harriet Waters Preston. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(5) The Englishwoman\'s Year-Book, 1888. (Hatchards.)\n\n(6) Rachel and Other Poems. (Cornish Brothers.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--VI\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 6, 1888.)\n\nDavid Westren, by Mr. Alfred Hayes, is a long narrative poem in\nTennysonian blank verse, a sort of serious novel set to music. It is\nsomewhat lacking in actuality, and the picturesque style in which it is\nwritten rather contributes to this effect, lending the story beauty but\nrobbing it of truth. Still, it is not without power, and cultured verse\nis certainly a pleasanter medium for story-telling than coarse and common\nprose. The hero of the poem is a young clergyman of the muscular\nChristian school:\n\n A lover of good cheer; a bubbling source\n Of jest and tale; a monarch of the gun;\n A dreader tyrant of the darting trout\n Than that bright bird whose azure lightning threads\n The brooklet\'s bowery windings; the red fox\n Did well to seek the boulder-strewn hill-side,\n When Westren cheered her dappled foes; the otter\n Had cause to rue the dawn when Westren\'s form\n Loomed through the streaming bracken, to waylay\n Her late return from plunder, the rough pack\n Barking a jealous welcome round their friend.\n\nOne day he meets on the river a lovely girl who is angling, and helps her\nto land\n\n A gallant fish, all flashing in the sun\n In silver mail inlaid with scarlet gems,\n His back thick-sprinkled as a leopard\'s hide\n With rich brown spots, and belly of bright gold.\n\nThey naturally fall in love with each other and marry, and for many years\nDavid Westren leads a perfectly happy life. Suddenly calamity comes upon\nhim, his wife and children die and he finds himself alone and desolate.\nThen begins his struggle. Like Job, he cries out against the injustice\nof things, and his own personal sorrow makes him realise the sorrow and\nmisery of the world. But the answer that satisfied Job does not satisfy\nhim. He finds no comfort in contemplating Leviathan:\n\n As if we lacked reminding of brute force,\n As if we never felt the clumsy hoof,\n As if the bulk of twenty million whales\n Were worth one pleading soul, or all the laws\n That rule the lifeless suns could soothe the sense\n Of outrage in a loving human heart!\n Sublime? majestic? Ay, but when our trust\n Totters, and faith is shattered to the base,\n Grand words will not uprear it.\n\nMr. Hayes states the problem of life extremely well, but his solution is\nsadly inadequate both from a psychological and from a dramatic point of\nview. David Westren ultimately becomes a mild Unitarian, a sort of\npastoral Stopford Brooke with leanings towards Positivism, and we leave\nhim preaching platitudes to a village congregation. However, in spite of\nthis commonplace conclusion there is a great deal in Mr. Hayes\'s poem\nthat is strong and fine, and he undoubtedly possesses a fair ear for\nmusic and a remarkable faculty of poetical expression. Some of his\ndescriptive touches of nature, such as\n\n In meeting woods, whereon a film of mist\n Slept like the bloom upon the purple grape,\n\nare very graceful and suggestive, and he will probably make his mark in\nliterature.\n\nThere is much that is fascinating in Mr. Rennell Rodd\'s last volume, The\nUnknown Madonna and Other Poems. Mr. Rodd looks at life with all the\ncharming optimism of a young man, though he is quite conscious of the\nfact that a stray note of melancholy, here and there, has an artistic as\nwell as a popular value; he has a keen sense of the pleasurableness of\ncolour, and his verse is distinguished by a certain refinement and purity\nof outline; though not passionate he can play very prettily with the\nwords of passion, and his emotions are quite healthy and quite harmless.\nIn Excelsis, the most ambitious poem in the book, is somewhat too\nabstract and metaphysical, and such lines as\n\n Lift thee o\'er thy \'here\' and \'now,\'\n Look beyond thine \'I\' and \'thou,\'\n\nare excessively tedious. But when Mr. Rodd leaves the problem of the\nUnconditioned to take care of itself, and makes no attempt to solve the\nmysteries of the Ego and the non-Ego, he is very pleasant reading indeed.\nA Mazurka of Chopin is charming, in spite of the awkwardness of the fifth\nline, and so are the verses on Assisi, and those on San Servolo at\nVenice. These last have all the brilliancy of a clever pastel. The\nprettiest thing in the whole volume is this little lyric on Spring:\n\n Such blue of sky, so palely fair,\n Such glow of earth, such lucid air!\n Such purple on the mountain lines,\n Such deep new verdure in the pines!\n The live light strikes the broken towers,\n The crocus bulbs burst into flowers,\n The sap strikes up the black vine stock,\n And the lizard wakes in the splintered rock,\n And the wheat\'s young green peeps through the sod,\n And the heart is touched with a thought of God;\n The very silence seems to sing,\n It must be Spring, it must be Spring!\n\nWe do not care for \'palely fair\' in the first line, and the repetition of\nthe word \'strikes\' is not very felicitous, but the grace of movement and\ndelicacy of touch are pleasing.\n\nThe Wind, by Mr. James Ross, is a rather gusty ode, written apparently\nwithout any definite scheme of metre, and not very impressive as it lacks\nboth the strength of the blizzard and the sweetness of Zephyr. Here is\nthe opening:\n\n The roaming, tentless wind\n No rest can ever find--\n From east, and west, and south, and north\n He is for ever driven forth!\n From the chill east\n Where fierce hyaenas seek their awful feast:\n From the warm west,\n By beams of glitt\'ring summer blest.\n\nNothing could be much worse than this, and if the line \'Where fierce\nhyaenas seek their awful feast\' is intended to frighten us, it entirely\nmisses its effect. The ode is followed by some sonnets which are\ndestined, we fear, to be ludibria ventis. Immortality, even in the\nnineteenth century, is not granted to those who rhyme \'awe\' and \'war\'\ntogether.\n\nMr. Isaac Sharp\'s Saul of Tarsus is an interesting, and, in some\nrespects, a fine poem.\n\n Saul of Tarsus, silently,\n With a silent company,\n To Damascus\' gates drew nigh.\n\n * * * * *\n\n And his eyes, too, and his mien\n Were, as are the eagles, keen;\n All the man was aquiline--\n\nare two strong, simple verses, and indeed the spirit of the whole poem is\ndignified and stately. The rest of the volume, however, is\ndisappointing. Ordinary theology has long since converted its gold into\nlead, and words and phrases that once touched the heart of the world have\nbecome wearisome and meaningless through repetition. If Theology desires\nto move us, she must re-write her formulas.\n\nThere is something very pleasant in coming across a poet who can\napostrophise Byron as\n\n transcendent star\n That gems the firmament of poesy,\n\nand can speak of Longfellow as a \'mighty Titan.\' Reckless panegyrics of\nthis kind show a kindly nature and a good heart, and Mr. Mackenzie\'s\nHighland Daydreams could not possibly offend any one. It must be\nadmitted that they are rather old-fashioned, but this is usually the case\nwith natural spontaneous verse. It takes a great artist to be thoroughly\nmodern. Nature is always a little behind the age.\n\nThe Story of the Cross, an attempt to versify the Gospel narratives, is a\nstrange survival of the Tate and Brady school of poetry. Mr. Nash, who\nstyles himself \'a humble soldier in the army of Faith,\' expresses a hope\nthat his book may \'invigorate devotional feeling, especially among the\nyoung, to whom verse is perhaps more attractive than to their elders,\'\nbut we should be sorry to think that people of any age could admire such\na paraphrase as the following:\n\n Foxes have holes, in which to slink for rest,\n The birds of air find shelter in the nest;\n But He, the Son of Man and Lord of all,\n Has no abiding place His own to call.\n\nIt is a curious fact that the worst work is always done with the best\nintentions, and that people are never so trivial as when they take\nthemselves very seriously.\n\n(1) David Westren. By Alfred Hayes, M.A. New Coll., Oxon. (Birmingham:\nCornish Brothers.)\n\n(2) The Unknown Madonna and Other Poems. By Rennell Rodd. (David\nStott.)\n\n(3) The Wind and Six Sonnets. By James Ross. (Bristol: J. W.\nArrowsmith.)\n\n(4) Saul of Tarsus. By Isaac Sharp. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(5) Highland Daydreams. By George Mackenzie. (Inverness: Office of the\nNorthern Chronicle.)\n\n(6) The Story of the Cross. By Charles Nash. (Elliot Stock.)\n\n\n\n\nM. CARO ON GEORGE SAND\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 14, 1888.)\n\nThe biography of a very great man from the pen of a very ladylike\nwriter--this is the best description we can give of M. Caro\'s Life of\nGeorge Sand. The late Professor of the Sorbonne could chatter charmingly\nabout culture, and had all the fascinating insincerity of an accomplished\nphrase-maker; being an extremely superior person he had a great contempt\nfor Democracy and its doings, but he was always popular with the\nDuchesses of the Faubourg, as there was nothing in history or in\nliterature that he could not explain away for their edification; having\nnever done anything remarkable he was naturally elected a member of the\nAcademy, and he always remained loyal to the traditions of that\nthoroughly respectable and thoroughly pretentious institution. In fact,\nhe was just the sort of man who should never have attempted to write a\nLife of George Sand or to interpret George Sand\'s genius. He was too\nfeminine to appreciate the grandeur of that large womanly nature, too\nmuch of a dilettante to realise the masculine force of that strong and\nardent mind. He never gets at the secret of George Sand, and never\nbrings us near to her wonderful personality. He looks on her simply as a\nlitterateur, as a writer of pretty stories of country life and of\ncharming, if somewhat exaggerated, romances. But George Sand was much\nmore than this. Beautiful as are such books as Consuelo and Mauprat,\nFrancois le Champi and La Mare au Diable, yet in none of them is she\nadequately expressed, by none of them is she adequately revealed. As Mr.\nMatthew Arnold said, many years ago, \'We do not know George Sand unless\nwe feel the spirit which goes through her work as a whole.\' With this\nspirit, however, M. Caro has no sympathy. Madame Sand\'s doctrines are\nantediluvian, he tells us, her philosophy is quite dead and her ideas of\nsocial regeneration are Utopian, incoherent and absurd. The best thing\nfor us to do is to forget these silly dreams and to read Teverino and Le\nSecretaire Intime. Poor M. Caro! This spirit, which he treats with such\nairy flippancy, is the very leaven of modern life. It is remoulding the\nworld for us and fashioning our age anew. If it is antediluvian, it is\nso because the deluge is yet to come; if it is Utopian, then Utopia must\nbe added to our geographies. To what curious straits M. Caro is driven\nby his violent prejudices may be estimated by the fact that he tries to\nclass George Sand\'s novels with the old Chansons de geste, the stories of\nadventure characteristic of primitive literatures; whereas in using\nfiction as a vehicle of thought, and romance as a means of influencing\nthe social ideals of her age, George Sand was merely carrying out the\ntraditions of Voltaire and Rousseau, of Diderot and of Chateaubriand. The\nnovel, says M. Caro, must be allied either to poetry or to science. That\nit has found in philosophy one of its strongest allies seems not to have\noccurred to him. In an English critic such a view might possibly be\nexcusable. Our greatest novelists, such as Fielding, Scott and Thackeray\ncared little for the philosophy of their age. But coming, as it does,\nfrom a French critic, the statement seems to show a strange want of\nrecognition of one of the most important elements of French fiction. Nor,\neven in the narrow limits that he has imposed upon himself, can M. Caro\nbe said to be a very fortunate or felicitous critic. To take merely one\ninstance out of many, he says nothing of George Sand\'s delightful\ntreatment of art and the artist\'s life. And yet how exquisitely does she\nanalyse each separate art and present it to us in its relation to life!\nIn Consuelo she tells us of music; in Horace of authorship; in Le Chateau\ndes Desertes of acting; in Les Maitres Mosaistes of mosaic work; in Le\nChateau de Pictordu of portrait painting; and in La Daniella of the\npainting of landscape. What Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Browning have done for\nEngland she did for France. She invented an art literature. It is\nunnecessary, however, to discuss any of M. Caro\'s minor failings, for the\nwhole effect of the book, so far as it attempts to portray for us the\nscope and character of George Sand\'s genius, is entirely spoiled by the\nfalse attitude assumed from the beginning, and though the dictum may seem\nto many harsh and exclusive, we cannot help feeling that an absolute\nincapacity for appreciating the spirit of a great writer is no\nqualification for writing a treatise on the subject.\n\nAs for Madame Sand\'s private life, which is so intimately connected with\nher art (for, like Goethe, she had to live her romances before she could\nwrite them), M. Caro says hardly anything about it. He passes it over\nwith a modesty that almost makes one blush, and for fear of wounding the\nsusceptibilities of those grandes dames whose passions M. Paul Bourget\nanalyses with such subtlety, he transforms her mother, who was a typical\nFrench grisette, into \'a very amiable and spirituelle milliner\'! It must\nbe admitted that Joseph Surface himself could hardly show greater tact\nand delicacy, though we ourselves must plead guilty to preferring Madame\nSand\'s own description of her as an \'enfant du vieux pave de Paris.\'\n\nAs regards the English version, which is by M. Gustave Masson, it may be\nup to the intellectual requirements of the Harrow schoolboys, but it will\nhardly satisfy those who consider that accuracy, lucidity and ease are\nessential to a good translation. Its carelessness is absolutely\nastounding, and it is difficult to understand how a publisher like Mr.\nRoutledge could have allowed such a piece of work to issue from his\npress. \'Il descend avec le sourire d\'un Machiavel\' appears as \'he\ndescends into the smile of a Machiavelli\'; George Sand\'s remark to\nFlaubert about literary style, \'tu la consideres comme un but, elle n\'est\nqu\'un effet\' is translated \'you consider it an end, it is merely an\neffort\'; and such a simple phrase as \'ainsi le veut Festhe\'tique du\nroman\' is converted into \'so the aesthetes of the world would have it.\'\n\'Il faudra relacher mes Economies\' is \'I will have to draw upon my\nsavings,\' not \'my economies will assuredly be relaxed\'; \'cassures\nresineuses\' is not \'cleavages full of rosin,\' and \'Mme. Sand ne reussit\nque deux fois\' is hardly \'Madame Sand was not twice successful.\'\n\'Querelles d\'ecole\' does not mean \'school disputations\'; \'ceux qui se\nfont une sorte d\'esthetique de l\'indifference absolue\' is not \'those of\nwhich the aesthetics seem to be an absolute indifference\'; \'chimere\'\nshould not be translated \'chimera,\' nor \'lettres ineditees\' \'inedited\nletters\'; \'ridicules\' means absurdities, not \'ridicules,\' and \'qui pourra\ndefinir sa pensee?\' is not \'who can clearly despise her thought?\' M.\nMasson comes to grief over even such a simple sentence as \'elle s\'etonna\ndes fureurs qui accueillirent ce livre, ne comprenant pas que l\'on haisse\nun auteur a travers son oeuvre,\' which he translates \'she was surprised\nat the storm which greeted this book, _not understanding that the author\nis hated through his work_.\' Then, passing over such phrases as\n\'substituted by religion\' instead of \'replaced by religion,\' and\n\'vulgarisation\' where \'popularisation\' is meant, we come to that most\nirritating form of translation, the literal word-for-word style. The\nstream \'excites itself by the declivity which it obeys\' is one of M.\nMasson\'s finest achievements in this genre, and it is an admirable\ninstance of the influence of schoolboys on their masters. However, it\nwould be tedious to make a complete \'catalogue of slips,\' so we will\ncontent ourselves by saying that M. Masson\'s translation is not merely\nquite unworthy of himself, but is also quite undeserved by the public.\nNowadays, the public has its feelings.\n\nGeorge Sand. By the late Elme Marie Caro. Translated by Gustave Masson,\nB.A., Assistant Master, Harrow School. \'Great French Writers\' Series.\n(Routledge and Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--VII\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 24, 1888.)\n\nMr. Ian Hamilton\'s Ballad of Hadji is undeniably clever. Hadji is a\nwonderful Arab horse that a reckless hunter rides to death in the pursuit\nof a wild boar, and the moral of the poem--for there is a moral--seems to\nbe that an absorbing passion is a very dangerous thing and blunts the\nhuman sympathies. In the course of the chase a little child is drowned,\na Brahmin maiden murdered, and an aged peasant severely wounded, but the\nhunter cares for none of these things and will not hear of stopping to\nrender any assistance. Some of the stanzas are very graceful, notably\none beginning\n\n Yes--like a bubble filled with smoke--\n The curd-white moon upswimming broke\n The vacancy of space;\n\nbut such lines as the following, which occur in the description of the\nfight with the boar--\n\n I hung as close as keepsake locket\n On maiden breast--but from its socket\n He wrenched my bridle arm,\n\nare dreadful, and \'his brains festooned the thorn\' is not a very happy\nway of telling the reader how the boar died. All through the volume we\nfind the same curious mixture of good and bad. To say that the sun\nkisses the earth \'with flame-moustachoed lip\' is awkward and uncouth, and\nyet the poem in which the expression occurs has some pretty lines. Mr.\nIan Hamilton should prune. Pruning, whether in the garden or in the\nstudy, is a most healthy and useful employment. The volume is nicely\nprinted, but Mr. Strang\'s frontispiece is not a great success, and most\nof the tail-pieces seem to have been designed without any reference to\nthe size of the page.\n\nMr. Catty dedicates his book to the memory of Wordsworth, Shelley,\nColeridge and Keats--a somewhat pompous signboard for such very ordinary\nwine--and an inscription in golden letters on the cover informs us that\nhis poems are \'addressed to the rising generation,\' whom, he tells us\nelsewhere, he is anxious to initiate into the great comprehensive truth\nthat \'Virtue is no other than self-interest, deeply understood.\' In\norder to further this laudable aim he has written a very tedious blank\nverse poem which he calls The Secret of Content, but it certainly does\nnot convey that secret to the reader. It is heavy, abstract and prosaic,\nand shows how intolerably dull a man can be who has the best intentions\nand the most earnest beliefs. In the rest of the volume, where Mr. Catty\ndoes not take himself quite so seriously, there are some rather pleasing\nthings. The sonnet on Shelley\'s room at University College would be\nadmirable but for the unmusical character of the last line.\n\n Green in the wizard arms\n Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,\n An isle of old enchantment,\n A melancholy isle,\n Enchanted and dreaming lies;\n And there, by Shannon\'s flowing\n In the moonlight, spectre-thin,\n The spectre Erin sits.\n\n Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exile wail no more,\n Banshee of the world--no more!\n Thy sorrows are the world\'s, thou art no more alone;\n Thy wrongs the world\'s--\n\nare the first and last stanzas of Mr. Todhunter\'s poem The Banshee. To\nthrow away the natural grace of rhyme from a modern song is, as Mr.\nSwinburne once remarked, a wilful abdication of half the power and half\nthe charm of verse, and we cannot say that Mr. Todhunter has given us\nmuch that consoles us for its loss. Part of his poem reads like a\ntranslation of an old Bardic song, part of it like rough material for\npoetry, and part of it like misshapen prose. It is an interesting\nspecimen of poetic writing but it is not a perfect work of art. It is\namorphous and inchoate, and the same must be said of the two other poems,\nThe Doom of the Children of Lir, and The Lamentation for the Sons of\nTurann. Rhyme gives architecture as well as melody to song, and though\nthe lovely lute-builded walls of Thebes may have risen up to unrhymed\nchoral metres, we have had no modern Amphion to work such wonders for us.\nSuch a verse as--\n\n Five were the chiefs who challenged\n By their deeds the Over-kingship,\n Bov Derg, the Daghda\'s son, Ilbrac of Assaroe,\n And Lir of the White Field in the plain of Emain Macha;\n And after them stood up Midhir the proud, who reigned\n Upon the hills of Bri,\n Of Bri the loved of Liath, Bri of the broken heart;\n And last was Angus Og; all these had many voices,\n But for Bov Derg were most,\n\nhas, of course, an archaeological interest, but has no artistic value at\nall. Indeed, from the point of view of art, the few little poems at the\nend of the volume are worth all the ambitious pseudo-epics that Mr.\nTodhunter has tried to construct out of Celtic lore. A Bacchic Day is\ncharming, and the sonnet on the open-air performance of The Faithfull\nShepherdesse is most gracefully phrased and most happy in conception.\n\nMr. Peacock is an American poet, and Professor Thomas Danleigh Supplee,\nA.M., Ph.D., F.R.S., who has written a preface to his Poems of the Plains\nand Songs of the Solitudes, tells us that he is entitled to be called the\nLaureate of the West. Though a staunch Republican, Mr. Peacock,\naccording to the enthusiastic Professor, is not ashamed of his ancestor\nKing William of Holland, nor of his relatives Lord and Lady Peacock who,\nit seems, are natives of Scotland. He was brought up at Zanesville,\nMuskingum Co., Ohio, where his father edited the Zanesville Aurora, and\nhe had an uncle who was \'a superior man\' and edited the Wheeling\nIntelligencer. His poems seem to be extremely popular, and have been\nhighly praised, the Professor informs us, by Victor Hugo, the Saturday\nReview and the Commercial Advertiser. The preface is the most amusing\npart of the book, but the poems also are worth studying. The Maniac, The\nBandit Chief, and The Outlaw can hardly be called light reading, but we\nstrongly recommend the poem on Chicago:\n\n Chicago! great city of the West!\n All that wealth, all that power invest;\n Thou sprang like magic from the sand,\n As touched by the magician\'s wand.\n\n\'Thou sprang\' is slightly depressing, and the second line is rather\nobscure, but we should not measure by too high a standard the untutored\nutterances of artless nature. The opening lines of The Vendetta also\ndeserve mention:\n\n When stars are glowing through day\'s gloaming glow,\n Reflecting from ocean\'s deep, mighty flow,\n At twilight, when no grim shadows of night,\n Like ghouls, have stalked in wake of the light.\n\nThe first line is certainly a masterpiece, and, indeed, the whole volume\nis full of gems of this kind. The Professor remarks in his elaborate\npreface that Mr. Peacock \'frequently rises to the sublime,\' and the two\npassages quoted above show how keenly critical is his taste in these\nmatters and how well the poet deserves his panegyric.\n\nMr. Alexander Skene Smith\'s Holiday Recreations and Other Poems is\nheralded by a preface for which Principal Cairns is responsible.\nPrincipal Cairns claims that the life-story enshrined in Mr. Smith\'s\npoems shows the wide diffusion of native fire and literary culture in all\nparts of Scotland, \'happily under higher auspices than those of mere\npoetic impulse.\' This is hardly a very felicitous way of introducing a\npoet, nor can we say that Mr. Smith\'s poems are distinguished by either\nfire or culture. He has a placid, pleasant way of writing, and, indeed,\nhis verses cannot do any harm, though he really should not publish such\nattempts at metrical versions of the Psalms as the following:\n\n A septuagenarian\n We frequently may see;\n An octogenarian\n If one should live to be,\n He is a burden to himself\n With weariness and woe\n And soon he dies, and off he flies,\n And leaveth all below.\n\nThe \'literary culture\' that produced these lines is, we fear, not of a\nvery high order.\n\n\'I study Poetry simply as a fine art by which I may exercise my intellect\nand elevate my taste,\' wrote the late Mr. George Morine many years ago to\na friend, and the little posthumous volume that now lies before us\ncontains the record of his quiet literary life. One of the sonnets, that\nentitled Sunset, appeared in Mr. Waddington\'s anthology, about ten years\nafter Mr. Morine\'s death, but this is the first time that his collected\npoems have been published. They are often distinguished by a grave and\nchastened beauty of style, and their solemn cadences have something of\nthe \'grand manner\' about them. The editor, Mr. Wilton, to whom Mr.\nMorine bequeathed his manuscripts, seems to have performed his task with\ngreat tact and judgment, and we hope that this little book will meet with\nthe recognition that it deserves.\n\n(1) The Ballad of Hadji and Other Poems. By Ian Hamilton. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(2) Poems in the Modern Spirit, with The Secret of Content. By Charles\nCatty. (Walter Scott.)\n\n(3) The Banshee and Other Poems. By John Todhunter. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(4) Poems of the Plain and Songs of the Solitudes. By Thomas Bower\nPeacock. (G. P. Putnam\'s Sons.)\n\n(5) Holiday Recreations and Other Poems. By Alexander Skene Smith.\n(Chapman and Hall.)\n\n(6) Poems. By George Morine. (Bell and Son.)\n\n\n\n\nA FASCINATING BOOK\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, November 1888.)\n\nMr. Alan Cole\'s carefully-edited translation of M. Lefebure\'s history of\nEmbroidery and Lace is one of the most fascinating books that has\nappeared on this delightful subject. M. Lefebure is one of the\nadministrators of the Musee des Arts Decoratifs at Paris, besides being a\nlace manufacturer; and his work has not merely an important historical\nvalue, but as a handbook of technical instruction it will be found of the\ngreatest service by all needle-women. Indeed, as the translator himself\npoints out, M. Lefebure\'s book suggests the question whether it is not\nrather by the needle and the bobbin, than by the brush, the graver or the\nchisel, that the influence of woman should assert itself in the arts. In\nEurope, at any rate, woman is sovereign in the domain of art-needle-work,\nand few men would care to dispute with her the right of using those\ndelicate implements so intimately associated with the dexterity of her\nnimble and slender fingers; nor is there any reason why the productions\nof embroidery should not, as Mr. Alan Cole suggests, be placed on the\nsame level with those of painting, engraving and sculpture, though there\nmust always be a great difference between those purely decorative arts\nthat glorify their own material and the more imaginative arts in which\nthe material is, as it were, annihilated, and absorbed into the creation\nof a new form. In the beautifying of modern houses it certainly must be\nadmitted--indeed, it should be more generally recognised than it is--that\nrich embroidery on hangings and curtains, portieres, couches and the\nlike, produces a far more decorative and far more artistic effect than\ncan be gained from our somewhat wearisome English practice of covering\nthe walls with pictures and engravings; and the almost complete\ndisappearance of embroidery from dress has robbed modern costume of one\nof the chief elements of grace and fancy.\n\nThat, however, a great improvement has taken place in English embroidery\nduring the last ten or fifteen years cannot, I think, be denied. It is\nshown, not merely in the work of individual artists, such as Mrs.\nHoliday, Miss May Morris and others, but also in the admirable\nproductions of the South Kensington School of Embroidery (the\nbest--indeed, the only really good--school that South Kensington has\nproduced). It is pleasant to note, on turning over the leaves of M.\nLefebure\'s book, that in this we are merely carrying out certain old\ntraditions of Early English art. In the seventh century, St. Ethelreda,\nfirst abbess of the Monastery of Ely, made an offering to St. Cuthbert of\na sacred ornament she had worked with gold and precious stones, and the\ncope and maniple of St. Cuthbert, which are preserved at Durham, are\nconsidered to be specimens of opus Anglicanum. In the year 800, the\nBishop of Durham allotted the income of a farm of two hundred acres for\nlife to an embroideress named Eanswitha, in consideration of her keeping\nin repair the vestments of the clergy in his diocese. The battle\nstandard of King Alfred was embroidered by Danish princesses; and the\nAnglo-Saxon Gudric gave Alcuid a piece of land, on condition that she\ninstructed his daughter in needle-work. Queen Mathilda bequeathed to the\nAbbey of the Holy Trinity at Caen a tunic embroidered at Winchester by\nthe wife of one Alderet; and when William presented himself to the\nEnglish nobles, after the Battle of Hastings, he wore a mantle covered\nwith Anglo-Saxon embroideries, which is probably, M. Lefebure suggests,\nthe same as that mentioned in the inventory of the Bayeux Cathedral,\nwhere, after the entry relating to the broderie a telle (representing the\nconquest of England), two mantles are described--one of King William,\n\'all of gold, powdered with crosses and blossoms of gold, and edged along\nthe lower border with an orphrey of figures.\' The most splendid example\nof the opus Anglicanum now in existence is, of course, the Syon cope at\nthe South Kensington Museum; but English work seems to have been\ncelebrated all over the Continent. Pope Innocent IV. so admired the\nsplendid vestments worn by the English clergy in 1246, that he ordered\nsimilar articles from Cistercian monasteries in England. St. Dunstan,\nthe artistic English monk, was known as a designer for embroideries; and\nthe stole of St. Thomas a Becket is still preserved in the cathedral at\nSens, and shows us the interlaced scroll-forms used by Anglo-Saxon MS.\nilluminators.\n\nHow far this modern artistic revival of rich and delicate embroidery will\nbear fruit depends, of course, almost entirely on the energy and study\nthat women are ready to devote to it; but I think that it must be\nadmitted that all our decorative arts in Europe at present have, at\nleast, this element of strength--that they are in immediate relationship\nwith the decorative arts of Asia. Wherever we find in European history a\nrevival of decorative art, it has, I fancy, nearly always been due to\nOriental influence and contact with Oriental nations. Our own keenly\nintellectual art has more than once been ready to sacrifice real\ndecorative beauty either to imitative presentation or to ideal motive. It\nhas taken upon itself the burden of expression, and has sought to\ninterpret the secrets of thought and passion. In its marvellous truth of\npresentation it has found its strength, and yet its weakness is there\nalso. It is never with impunity that an art seeks to mirror life. If\nTruth has her revenge upon those who do not follow her, she is often\npitiless to her worshippers. In Byzantium the two arts met--Greek art,\nwith its intellectual sense of form, and its quick sympathy with\nhumanity; Oriental art, with its gorgeous materialism, its frank\nrejection of imitation, its wonderful secrets of craft and colour, its\nsplendid textures, its rare metals and jewels, its marvellous and\npriceless traditions. They had, indeed, met before, but in Byzantium\nthey were married; and the sacred tree of the Persians, the palm of\nZoroaster, was embroidered on the hem of the garments of the Western\nworld. Even the Iconoclasts, the Philistines of theological history,\nwho, in one of those strange outbursts of rage against Beauty that seem\nto occur only amongst European nations, rose up against the wonder and\nmagnificence of the new art, served merely to distribute its secrets more\nwidely; and in the Liber Pontificalis, written in 687 by Athanasius, the\nlibrarian, we read of an influx into Rome of gorgeous embroideries, the\nwork of men who had arrived from Constantinople and from Greece. The\ntriumph of the Mussulman gave the decorative art of Europe a new\ndeparture--that very principle of their religion that forbade the actual\nrepresentation of any object in nature being of the greatest artistic\nservice to them, though it was not, of course, strictly carried out. The\nSaracens introduced into Sicily the art of weaving silken and golden\nfabrics; and from Sicily the manufacture of fine stuffs spread to the\nNorth of Italy, and became localised in Genoa, Florence, Venice, and\nother towns. A still greater art-movement took place in Spain under the\nMoors and Saracens, who brought over workmen from Persia to make\nbeautiful things for them. M. Lefebure tells us of Persian embroidery\npenetrating as far as Andalusia; and Almeria, like Palermo, had its Hotel\ndes Tiraz, which rivalled the Hotel des Tiraz at Bagdad, tiraz being the\ngeneric name for ornamental tissues and costumes made with them. Spangles\n(those pretty little discs of gold, silver, or polished steel, used in\ncertain embroidery for dainty glinting effects) were a Saracenic\ninvention; and Arabic letters often took the place of letters in the\nRoman characters for use in inscriptions upon embroidered robes and\nMiddle Age tapestries, their decorative value being so much greater. The\nbook of crafts by Etienne Boileau, provost of the merchants in 1258-1268,\ncontains a curious enumeration of the different craft-guilds of Paris,\namong which we find \'the tapiciers, or makers of the tapis sarrasinois\n(or Saracen cloths), who say that their craft is for the service only of\nchurches, or great men like kings and counts\'; and, indeed, even in our\nown day, nearly all our words descriptive of decorative textures and\ndecorative methods point to an Oriental origin. What the inroads of the\nMohammedans did for Sicily and Spain, the return of the Crusaders did for\nthe other countries of Europe. The nobles who left for Palestine clad in\narmour, came back in the rich stuffs of the East; and their costumes,\npouches (aumonieres sarra-sinoises), and caparisons excited the\nadmiration of the needle-workers of the West. Matthew Paris says that at\nthe sacking of Antioch, in 1098, gold, silver and priceless costumes were\nso equally distributed among the Crusaders, that many who the night\nbefore were famishing and imploring relief, suddenly found themselves\noverwhelmed with wealth; and Robert de Clair tells us of the wonderful\nfetes that followed the capture of Constantinople. The thirteenth\ncentury, as M. Lefebure points out, was conspicuous for an increased\ndemand in the West for embroidery. Many Crusaders made offerings to\nchurches of plunder from Palestine; and St. Louis, on his return from the\nfirst Crusade, offered thanks at St. Denis to God for mercies bestowed on\nhim during his six years\' absence and travel, and presented some richly-\nembroidered stuffs to be used on great occasions as coverings to the\nreliquaries containing the relics of holy martyrs. European embroidery,\nhaving thus become possessed of new materials and wonderful methods,\ndeveloped on its own intellectual and imitative lines, inclining, as it\nwent on, to the purely pictorial, and seeking to rival painting, and to\nproduce landscapes and figure-subjects with elaborate perspective and\nsubtle aerial effects. A fresh Oriental influence, however, came through\nthe Dutch and the Portuguese, and the famous Compagnie des Grandes Indes;\nand M. Lefebure gives an illustration of a door-hanging now in the Cluny\nMuseum, where we find the French fleurs-de-lys intermixed with Indian\nornament. The hangings of Madame de Maintenon\'s room at Fontainebleau,\nwhich were embroidered at St. Cyr, represent Chinese scenery upon a\njonquil-yellow ground.\n\nClothes were sent out ready cut to the East to be embroidered, and many\nof the delightful coats of the period of Louis XV. and Louis XVI. owe\ntheir dainty decoration to the needles of Chinese artists. In our own\nday the influence of the East is strongly marked. Persia has sent us her\ncarpets for patterns, and Cashmere her lovely shawls, and India her\ndainty muslins finely worked with gold thread palmates, and stitched over\nwith iridescent beetles\' wings. We are beginning now to dye by Oriental\nmethods, and the silk robes of China and Japan have taught us new wonders\nof colour-combination, and new subtleties of delicate design. Whether we\nhave yet learned to make a wise use of what we have acquired is less\ncertain. If books produce an effect, this book of M. Lefebure should\ncertainly make us study with still deeper interest the whole question of\nembroidery, and by those who already work with their needles it will be\nfound full of most fertile suggestion and most admirable advice.\n\nEven to read of the marvellous works of embroidery that were fashioned in\nbygone ages is pleasant. Time has kept a few fragments of Greek\nembroidery of the fourth century B.C. for us. One is figured in M.\nLefebure\'s book--a chain-stitch embroidery of yellow flax upon a mulberry-\ncoloured worsted material, with graceful spirals and palmetto-patterns:\nand another, a tapestried cloth powdered with ducks, was reproduced in\nthe Woman\'s World some months ago for an article by Mr. Alan Cole. {334a}\nNow and then we find in the tomb of some dead Egyptian a piece of\ndelicate work. In the treasury at Ratisbon is preserved a specimen of\nByzantine embroidery on which the Emperor Constantine is depicted riding\non a white palfrey, and receiving homage from the East and West. Metz\nhas a red silk cope wrought with great eagles, the gift of Charlemagne,\nand Bayeux the needle-wrought epic of Queen Matilda. But where is the\ngreat crocus-coloured robe, wrought for Athena, on which the gods fought\nagainst the giants? Where is the huge velarium that Nero stretched\nacross the Colosseum at Rome, on which was represented the starry sky,\nand Apollo driving a chariot drawn by steeds? How one would like to see\nthe curious table-napkins wrought for Heliogabalus, on which were\ndisplayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;\nor the mortuary-cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden\nbees; or the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop\nof Pontus, and were embroidered with \'lions, panthers, bears, dogs,\nforests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that painters can copy from\nnature.\' Charles of Orleans had a coat, on the sleeves of which were\nembroidered the verses of a song beginning \'Madame, je suis tout joyeux,\'\nthe musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and\neach note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. {334b}\nThe room prepared in the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of\nBurgundy was decorated with \'thirteen hundred and twenty-one papegauts\n(parrots) made in broidery and blazoned with the King\'s arms, and five\nhundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented\nwith the Queen\'s arms--the whole worked in fine gold.\' Catherine de\nMedicis had a mourning-bed made for her \'of black velvet embroidered with\npearls and powdered with crescents and suns.\' Its curtains were of\ndamask, \'with leafy wreaths and garlands figured upon a gold and silver\nground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls,\' and it\nstood in a room hung with rows of the Queen\'s devices in cut black velvet\non cloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen\nfeet high in his apartment. The state-bed of Sobieski, King of Poland,\nwas made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises and pearls,\nwith verses from the Koran; its supports were of silver-gilt, beautifully\nchased and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. He had\ntaken it from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mahomet\nhad stood under it. The Duchess de la Ferte wore a dress of\nreddish-brown velvet, the skirt of which, adjusted in graceful folds, was\nheld up by big butterflies made of Dresden china; the front was a tablier\nof cloth of silver, upon which was embroidered an orchestra of musicians\narranged in a pyramidal group, consisting of a series of six ranks of\nperformers, with beautiful instruments wrought in raised needle-work.\n\'Into the night go one and all,\' as Mr. Henley sings in his charming\nBallade of Dead Actors.\n\nMany of the facts related by M. Lefebure about the embroiderers\' guilds\nare also extremely interesting. Etienne Boileau, in his book of crafts,\nto which I have already alluded, tells us that a member of the guild was\nprohibited from using gold of less value than \'eight sous (about 6s.) the\nskein; he was bound to use the best silk, and never to mix thread with\nsilk, because that made the work false and bad.\' The test or trial piece\nprescribed for a worker who was the son of a master-embroiderer was \'a\nsingle figure, a sixth of the natural size, to be shaded in gold\'; whilst\none not the son of a master was required to produce \'a complete incident\nwith many figures.\' The book of crafts also mentions \'cutters-out and\nstencillers and illuminators\' amongst those employed in the industry of\nembroidery. In 1551 the Parisian Corporation of Embroiderers issued a\nnotice that \'for the future, the colouring in representations of nude\nfigures and faces should be done in three or four gradations of carnation-\ndyed silk, and not, as formerly, in white silks.\' During the fifteenth\ncentury every household of any position retained the services of an\nembroiderer by the year. The preparation of colours also, whether for\npainting or for dyeing threads and textile fabrics, was a matter which,\nM. Lefebure points out, received close attention from the artists of the\nMiddle Ages. Many undertook long journeys to obtain the more famous\nrecipes, which they filed, subsequently adding to and correcting them as\nexperience dictated. Nor were great artists above making and supplying\ndesigns for embroidery. Raphael made designs for Francis I., and Boucher\nfor Louis XV.; and in the Ambras collection at Vienna is a superb set of\nsacerdotal robes from designs by the brothers Van Eyck and their pupils.\nEarly in the sixteenth century books of embroidery designs were produced,\nand their success was so great that in a few years French, German,\nItalian, Flemish, and English publishers spread broadcast books of design\nmade by their best engravers. In the same century, in order to give the\ndesigners opportunity of studying directly from nature, Jean Robin opened\na garden with conservatories, in which he cultivated strange varieties of\nplants then but little known in our latitudes. The rich brocades and\nbrocadelles of the time are characterised by the introduction of large\nflowery patterns, with pomegranates and other fruits with fine foliage.\n\nThe second part of M. Lefebure\'s book is devoted to the history of lace,\nand though some may not find it quite as interesting as the earlier\nportion it will more than repay perusal; and those who still work in this\ndelicate and fanciful art will find many valuable suggestions in it, as\nwell as a large number of exceedingly beautiful designs. Compared to\nembroidery, lace seems comparatively modern. M. Lefebure and Mr. Alan\nCole tell us that there is no reliable or documentary evidence to prove\nthe existence of lace before the fifteenth century. Of course in the\nEast, light tissues, such as gauzes, muslins, and nets, were made at very\nearly times, and were used as veils and scarfs after the manner of\nsubsequent laces, and women enriched them with some sort of embroidery,\nor varied the openness of them by here and there drawing out threads. The\nthreads of fringes seem also to have been plaited and knotted together,\nand the borders of one of the many fashions of Roman toga were of open\nreticulated weaving. The Egyptian Museum at the Louvre has a curious\nnetwork embellished with glass beads; and the monk Reginald, who took\npart in opening the tomb of St. Cuthbert at Durham in the twelfth\ncentury, writes that the Saint\'s shroud had a fringe of linen threads an\ninch long, surmounted by a border, \'worked upon the threads,\' with\nrepresentations of birds and pairs of beasts, there being between each\nsuch pair a branching tree, a survival of the palm of Zoroaster, to which\nI have before alluded. Our authors, however, do not in these examples\nrecognise lace, the production of which involves more refined and\nartistic methods, and postulates a combination of skill and varied\nexecution carried to a higher degree of perfection. Lace, as we know it,\nseems to have had its origin in the habit of embroidering linen. White\nembroidery on linen has, M. Lefebure remarks, a cold and monotonous\naspect; that with coloured threads is brighter and gayer in effect, but\nis apt to fade in frequent washing; but white embroidery relieved by open\nspaces in, or shapes cut from, the linen ground, is possessed of an\nentirely new charm; and from a sense of this the birth may be traced of\nan art in the result of which happy contrasts are effected between\nornamental details of close texture and others of open-work.\n\nSoon, also, was suggested the idea that, instead of laboriously\nwithdrawing threads from stout linen, it would be more convenient to\nintroduce a needle-made pattern into an open network ground, which was\ncalled a lacis. Of this kind of embroidery many specimens are extant.\nThe Cluny Museum possesses a linen cap said to have belonged to Charles\nV.; and an alb of linen drawn-thread work, supposed to have been made by\nAnne of Bohemia (1527), is preserved in the cathedral at Prague.\nCatherine de Medicis had a bed draped with squares of reseuil, or lacis,\nand it is recorded that \'the girls and servants of her household consumed\nmuch time in making squares of reseuil.\' The interesting pattern-books\nfor open-ground embroidery, of which the first was published in 1527 by\nPierre Quinty, of Cologne, supply us with the means of tracing the stages\nin the transition from white thread embroidery to needle-point lace. We\nmeet in them with a style of needle-work which differs from embroidery in\nnot being wrought upon a stuff foundation. It is, in fact, true lace,\ndone, as it were, \'in the air,\' both ground and pattern being entirely\nproduced by the lace-maker.\n\nThe elaborate use of lace in costume was, of course, largely stimulated\nby the fashion of wearing ruffs, and their companion cuffs or sleeves.\nCatherine de Medicis induced one Frederic Vinciolo to come from Italy and\nmake ruffs and gadrooned collars, the fashion of which she started in\nFrance; and Henry III. was so punctilious over his ruffs that he would\niron and goffer his cuffs and collars himself rather than see their\npleats limp and out of shape. The pattern-books also gave a great\nimpulse to the art. M. Lefebure mentions German books with patterns of\neagles, heraldic emblems, hunting scenes, and plants and leaves belonging\nto Northern vegetation; and Italian books, in which the motifs consist of\noleander blossoms, and elegant wreaths and scrolls, landscapes with\nmythological scenes, and hunting episodes, less realistic than the\nNorthern ones, in which appear fauns, and nymphs or amorini shooting\narrows. With regard to these patterns, M. Lefebure notices a curious\nfact. The oldest painting in which lace is depicted is that of a lady,\nby Carpaccio, who died about 1523. The cuffs of the lady are edged with\na narrow lace, the pattern of which reappears in Vecellio\'s Corona, a\nbook not published until 1591. This particular pattern was, therefore,\nin use at least eighty years before it got into circulation with other\npublished patterns.\n\nIt was not, however, till the seventeenth century that lace acquired a\nreally independent character and individuality, and M. Duplessis states\nthat the production of the more noteworthy of early laces owes more to\nthe influence of men than to that of women. The reign of Louis XIV.\nwitnessed the production of the most stately needle-point laces, the\ntransformation of Venetian point, and the growth of Points d\'Alencon,\nd\'Argentan, de Bruxelles and d\'Angleterre.\n\nThe king, aided by Colbert, determined to make France the centre, if\npossible, for lace manufacture, sending for this purpose both to Venice\nand to Flanders for workers. The studio of the Gobelins supplied\ndesigns. The dandies had their huge rabatos or bands falling from\nbeneath the chin over the breast, and great prelates, like Bossuet and\nFenelon, wore their wonderful albs and rochets. It is related of a\ncollar made at Venice for Louis XIV. that the lace-workers, being unable\nto find sufficiently fine horse-hair, employed some of their own hairs\ninstead, in order to secure that marvellous delicacy of work which they\naimed at producing.\n\nIn the eighteenth century, Venice, finding that laces of lighter texture\nwere sought after, set herself to make rose-point; and at the Court of\nLouis XV. the choice of lace was regulated by still more elaborate\netiquette. The Revolution, however, ruined many of the manufactures.\nAlencon survived, and Napoleon encouraged it, and endeavoured to renew\nthe old rules about the necessity of wearing point-lace at Court\nreceptions. A wonderful piece of lace, powdered over with devices of\nbees, and costing 40,000 francs, was ordered. It was begun for the\nEmpress Josephine, but in the course of its making her escutcheons were\nreplaced by those of Marie Louise.\n\nM. Lefebure concludes his interesting history by stating very clearly his\nattitude towards machine-made lace. \'It would be an obvious loss to\nart,\' he says, \'should the making of lace by hand become extinct, for\nmachinery, as skilfully devised as possible, cannot do what the hand\ndoes.\' It can give us \'the results of processes, not the creations of\nartistic handicraft.\' Art is absent \'where formal calculation pretends\nto supersede emotion\'; it is absent \'where no trace can be detected of\nintelligence guiding handicraft, whose hesitancies even possess peculiar\ncharm . . . cheapness is never commendable in respect of things which are\nnot absolute necessities; it lowers artistic standard.\' These are\nadmirable remarks, and with them we take leave of this fascinating book,\nwith its delightful illustrations, its charming anecdotes, its excellent\nadvice. Mr. Alan Cole deserves the thanks of all who are interested in\nart for bringing this book before the public in so attractive and so\ninexpensive a form.\n\nEmbroidery and Lace: Their Manufacture and History from the Remotest\nAntiquity to the Present Day. Translated and enlarged by Alan S. Cole\nfrom the French of Ernest Lefebure. (Grevel and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--VIII\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 16, 1888.)\n\nA few years ago some of our minor poets tried to set Science to music, to\nwrite sonnets on the survival of the fittest and odes to Natural\nSelection. Socialism, and the sympathy with those who are unfit, seem,\nif we may judge from Miss Nesbit\'s remarkable volume, to be the new theme\nof song, the fresh subject-matter for poetry. The change has some\nadvantages. Scientific laws are at once too abstract and too clearly\ndefined, and even the visible arts have not yet been able to translate\ninto any symbols of beauty the discoveries of modern science. At the\nArts and Crafts Exhibition we find the cosmogony of Moses, not the\ncosmogony of Darwin. To Mr. Burne-Jones Man is still a fallen angel, not\na greater ape. Poverty and misery, upon the other hand, are terribly\nconcrete things. We find their incarnation everywhere and, as we are\ndiscussing a matter of art, we have no hesitation in saying that they are\nnot devoid of picturesqueness. The etcher or the painter finds in them\n\'a subject made to his hand,\' and the poet has admirable opportunities of\ndrawing weird and dramatic contrasts between the purple of the rich and\nthe rags of the poor. From Miss Nesbit\'s book comes not merely the voice\nof sympathy but also the cry of revolution:\n\n This is our vengeance day. Our masters made fat with our fasting\n Shall fall before us like corn when the sickle for harvest is strong:\n Old wrongs shall give might to our arm, remembrance of wrongs shall\n make lasting\n The graves we will dig for our tyrants we bore with too much and too\n long.\n\nThe poem from which we take this stanza is remarkably vigorous, and the\nonly consolation that we can offer to the timid and the Tories is that as\nlong as so much strength is employed in blowing the trumpet, the sword,\nso far as Miss Nesbit is concerned, will probably remain sheathed.\nPersonally, and looking at the matter from a purely artistic point of\nview, we prefer Miss Nesbit\'s gentler moments. Her eye for Nature is\npeculiarly keen. She has always an exquisite sense of colour and\nsometimes a most delicate ear for music. Many of her poems, such as The\nMoat House, Absolution, and The Singing of the Magnificat are true works\nof art, and Vies Manquees is a little gem of song, with its dainty\ndancing measure, its delicate and wilful fancy and the sharp poignant\nnote of passion that suddenly strikes across it, marring its light\nlaughter and lending its beauty a terrible and tragic meaning.\n\nFrom the sonnets we take this at random:\n\n Not Spring--too lavish of her bud and leaf--\n But Autumn with sad eyes and brows austere,\n When fields are bare, and woods are brown and sere,\n And leaden skies weep their enchantless grief.\n Spring is so much too bright, since Spring is brief,\n And in our hearts is Autumn all the year,\n Least sad when the wide pastures are most drear\n And fields grieve most--robbed of the last gold sheaf.\n\nThese too, the opening stanzas of The Last Envoy, are charming:\n\n The Wind, that through the silent woodland blows\n O\'er rippling corn and dreaming pastures goes\n Straight to the garden where the heart of Spring\n Faints in the heart of Summer\'s earliest rose.\n\n Dimpling the meadow\'s grassy green and grey,\n By furze that yellows all the common way,\n Gathering the gladness of the common broom,\n And too persistent fragrance of the may--\n\n Gathering whatever is of sweet and dear,\n The wandering wind has passed away from here,\n Has passed to where within your garden waits\n The concentrated sweetness of the year.\n\nBut Miss Nesbit is not to be judged by mere extracts. Her work is too\nrich and too full for that.\n\nMr. Foster is an American poet who has read Hawthorne, which is wise of\nhim, and imitated Longfellow, which is not quite so commendable. His\nRebecca the Witch is a story of old Salem, written in the metre of\nHiawatha, with a few rhymes thrown in, and conceived in the spirit of the\nauthor of The Scarlet Letter. The combination is not very satisfactory,\nbut the poem, as a piece of fiction, has many elements of interest. Mr.\nFoster seems to be quite popular in America. The Chicago Times finds his\nfancies \'very playful and sunny,\' and the Indianapolis Journal speaks of\nhis \'tender and appreciative style.\' He is certainly a clever\nstory-teller, and The Noah\'s Ark (which \'somehow had escaped the\nsheriff\'s hand\') is bright and amusing, and its pathos, like the pathos\nof a melodrama, is a purely picturesque element not intended to be taken\ntoo seriously. We cannot, however, recommend the definitely comic poems.\nThey are very depressing.\n\nMr. John Renton Denning dedicates his book to the Duke of Connaught, who\nis Colonel-in-Chief of the Rifle Brigade, in which regiment Mr. Denning\nwas once himself a private soldier. His poems show an ardent love of\nKeats and a profligate luxuriance of adjectives:\n\n And I will build a bower for thee, sweet,\n A verdurous shelter from the noonday heat,\n Thick rustling ivy, broad and green, and shining,\n With honeysuckle creeping up and twining\n Its nectared sweetness round thee; violets\n And daisies with their fringed coronets\n And the white bells of tiny valley lilies,\n And golden-leaved narcissi--daffodillies\n Shall grow around thy dwelling--luscious fare\n Of fruit on which the sun has laughed;\n\nthis is the immature manner of Endymion with a vengeance and is not to be\nencouraged. Still, Mr. Denning is not always so anxious to reproduce the\nfaults of his master. Sometimes he writes with wonderful grace and\ncharm. Sylvia, for instance, is an exceedingly pretty poem, and The\nExile has many powerful and picturesque lines. Mr. Denning should make a\nselection of his poems and publish them in better type and on better\npaper. The \'get-up\' of his volume, to use the slang phrase of our young\npoets, is very bad indeed, and reflects no credit on the press of the\nEducation Society of Bombay.\n\nThe best poem in Mr. Joseph McKim\'s little book is, undoubtedly, William\nthe Silent. It is written in the spirited Macaulay style:\n\n Awake, awake, ye burghers brave! shout, shout for joy and sing!\n With thirty thousand at his back comes forth your hero King.\n Now shake for ever from your necks the servile yoke of Spain,\n And raise your arms and end for aye false Alva\'s cruel reign.\n Ho! Maestricht, Liege, Brussels fair! pour forth your warriors brave,\n And join your hands with him who comes your hearths and homes to save.\n\nSome people like this style.\n\nMrs. Horace Dobell, who has arrived at her seventeenth volume of poetry,\nseems very angry with everybody, and writes poems to A Human Toad with\nlurid and mysterious footnotes such as--\'Yet some one, _not_ a friend of\n--- _did_! on a certain occasion of a glib utterance of calumnies, by ---!\nat Hampstead.\' Here indeed is a Soul\'s Tragedy.\n\n\'In many cases I have deliberately employed alliteration, believing that\nthe music of a line is intensified thereby,\' says Mr. Kelly in the\npreface to his poems, and there is certainly no reason why Mr. Kelly\nshould not employ this \'artful aid.\' Alliteration is one of the many\nsecrets of English poetry, and as long as it is kept a secret it is\nadmirable. Mr. Kelly, it must be admitted, uses it with becoming modesty\nand reserve and never suffers it to trammel the white feet of his bright\nand buoyant muse. His volume is, in many ways, extremely interesting.\nMost minor poets are at their best in sonnets, but with him it is not so.\nHis sonnets are too narrative, too diffuse, and too lyrical. They lack\nconcentration, and concentration is the very essence of a sonnet. His\nlonger poems, on the other hand, have many good qualities. We do not\ncare for Psychossolles, which is elaborately commonplace, but The Flight\nof Calliope has many charming passages. It is a pity that Mr. Kelly has\nincluded the poems written before the age of nineteen. Youth is rarely\noriginal.\n\nAndiatorocte is the title of a volume of poems by the Rev. Clarence\nWalworth, of Albany, N.Y. It is a word borrowed from the Indians, and\nshould, we think, be returned to them as soon as possible. The most\ncurious poem of the book is called Scenes at the Holy Home:\n\n Jesus and Joseph at work! Hurra!\n Sight never to see again,\n A prentice Deity plies the saw,\n While the Master ploughs with the plane.\n\nPoems of this kind were popular in the Middle Ages when the cathedrals of\nevery Christian country served as its theatres. They are anachronisms\nnow, and it is odd that they should come to us from the United States. In\nmatters of this kind we should have some protection.\n\n(1) Lays and Legends. By E. Nesbit. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n(2) Rebecca the Witch and Other Tales. By David Skaats Foster. (G. P.\nPutnam\'s Sons.)\n\n(3) Poems and Songs. By John Renton Denning. (Bombay: Education\nSociety\'s Press.)\n\n(4) Poems. By Joseph McKim. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(5) In the Watches of the Night. Poems in eighteen volumes. By Mrs.\nHorace Dobell. Vol. xvii. (Remington and Co.)\n\n(6) Poems. By James Kelly. (Glasgow: Reid and Coghill.)\n\n(7) Andiatorocte. By the Rev. Clarence A. Walworth. (G. P. Putnam\'s\nSons.)\n\n\n\n\nA NOTE ON SOME MODERN POETS\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, December 1888.)\n\n\'If I were king,\' says Mr. Henley, in one of his most modest rondeaus,\n\n \'Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;\n Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;\n And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,\n If I were king.\'\n\nAnd these lines contain, if not the best criticism of his own work,\ncertainly a very complete statement of his aim and motive as a poet. His\nlittle Book of Verses reveals to us an artist who is seeking to find new\nmethods of expression and has not merely a delicate sense of beauty and a\nbrilliant, fantastic wit, but a real passion also for what is horrible,\nugly, or grotesque. No doubt, everything that is worthy of existence is\nworthy also of art--at least, one would like to think so--but while echo\nor mirror can repeat for us a beautiful thing, to render artistically a\nthing that is ugly requires the most exquisite alchemy of form, the most\nsubtle magic of transformation. To me there is more of the cry of\nMarsyas than of the singing of Apollo in the earlier poems of Mr.\nHenley\'s volume, In Hospital: Rhymes and Rhythms, as he calls them. But\nit is impossible to deny their power. Some of them are like bright,\nvivid pastels; others like charcoal drawings, with dull blacks and murky\nwhites; others like etchings with deeply-bitten lines, and abrupt\ncontrasts, and clever colour-suggestions. In fact, they are like\nanything and everything, except perfected poems--that they certainly are\nnot. They are still in the twilight. They are preludes, experiments,\ninspired jottings in a note-book, and should be heralded by a design of\n\'Genius Making Sketches.\' Rhyme gives architecture as well as melody to\nverse; it gives that delightful sense of limitation which in all the arts\nis so pleasurable, and is, indeed, one of the secrets of perfection; it\nwill whisper, as a French critic has said, \'things unexpected and\ncharming, things with strange and remote relations to each other,\' and\nbind them together in indissoluble bonds of beauty; and in his constant\nrejection of rhyme, Mr. Henley seems to me to have abdicated half his\npower. He is a roi en exil who has thrown away some of the strings of\nhis lute; a poet who has forgotten the fairest part of his kingdom.\n\nHowever, all work criticises itself. Here is one of Mr. Henley\'s\ninspired jottings. According to the temperament of the reader, it will\nserve either as a model or as the reverse:\n\n As with varnish red and glistening\n Dripped his hair; his feet were rigid;\n Raised, he settled stiffly sideways:\n You could see the hurts were spinal.\n\n He had fallen from an engine,\n And been dragged along the metals.\n It was hopeless, and they knew it;\n So they covered him, and left him.\n\n As he lay, by fits half sentient,\n Inarticulately moaning,\n With his stockinged feet protruded\n Sharp and awkward from the blankets,\n\n To his bed there came a woman,\n Stood and looked and sighed a little,\n And departed without speaking,\n As himself a few hours after.\n\n I was told she was his sweetheart.\n They were on the eve of marriage.\n She was quiet as a statue,\n But her lip was gray and writhen.\n\nIn this poem, the rhythm and the music, such as it is, are\nobvious--perhaps a little too obvious. In the following I see nothing\nbut ingeniously printed prose. It is a description--and a very accurate\none--of a scene in a hospital ward. The medical students are supposed to\nbe crowding round the doctor. What I quote is only a fragment, but the\npoem itself is a fragment:\n\n So shows the ring\n Seen, from behind, round a conjuror\n Doing his pitch in the street.\n High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,\n Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;\n While from within a voice,\n Gravely and weightily fluent,\n Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly\n (Look at the stress of the shoulders!)\n Out of a quiver of silence,\n Over the hiss of the spray,\n Comes a low cry, and the sound\n Of breath quick intaken through teeth\n Clenched in resolve. And the master\n Breaks from the crowd, and goes,\n Wiping his hands,\n To the next bed, with his pupils\n Flocking and whispering behind him.\n\n Now one can see.\n Case Number One\n Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes\n Stripped up, and showing his foot\n (Alas, for God\'s image!)\n Swaddled in wet white lint\n Brilliantly hideous with red.\n\nTheophile Gautier once said that Flaubert\'s style was meant to be read,\nand his own style to be looked at. Mr. Henley\'s unrhymed rhythms form\nvery dainty designs, from a typographical point of view. From the point\nof view of literature, they are a series of vivid, concentrated\nimpressions, with a keen grip of fact, a terrible actuality, and an\nalmost masterly power of picturesque presentation. But the poetic\nform--what of that?\n\nWell, let us pass to the later poems, to the rondels and rondeaus, the\nsonnets and quatorzains, the echoes and the ballades. How brilliant and\nfanciful this is! The Toyokuni colour-print that suggested it could not\nbe more delightful. It seems to have kept all the wilful fantastic charm\nof the original:\n\n Was I a Samurai renowned,\n Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?\n A histrion angular and profound?\n A priest? a porter?--Child, although\n I have forgotten clean, I know\n That in the shade of Fujisan,\n What time the cherry-orchards blow,\n I loved you once in old Japan.\n\n As here you loiter, flowing-gowned\n And hugely sashed, with pins a-row\n Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,\n Demure, inviting--even so,\n When merry maids in Miyako\n To feel the sweet o\' the year began,\n And green gardens to overflow,\n I loved you once in old Japan.\n\n Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round\n Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,\n A blue canal the lake\'s blue bound\n Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!\n Touched with the sundown\'s spirit and glow,\n I see you turn, with flirted fan,\n Against the plum-tree\'s bloomy snow . . .\n I loved you once in old Japan!\n\n ENVOY.\n\n Dear, \'twas a dozen lives ago;\n But that I was a lucky man\n The Toyokuni here will show:\n I loved you--once--in old Japan!\n\nThis rondel, too--how light it is, and graceful!--\n\n We\'ll to the woods and gather may\n Fresh from the footprints of the rain.\n We\'ll to the woods, at every vein\n To drink the spirit of the day.\n\n The winds of spring are out at play,\n The needs of spring in heart and brain.\n We\'ll to the woods and gather may\n Fresh from the footprints of the rain.\n\n The world\'s too near her end, you say?\n Hark to the blackbird\'s mad refrain!\n It waits for her, the vast Inane?\n Then, girls, to help her on the way\n We\'ll to the woods and gather may.\n\nThere are fine verses, also, scattered through this little book; some of\nthem very strong, as--\n\n Out of the night that covers me,\n Black as the pit from pole to pole,\n I thank whatever gods may be\n For my unconquerable soul.\n\n It matters not how strait the gate,\n How charged with punishments the scroll,\n I am the master of my fate:\n I am the captain of my soul.\n\nOthers with a true touch of romance, as--\n\n Or ever the knightly years were gone\n With the old world to the grave,\n I was a king in Babylon,\n And you were a Christian slave.\n\nAnd here and there we come across such felicitous phrases as--\n\n In the sand\n The gold prow-griffin claws a hold,\n\nor--\n\n The spires\n Shine and are changed,\n\nand many other graceful or fanciful lines, even \'the green sky\'s minor\nthirds\' being perfectly right in its place, and a very refreshing bit of\naffectation in a volume where there is so much that is natural.\n\nHowever, Mr. Henley is not to be judged by samples. Indeed, the most\nattractive thing in the book is no single poem that is in it, but the\nstrong humane personality that stands behind both flawless and faulty\nwork alike, and looks out through many masks, some of them beautiful, and\nsome grotesque, and not a few misshapen. In the case with most of our\nmodern poets, when we have analysed them down to an adjective, we can go\nno further, or we care to go no further; but with this book it is\ndifferent. Through these reeds and pipes blows the very breath of life.\nIt seems as if one could put one\'s hand upon the singer\'s heart and count\nits pulsations. There is something wholesome, virile and sane about the\nman\'s soul. Anybody can be reasonable, but to be sane is not common; and\nsane poets are as rare as blue lilies, though they may not be quite so\ndelightful.\n\n Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,\n Or the gold weather round us mellow slow;\n We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare,\n And we can conquer, though we may not share\n In the rich quiet of the afterglow,\n What is to come,\n\nis the concluding stanza of the last rondeau--indeed, of the last poem in\nthe collection, and the high, serene temper displayed in these lines\nserves at once as keynote and keystone to the book. The very lightness\nand slightness of so much of the work, its careless moods and casual\nfancies, seem to suggest a nature that is not primarily interested in\nart--a nature, like Sordello\'s, passionately enamoured of life, one to\nwhich lyre and lute are things of less importance. From this mere joy of\nliving, this frank delight in experience for its own sake, this lofty\nindifference, and momentary unregretted ardours, come all the faults and\nall the beauties of the volume. But there is this difference between\nthem--the faults are deliberate, and the result of much study; the\nbeauties have the air of fascinating impromptus. Mr. Henley\'s healthy,\nif sometimes misapplied, confidence in the myriad suggestions of life\ngives him his charm. He is made to sing along the highways, not to sit\ndown and write. If he took himself more seriously, his work would become\ntrivial.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMr. William Sharp takes himself very seriously and has written a preface\nto his Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy, which is, on the whole,\nthe most interesting part of his volume. We are all, it seems, far too\ncultured, and lack robustness. \'There are those amongst us,\' says Mr.\nSharp, \'who would prefer a dexterously-turned triolet to such apparently\nuncouth measures as Thomas the Rhymer, or the ballad of Clerk Saunders:\nwho would rather listen to the drawing-room music of the Villanelle than\nto the wild harp-playing by the mill-dams o\' Binnorie, or the sough of\nthe night-wind o\'er drumly Annan water.\' Such an expression as \'the\ndrawing-room music of the Villanelle\' is not very happy, and I cannot\nimagine any one with the smallest pretensions to culture preferring a\ndexterously turned triolet to a fine imaginative ballad, as it is only\nthe Philistine who ever dreams of comparing works of art that are\nabsolutely different in motive, in treatment, and in form. If English\nPoetry is in danger--and, according to Mr. Sharp, the poor nymph is in a\nvery critical state--what she has to fear is not the fascination of\ndainty metre or delicate form, but the predominance of the intellectual\nspirit over the spirit of beauty. Lord Tennyson dethroned Wordsworth as\na literary influence, and later on Mr. Swinburne filled all the mountain\nvalleys with echoes of his own song. The influence to-day is that of Mr.\nBrowning. And as for the triolets, and the rondels, and the careful\nstudy of metrical subtleties, these things are merely the signs of a\ndesire for perfection in small things and of the recognition of poetry as\nan art. They have had certainly one good result--they have made our\nminor poets readable, and have not left us entirely at the mercy of\ngeniuses.\n\nBut, says Mr. Sharp, every one is far too literary; even Rossetti is too\nliterary. What we want is simplicity and directness of utterance; these\nshould be the dominant characteristics of poetry. Well, is that quite so\ncertain? Are simplicity and directness of utterance absolute essentials\nfor poetry? I think not. They may be admirable for the drama, admirable\nfor all those imitative forms of literature that claim to mirror life in\nits externals and its accidents, admirable for quiet narrative, admirable\nin their place; but their place is not everywhere. Poetry has many modes\nof music; she does not blow through one pipe alone. Directness of\nutterance is good, but so is the subtle recasting of thought into a new\nand delightful form. Simplicity is good, but complexity, mystery,\nstrangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have their value. Indeed,\nproperly speaking, there is no such thing as Style; there are merely\nstyles, that is all.\n\nOne cannot help feeling also that everything that Mr. Sharp says in his\npreface was said at the beginning of the century by Wordsworth, only\nwhere Wordsworth called us back to nature, Mr. Sharp invites us to woo\nromance. Romance, he tells us, is \'in the air.\' A new romantic movement\nis imminent; \'I anticipate,\' he says, \'that many of our poets, especially\nthose of the youngest generation, will shortly turn towards the "ballad"\nas a poetic vehicle: and that the next year or two will see much romantic\npoetry.\'\n\nThe ballad! Well, Mr. Andrew Lang, some months ago, signed the death-\nwarrant of the ballade, and--though I hope that in this respect Mr. Lang\nresembles the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, whose bloodthirsty orders\nwere by general consent never carried into execution--it must be admitted\nthat the number of ballades given to us by some of our poets was,\nperhaps, a little excessive. But the ballad? Sir Patrick Spens, Clerk\nSaunders, Thomas the Rhymer--are these to be our archetypes, our models,\nthe sources of our inspiration? They are certainly great imaginative\npoems. In Chatterton\'s Ballad of Charity, Coleridge\'s Rhyme of the\nAncient Mariner, the La Belle Dame sans Merci of Keats, the Sister Helen\nof Rossetti, we can see what marvellous works of art the spirit of old\nromance may fashion. But to preach a spirit is one thing, to propose a\nform is another. It is true that Mr. Sharp warns the rising generation\nagainst imitation. A ballad, he reminds them, does not necessarily\ndenote a poem in quatrains and in antique language. But his own poems,\nas I think will be seen later, are, in their way, warnings, and show the\ndanger of suggesting any definite \'poetic vehicle.\' And, further, are\nsimplicity and directness of utterance really the dominant\ncharacteristics of these old imaginative ballads that Mr. Sharp so\nenthusiastically, and, in some particulars, so wisely praises? It does\nnot seem to me to be so. We are always apt to think that the voices\nwhich sang at the dawn of poetry were simpler, fresher, and more natural\nthan ours, and that the world which the early poets looked at, and\nthrough which they walked, had a kind of poetical quality of its own, and\ncould pass, almost without changing, into song. The snow lies thick now\nupon Olympus, and its scarped sides are bleak and barren, but once, we\nfancy, the white feet of the Muses brushed the dew from the anemones in\nthe morning, and at evening came Apollo to sing to the shepherds in the\nvale. But in this we are merely lending to other ages what we desire, or\nthink we desire, for our own. Our historical sense is at fault. Every\ncentury that produces poetry is, so far, an artificial century, and the\nwork that seems to us the most natural and simple product of its time is\nprobably the result of the most deliberate and self-conscious effort. For\nNature is always behind the age. It takes a great artist to be\nthoroughly modern.\n\nLet us turn to the poems, which have really only the preface to blame for\ntheir somewhat late appearance. The best is undoubtedly The Weird of\nMichael Scott, and these stanzas are a fair example of its power:\n\n Then Michael Scott laughed long and loud:\n \'Whan shone the mune ahint yon cloud\n I speered the towers that saw my birth--\n Lang, lang, sall wait my cauld grey shroud,\n Lang cauld and weet my bed o\' earth!\'\n\n But as by Stair he rode full speed\n His horse began to pant and bleed;\n \'Win hame, win hame, my bonnie mare,\n Win hame if thou wouldst rest and feed,\n Win hame, we\'re nigh the House of Stair!\'\n\n But, with a shrill heart-bursten yell\n The white horse stumbled, plunged, and fell,\n And loud a summoning voice arose,\n \'Is\'t White-Horse Death that rides frae Hell,\n Or Michael Scott that hereby goes?\'\n\n \'Ah, Laird of Stair, I ken ye weel!\n Avaunt, or I your saul sall steal,\n An\' send ye howling through the wood\n A wild man-wolf--aye, ye maun reel\n An\' cry upon your Holy Rood!\'\n\nThere is a good deal of vigour, no doubt, in these lines; but one cannot\nhelp asking whether this is to be the common tongue of the future\nRenaissance of Romance. Are we all to talk Scotch, and to speak of the\nmoon as the \'mune,\' and the soul as the \'saul\'? I hope not. And yet if\nthis Renaissance is to be a vital, living thing, it must have its\nlinguistic side. Just as the spiritual development of music, and the\nartistic development of painting, have always been accompanied, if not\noccasioned, by the discovery of some new instrument or some fresh medium,\nso, in the case of any important literary movement, half of its strength\nresides in its language. If it does not bring with it a rich and novel\nmode of expression, it is doomed either to sterility or to imitation.\nDialect, archaisms and the like, will not do. Take, for instance,\nanother poem of Mr. Sharp\'s, a poem which he calls The Deith-Tide:\n\n The weet saut wind is blawing\n Upon the misty shore:\n As, like a stormy snawing,\n The deid go streaming o\'er:--\n The wan drown\'d deid sail wildly\n Frae out each drumly wave:\n It\'s O and O for the weary sea,\n And O for a quiet grave.\n\nThis is simply a very clever pastiche, nothing more, and our language is\nnot likely to be permanently enriched by such words as \'weet,\' \'saut,\'\n\'blawing,\' and \'snawing.\' Even \'drumly,\' an adjective of which Mr. Sharp\nis so fond that he uses it both in prose and verse, seems to me to be\nhardly an adequate basis for a new romantic movement.\n\nHowever, Mr. Sharp does not always write in dialect. The Son of Allan\ncan be read without any difficulty, and Phantasy can be read with\npleasure. They are both very charming poems in their way, and none the\nless charming because the cadences of the one recall Sister Helen, and\nthe motive of the other reminds us of La Belle Dame sans Merci. But\nthose who wish thoroughly to enjoy Mr. Sharp\'s poems should not read his\npreface; just as those who approve of the preface should avoid reading\nthe poems. I cannot help saying that I think the preface a great\nmistake. The work that follows it is quite inadequate, and there seems\nlittle use in heralding a dawn that rose long ago, and proclaiming a\nRenaissance whose first-fruits, if we are to judge them by any high\nstandard of perfection, are of so ordinary a character.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss Mary Robinson has also written a preface to her little volume,\nPoems, Ballads, and a Garden Play, but the preface is not very serious,\nand does not propose any drastic change or any immediate revolution in\nEnglish literature. Miss Robinson\'s poems have always the charm of\ndelicate music and graceful expression; but they are, perhaps, weakest\nwhere they try to be strong, and certainly least satisfying where they\nseek to satisfy. Her fanciful flower-crowned Muse, with her tripping\nsteps and pretty, wilful ways, should not write Antiphons to the\nUnknowable, or try to grapple with abstract intellectual problems. Hers\nis not the hand to unveil mysteries, nor hers the strength for the\nsolving of secrets. She should never leave her garden, and as for her\nwandering out into the desert to ask the Sphinx questions, that should be\nsternly forbidden to her. Durer\'s Melancolia, that serves as the\nfrontispiece to this dainty book, looks sadly out of place. Her seat is\nwith the sibyls, not with the nymphs. What has she to do with\nshepherdesses piping about Darwinism and \'The Eternal Mind\'?\n\nHowever, if the Songs of the Inner Life are not very successful, the\nSpring Songs are delightful. They follow each other like wind-blown\npetals, and make one feel how much more charming flower is than fruit,\napple-blossom than apple. There are some artistic temperaments that\nshould never come to maturity, that should always remain in the region of\npromise and should dread autumn with its harvesting more than winter with\nits frosts. Such seems to me the temperament that this volume reveals.\nThe first poem of the second series, La Belle au Bois Dormant, is worth\nall the more serious and thoughtful work, and has far more chance of\nbeing remembered. It is not always to high aim and lofty ambition that\nthe prize is given. If Daphne had gone to meet Apollo, she would never\nhave known what laurels are.\n\nFrom these fascinating spring lyrics and idylls we pass to the romantic\nballads. One artistic faculty Miss Robinson certainly possesses--the\nfaculty of imitation. There is an element of imitation in all the arts;\nit is to be found in literature as much as in painting, and the danger of\nvaluing it too little is almost as great as the danger of setting too\nhigh a value upon it. To catch, by dainty mimicry, the very mood and\nmanner of antique work, and yet to retain that touch of modern passion\nwithout which the old form would be dull and empty; to win from\nlong-silent lips some faint echo of their music, and to add to it a music\nof one\'s own; to take the mode and fashion of a bygone age, and to\nexperiment with it, and search curiously for its possibilities; there is\na pleasure in all this. It is a kind of literary acting, and has\nsomething of the charm of the art of the stage-player. And how well, on\nthe whole, Miss Robinson does it! Here is the opening of the ballad of\nRudel:\n\n There was in all the world of France\n No singer half so sweet:\n The first note of his viol brought\n A crowd into the street.\n\n He stepped as young, and bright, and glad\n As Angel Gabriel.\n And only when we heard him sing\n Our eyes forgot Rudel.\n\n And as he sat in Avignon,\n With princes at their wine,\n In all that lusty company\n Was none so fresh and fine.\n\n His kirtle\'s of the Arras-blue,\n His cap of pearls and green;\n His golden curls fall tumbling round\n The fairest face I\'ve seen.\n\nHow Gautier would have liked this from the same poem!--\n\n Hew the timbers of sandal-wood,\n And planks of ivory;\n Rear up the shining masts of gold,\n And let us put to sea.\n\n Sew the sails with a silken thread\n That all are silken too;\n Sew them with scarlet pomegranates\n Upon a sheet of blue.\n\n Rig the ship with a rope of gold\n And let us put to sea.\n And now, good-bye to good Marseilles,\n And hey for Tripoli!\n\nThe ballad of the Duke of Gueldres\'s wedding is very clever:\n\n \'O welcome, Mary Harcourt,\n Thrice welcome, lady mine;\n There\'s not a knight in all the world\n Shall be as true as thine.\n\n \'There\'s venison in the aumbry, Mary,\n There\'s claret in the vat;\n Come in, and breakfast in the hall\n Where once my mother sat!\'\n\n O red, red is the wine that flows,\n And sweet the minstrel\'s play,\n But white is Mary Harcourt\n Upon her wedding-day.\n\n O many are the wedding guests\n That sit on either side;\n But pale below her crimson flowers\n And homesick is the bride.\n\nMiss Robinson\'s critical sense is at once too sound and too subtle to\nallow her to think that any great Renaissance of Romance will necessarily\nfollow from the adoption of the ballad-form in poetry; but her work in\nthis style is very pretty and charming, and The Tower of St. Maur, which\ntells of the father who built up his little son in the wall of his castle\nin order that the foundations should stand sure, is admirable in its way.\nThe few touches of archaism in language that she introduces are quite\nsufficient for their purpose, and though she fully appreciates the\nimportance of the Celtic spirit in literature, she does not consider it\nnecessary to talk of \'blawing\' and \'snawing.\' As for the garden play,\nOur Lady of the Broken Heart, as it is called, the bright, birdlike\nsnatches of song that break in here and there--as the singing does in\nPippa Passes--form a very welcome relief to the somewhat ordinary\nmovement of the blank verse, and suggest to us again where Miss\nRobinson\'s real power lies. Not a poet in the true creative sense, she\nis still a very perfect artist in poetry, using language as one might use\na very precious material, and producing her best work by the rejection of\nthe great themes and large intellectual motives that belong to fuller and\nricher song. When she essays such themes, she certainly fails. Her\ninstrument is the reed, not the lyre. Only those should sing of Death\nwhose song is stronger than Death is.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe collected poems of the author of John Halifax, Gentleman, have a\npathetic interest as the artistic record of a very gracious and comely\nlife. They bring us back to the days when Philip Bourke Marston was\nyoung--\'Philip, my King,\' as she called him in the pretty poem of that\nname; to the days of the Great Exhibition, with the universal piping\nabout peace; to those later terrible Crimean days, when Alma and\nBalaclava were words on the lips of our poets; and to days when Leonora\nwas considered a very romantic name.\n\n Leonora, Leonora,\n How the word rolls--Leonora.\n Lion-like in full-mouthed sound,\n Marching o\'er the metric ground,\n With a tawny tread sublime.\n So your name moves, Leonora,\n Down my desert rhyme.\n\nMrs. Craik\'s best poems are, on the whole, those that are written in\nblank verse; and these, though not prosaic, remind one that prose was her\ntrue medium of expression. But some of the rhymed poems have\nconsiderable merit. These may serve as examples of Mrs. Craik\'s style:\n\n A SKETCH\n\n Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved,\n In whose large store the very meanest coin\n Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here thou comest\n Like a kind heiress from her purple and down\n Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep,\n But goes forth to the stranger at her gate--\n The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate--\n And clothes and feeds; scarce blest till she has blest.\n\n But dost thou love me, O thou pure of heart,\n Whose very looks are prayers? What couldst thou see\n In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood\'s side,\n To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand,\n Saying, \'It is so clear!\'--and lo! ere long,\n Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings,\n Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm,\n Its depths grew still, that there thy form might rise.\n\n THE NOVICE\n\n It is near morning. Ere the next night fall\n I shall be made the bride of heaven. Then home\n To my still marriage-chamber I shall come,\n And spouseless, childless, watch the slow years crawl.\n\n These lips will never meet a softer touch\n Than the stone crucifix I kiss; no child\n Will clasp this neck. Ah, virgin-mother mild,\n Thy painted bliss will mock me overmuch.\n\n This is the last time I shall twist the hair\n My mother\'s hand wreathed, till in dust she lay:\n The name, her name given on my baptism day,\n This is the last time I shall ever bear.\n\n O weary world, O heavy life, farewell!\n Like a tired child that creeps into the dark\n To sob itself asleep, where none will mark,--\n So creep I to my silent convent cell.\n\n Friends, lovers whom I loved not, kindly hearts\n Who grieve that I should enter this still door,\n Grieve not. Closing behind me evermore,\n Me from all anguish, as all joy, it parts.\n\nThe volume chronicles the moods of a sweet and thoughtful nature, and\nthough many things in it may seem somewhat old-fashioned, it is still\nvery pleasant to read, and has a faint perfume of withered rose-leaves\nabout it.\n\n(1) A Book of Verses. By William Ernest Henley. (David Nutt.)\n\n(2) Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy. By William Sharp. (Walter\nScott.)\n\n(3) Poems, Ballads, and a Garden Play. By A. Mary F. Robinson. (Fisher\nUnwin.)\n\n(4) Poems. By the Author of John Halifax, Gentleman. (Macmillan and\nCo.)\n\n\n\n\nSIR EDWIN ARNOLD\'S LAST VOLUME\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1888.)\n\nWriters of poetical prose are rarely good poets. They may crowd their\npage with gorgeous epithet and resplendent phrase, may pile Pelions of\nadjectives upon Ossas of descriptions, may abandon themselves to highly\ncoloured diction and rich luxuriance of imagery, but if their verse lacks\nthe true rhythmical life of verse, if their method is devoid of the self-\nrestraint of the real artist, all their efforts are of very little avail.\n\'Asiatic\' prose is possibly useful for journalistic purposes, but\n\'Asiatic\' poetry is not to be encouraged. Indeed, poetry may be said to\nneed far more self-restraint than prose. Its conditions are more\nexquisite. It produces its effects by more subtle means. It must not be\nallowed to degenerate into mere rhetoric or mere eloquence. It is, in\none sense, the most self-conscious of all the arts, as it is never a\nmeans to an end but always an end in itself. Sir Edwin Arnold has a very\npicturesque or, perhaps we should say, a very pictorial style. He knows\nIndia better than any living Englishman knows it, and Hindoostanee better\nthan any English writer should know it. If his descriptions lack\ndistinction, they have at least the merit of being true, and when he does\nnot interlard his pages with an interminable and intolerable series of\nforeign words he is pleasant enough. But he is not a poet. He is simply\na poetical writer--that is all.\n\nHowever, poetical writers have their uses, and there is a good deal in\nSir Edwin Arnold\'s last volume that will repay perusal. The scene of the\nstory is placed in a mosque attached to the monument of the Taj-Mahal,\nand a group composed of a learned Mirza, two singing girls with their\nattendant, and an Englishman, is supposed to pass the night there reading\nthe chapter of Sa\'di upon \'Love,\' and conversing upon that theme with\naccompaniments of music and dancing. The Englishman is, of course, Sir\nEdwin Arnold himself:\n\n lover of India,\n Too much her lover! for his heart lived there\n How far soever wandered thence his feet.\n\nLady Dufferin appears as\n\n Lady Duffreen, the mighty Queen\'s Vice-queen!\n\nwhich is really one of the most dreadful blank-verse lines that we have\ncome across for some time past. M. Renan is \'a priest of Frangestan,\'\nwho writes in \'glittering French\'; Lord Tennyson is\n\n One we honour for his songs--\n Greater than Sa\'di\'s self--\n\nand the Darwinians appear as the \'Mollahs of the West,\' who\n\n hold Adam\'s sons\n Sprung of the sea-slug.\n\nAll this is excellent fooling in its way, a kind of play-acting in\nliterature; but the best parts of the book are the descriptions of the\nTaj itself, which are extremely elaborate, and the various translations\nfrom Sa\'di with which the volume is interspersed. The great monument\nShah Jahan built for Arjamand is\n\n Instinct with loveliness--not masonry!\n Not architecture! as all others are,\n But the proud passion of an Emperor\'s love\n Wrought into living stone, which gleams and soars\n With body of beauty shrining soul and thought,\n Insomuch that it haps as when some face\n Divinely fair unveils before our eyes--\n Some woman beautiful unspeakably--\n And the blood quickens, and the spirit leaps,\n And will to worship bends the half-yielded knees,\n Which breath forgets to breathe: so is the Taj;\n You see it with the heart, before the eyes\n Have scope to gaze. All white! snow white! cloud white!\n\nWe cannot say much in praise of the sixth line:\n\n Insomuch that it haps as when some face:\n\nit is curiously awkward and unmusical. But this passage from Sa\'di is\nremarkable:\n\n When Earth, bewildered, shook in earthquake-throes,\n With mountain-roots He bound her borders close;\n Turkis and ruby in her rocks He stored,\n And on her green branch hung His crimson rose.\n\n He shapes dull seed to fair imaginings;\n Who paints with moisture as He painteth things?\n Look! from the cloud He sheds one drop on ocean,\n As from the Father\'s loins one drop He brings;--\n\n And out of that He forms a peerless pearl,\n And, out of this, a cypress boy or girl;\n Utterly wotting all their innermosts,\n For all to Him is visible! Uncurl\n\n Your cold coils, Snakes! Creep forth, ye thrifty Ants!\n Handless and strengthless He provides your wants\n Who from the \'Is not\' planned the \'Is to be,\'\n And Life in non-existent void implants.\n\nSir Edwin Arnold suffers, of course, from the inevitable comparison that\none cannot help making between his work and the work of Edward\nFitzgerald, and certainly Fitzgerald could never have written such a line\nas \'utterly wotting all their innermosts,\' but it is interesting to read\nalmost any translation of those wonderful Oriental poets with their\nstrange blending of philosophy and sensuousness, of simple parable or\nfable and obscure mystic utterance. What we regret most in Sir Edwin\nArnold\'s book is his habit of writing in what really amounts to a sort of\n\'pigeon English.\' When we are told that \'Lady Duffreen, the mighty\nQueen\'s Vice-queen,\' paces among the charpoys of the ward \'no whit afraid\nof sitla, or of tap\'; when the Mirza explains--\n\n ag lejao!\n To light the kallians for the Saheb and me,\n\nand the attendant obeys with \'Achcha! Achcha!\' when we are invited to\nlisten to \'the Vina and the drum\' and told about ekkas, Byragis, hamals\nand Tamboora, all that we can say is that to such ghazals we are not\nprepared to say either Shamash or Afrin. In English poetry we do not\nwant\n\n chatkis for the toes,\n Jasams for elbow-bands, and gote and har,\n Bala and mala.\n\nThis is not local colour; it is a sort of local discoloration. It does\nnot add anything to the vividness of the scene. It does not bring the\nOrient more clearly before us. It is simply an inconvenience to the\nreader and a mistake on the part of the writer. It may be difficult for\na poet to find English synonyms for Asiatic expressions, but even if it\nwere impossible it is none the less a poet\'s duty to find them. We are\nsorry that a scholar and a man of culture like Sir Edwin Arnold should\nhave been guilty of what is really an act of treason against our\nliterature. But for this error, his book, though not in any sense a work\nof genius or even of high artistic merit, would still have been of some\nenduring value. As it is, Sir Edwin Arnold has translated Sa\'di and some\none must translate Sir Edwin Arnold.\n\nWith Sa\'di in the Garden; or The Book of Love. By Sir Edwin Arnold,\nM.A., K.C.I.E., Author of The Light of Asia, etc. (Trubner and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nAUSTRALIAN POETS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 14, 1888.)\n\nMr. Sladen dedicates his anthology (or, perhaps, we should say his\nherbarium) of Australian song to Mr. Edmund Gosse, \'whose exquisite\ncritical faculty is,\' he tells us, \'as conspicuous in his poems as in his\nlectures on poetry.\' After so graceful a compliment Mr. Gosse must\ncertainly deliver a series of discourses upon Antipodean art before the\nCambridge undergraduates, who will, no doubt, be very much interested on\nhearing about Gordon, Kendall and Domett, to say nothing of the\nextraordinary collection of mediocrities whom Mr. Sladen has somewhat\nruthlessly dragged from their modest and well-merited obscurity. Gordon,\nhowever, is very badly represented in Mr. Sladen\'s book, the only three\nspecimens of his work that are included being an unrevised fragment, his\nValedictory Poem and An Exile\'s Farewell. The latter is, of course,\ntouching, but then the commonplace always touches, and it is a great pity\nthat Mr. Sladen was unable to come to any financial arrangement with the\nholders of Gordon\'s copyright. The loss to the volume that now lies\nbefore us is quite irreparable. Through Gordon Australia found her first\nfine utterance in song.\n\nStill, there are some other singers here well worth studying, and it is\ninteresting to read about poets who lie under the shadow of the gum-tree,\ngather wattle blossoms and buddawong and sarsaparilla for their loves,\nand wander through the glades of Mount Baw-baw listening to the careless\nraptures of the mopoke. To them November is\n\n The wonder with the golden wings,\n Who lays one hand in Summer\'s, one in Spring\'s:\n\nJanuary is full of \'breaths of myrrh, and subtle hints of rose-lands\';\n\n She is the warm, live month of lustre--she\n Makes glad the land and lulls the strong sad sea;\n\nwhile February is \'the true Demeter,\' and\n\n With rich warm vine-blood splashed from heel to knee,\n Comes radiant through the yellow woodlands.\n\nEach month, as it passes, calls for new praise and for music different\nfrom our own. July is a \'lady, born in wind and rain\'; in August\n\n Across the range, by every scarred black fell,\n Strong Winter blows his horn of wild farewell;\n\nwhile October is \'the queen of all the year,\' the \'lady of the yellow\nhair,\' who strays \'with blossom-trammelled feet\' across the\n\'haughty-featured hills,\' and brings the Spring with her. We must\ncertainly try to accustom ourselves to the mopoke and the sarsaparilla\nplant, and to make the gum-tree and the buddawong as dear to us as the\nolives and the narcissi of white Colonus. After all, the Muses are great\ntravellers, and the same foot that stirred the Cumnor cowslips may some\nday brush the fallen gold of the wattle blossoms and tread delicately\nover the tawny bush-grass.\n\nMr. Sladen has, of course, a great belief in the possibilities of\nAustralian poetry. There are in Australia, he tells us, far more writers\ncapable of producing good work than has been assumed. It is only\nnatural, he adds, that this should be so, \'for Australia has one of those\ndelightful climates conducive to rest in the open air. The middle of the\nday is so hot that it is really more healthful to lounge about than to\ntake stronger exercise.\' Well, lounging in the open air is not a bad\nschool for poets, but it largely depends on the lounger. What strikes\none on reading over Mr. Sladen\'s collection is the depressing\nprovinciality of mood and manner in almost every writer. Page follows\npage, and we find nothing but echoes without music, reflections without\nbeauty, second-rate magazine verses and third-rate verses for Colonial\nnewspapers. Poe seems to have had some influence--at least, there are\nseveral parodies of his method--and one or two writers have read Mr.\nSwinburne; but, on the whole, we have artless Nature in her most\nirritating form. Of course Australia is young, younger even than America\nwhose youth is now one of her oldest and most hallowed traditions, but\nthe entire want of originality of treatment is curious. And yet not so\ncurious, perhaps, after all. Youth is rarely original.\n\nThere are, however, some exceptions. Henry Clarence Kendall had a true\npoetic gift. The series of poems on the Austral months, from which we\nhave already quoted, is full of beautiful things; Landor\'s Rose Aylmer is\na classic in its way, but Kendall\'s Rose Lorraine is in parts not\nunworthy to be mentioned after it; and the poem entitled Beyond Kerguelen\nhas a marvellous music about it, a wonderful rhythm of words and a real\nrichness of utterance. Some of the lines are strangely powerful, and,\nindeed, in spite of its exaggerated alliteration, or perhaps in\nconsequence of it, the whole poem is a most remarkable work of art.\n\n Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it--\n Far from the zone of the blossom and tree--\n Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,\n Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.\n Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;\n Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;\n Phantom of light is the light on the face of it--\n Never is night on it, never is day!\n Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;\n Here is no litany sweet of the springs--\n Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,\n Only the storm, with a roar in its wings!\n\n Back in the dawn of this beautiful sphere, on it--\n Land of the dolorous, desolate face--\n Beamed the blue day; and the beautiful year on it\n Fostered the leaf and the blossom of grace.\n Grand were the lights of its midsummer noon on it--\n Mornings of majesty shone on its seas;\n Glitter of star and the glory of moon on it\n Fell, in the march of the musical breeze.\n Valleys and hills, with the whisper of wing in them,\n Dells of the daffodil--spaces impearled,\n Flowered and flashed with the splendour of spring in them,\n Back in the morn of this wonderful world.\n\nMr. Sladen speaks of Alfred Domett as \'the author of one of the great\npoems of a century in which Shelley and Keats, Byron and Scott,\nWordsworth and Tennyson have all flourished,\' but the extracts he gives\nfrom Ranolf and Amohia hardly substantiate this claim, although the song\nof the Tree-God in the fourth book is clever but exasperating.\n\nA Midsummer\'s Noon, by Charles Harpur, \'the grey forefather of Australian\npoetry,\' is pretty and graceful, and Thomas Henry\'s Wood-Notes and Miss\nVeel\'s Saturday Night are worth reading; but, on the whole, the\nAustralian poets are extremely dull and prosaic. There seem to be no\nsirens in the New World. As for Mr. Sladen himself, he has done his work\nvery conscientiously. Indeed, in one instance he almost re-writes an\nentire poem in consequence of the manuscript having reached him in a\nmutilated condition.\n\n A pleasant land is the land of dreams\n _At the back of the shining air_!\n It hath _sunnier_ skies and _sheenier_ streams,\n And gardens _than Earth\'s more_ fair,\n\nis the first verse of this lucubration, and Mr. Sladen informs us with\njustifiable pride that the parts printed in italics are from his own pen!\nThis is certainly editing with a vengeance, and we cannot help saying\nthat it reflects more credit on Mr. Sladen\'s good nature than on his\ncritical or his poetical powers. The appearance, also, in a volume of\n\'poems produced in Australia,\' of selections from Horne\'s Orion cannot be\ndefended, especially as we are given no specimen of the poetry Horne\nwrote during the time that he actually was in Australia, where he held\nthe office of \'Warden of the Blue Mountains\'--a position which, as far as\nthe title goes, is the loveliest ever given to any poet, and would have\nsuited Wordsworth admirably: Wordsworth, that is to say, at his best, for\nhe not infrequently wrote like the Distributor of Stamps. However, Mr.\nSladen has shown great energy in the compilation of this bulky volume\nwhich, though it does not contain much that is of any artistic value, has\na certain historical interest, especially for those who care to study the\nconditions of intellectual life in the colonies of a great empire. The\nbiographical notices of the enormous crowd of verse-makers which is\nincluded in this volume are chiefly from the pen of Mr. Patchett Martin.\nSome of them are not very satisfactory. \'Formerly of West Australia, now\nresiding at Boston, U.S. Has published several volumes of poetry,\' is a\nludicrously inadequate account of such a man as John Boyle O\'Reilly,\nwhile in \'poet, essayist, critic, and journalist, one of the most\nprominent figures in literary London,\' few will recognise the industrious\nMr. William Sharp.\n\nStill, on the whole, we should be grateful for a volume that has given us\nspecimens of Kendall\'s work, and perhaps Mr. Sladen will some day produce\nan anthology of Australian poetry, not a herbarium of Australian verse.\nHis present book has many good qualities, but it is almost unreadable.\n\nAustralian Poets, 1788-1888. Edited by Douglas B. W. Sladen, B.A. Oxon.\n(Griffith, Farran and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--I\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, January 1889.)\n\nIn a recent article on English Poetesses, {374} I ventured to suggest\nthat our women of letters should turn their attention somewhat more to\nprose and somewhat less to poetry. Women seem to me to possess just what\nour literature wants--a light touch, a delicate hand, a graceful mode of\ntreatment, and an unstudied felicity of phrase. We want some one who\nwill do for our prose what Madame de Sevigne did for the prose of France.\nGeorge Eliot\'s style was far too cumbrous, and Charlotte Bronte\'s too\nexaggerated. However, one must not forget that amongst the women of\nEngland there have been some charming letter-writers, and certainly no\nbook can be more delightful reading than Mrs. Ross\'s Three Generations of\nEnglish Women, which has recently appeared. The three Englishwomen whose\nmemoirs and correspondence Mrs. Ross has so admirably edited are Mrs.\nJohn Taylor, Mrs. Sarah Austin, and Lady Duff Gordon, all of them\nremarkable personalities, and two of them women of brilliant wit and\nEuropean reputation. Mrs. Taylor belonged to that great Norwich family\nabout whom the Duke of Sussex remarked that they reversed the ordinary\nsaying that it takes nine tailors to make a man, and was for many years\none of the most distinguished figures in the famous society of her native\ntown. Her only daughter married John Austin, the great authority on\njurisprudence, and her salon in Paris was the centre of the intellect and\nculture of her day. Lucie Duff Gordon, the only child of John and Sarah\nAustin, inherited the talents of her parents. A beauty, a femme\nd\'esprit, a traveller, and clever writer, she charmed and fascinated her\nage, and her premature death in Egypt was really a loss to our\nliterature. It is to her daughter that we owe this delightful volume of\nmemoirs.\n\nFirst we are introduced to Mrs. Ross\'s great-grandmother, Mrs. Taylor,\nwho \'was called, by her intimate friends, "Madame Roland of Norwich,"\nfrom her likeness to the portraits of the handsome and unfortunate\nFrenchwoman.\' We hear of her darning her boy\'s grey worsted stockings\nwhile holding her own with Southey and Brougham, and dancing round the\nTree of Liberty with Dr. Parr when the news of the fall of the Bastille\nwas first known. Amongst her friends were Sir James Mackintosh, the most\npopular man of the day, \'to whom Madame de Stael wrote, "Il n\'y a pas de\nsociete sans vous." "C\'est tres ennuyeux de diner sans vous; la societe\nne va pas quand vous n\'etes pas la";\' Sir James Smith, the botanist;\nCrabb Robinson; the Gurneys; Mrs. Barbauld; Dr. Alderson and his charming\ndaughter, Amelia Opie; and many other well-known people. Her letters are\nextremely sensible and thoughtful. \'Nothing at present,\' she says in one\nof them, \'suits my taste so well as Susan\'s Latin lessons, and her\nphilosophical old master . . . When we get to Cicero\'s discussions on the\nnature of the soul, or Virgil\'s fine descriptions, my mind is filled up.\nLife is either a dull round of eating, drinking, and sleeping, or a spark\nof ethereal fire just kindled. . . . The character of girls must depend\nupon their reading as much as upon the company they keep. Besides the\nintrinsic pleasure to be derived from solid knowledge, a woman ought to\nconsider it as her best resource against poverty.\' This is a somewhat\ncaustic aphorism: \'A romantic woman is a troublesome friend, as she\nexpects you to be as imprudent as herself, and is mortified at what she\ncalls coldness and insensibility.\' And this is admirable: \'The art of\nlife is not to estrange oneself from society, and yet not to pay too dear\nfor it.\' This, too, is good: \'Vanity, like curiosity, is wanted as a\nstimulus to exertion; indolence would certainly get the better of us if\nit were not for these two powerful principles\'; and there is a keen touch\nof humour in the following: \'Nothing is so gratifying as the idea that\nvirtue and philanthropy are becoming fashionable.\' Dr. James Martineau,\nin a letter to Mrs. Ross, gives us a pleasant picture of the old lady\nreturning from market \'weighted by her huge basket, with the shank of a\nleg of mutton thrust out to betray its contents,\' and talking divinely\nabout philosophy, poets, politics, and every intellectual topic of the\nday. She was a woman of admirable good sense, a type of Roman matron,\nand quite as careful as were the Roman matrons to keep up the purity of\nher native tongue.\n\nMrs. Taylor, however, was more or less limited to Norwich. Mrs. Austin\nwas for the world. In London, Paris, and Germany, she ruled and\ndominated society, loved by every one who knew her. \'She is "My best and\nbrightest" to Lord Jeffrey; "Dear, fair and wise" to Sydney Smith; "My\ngreat ally" to Sir James Stephen; "Sunlight through waste weltering\nchaos" to Thomas Carlyle (while he needed her aid); "La petite mere du\ngenre humain" to Michael Chevalier; "Liebes Mutterlein" to John Stuart\nMill; and "My own Professorin" to Charles Buller, to whom she taught\nGerman, as well as to the sons of Mr. James Mill.\' Jeremy Bentham, when\non his deathbed, gave her a ring with his portrait and some of his hair\nlet in behind. \'There, my dear,\' he said, \'it is the only ring I ever\ngave a woman.\' She corresponded with Guizot, Barthelemy de St. Hilaire,\nthe Grotes, Dr. Whewell, the Master of Trinity, Nassau Senior, the\nDuchesse d\'Orleans, Victor Cousin, and many other distinguished people.\nHer translation of Ranke\'s History of the Popes is admirable; indeed, all\nher literary work was thoroughly well done, and her edition of her\nhusband\'s Province of Jurisprudence deserves the very highest praise. Two\npeople more unlike than herself and her husband it would have been\ndifficult to find. He was habitually grave and despondent; she was\nbrilliantly handsome, fond of society, in which she shone, and \'with an\nalmost superabundance of energy and animal spirits,\' Mrs. Ross tells us.\nShe married him because she thought him perfect, but he never produced\nthe work of which he was worthy, and of which she knew him to be worthy.\nHer estimate of him in the preface to the Jurisprudence is wonderfully\nstriking and simple. \'He was never sanguine. He was intolerant of any\nimperfection. He was always under the control of severe love of truth.\nHe lived and died a poor man.\' She was terribly disappointed in him, but\nshe loved him. Some years after his death, she wrote to M. Guizot:\n\n In the intervals of my study of his works I read his letters to\n me--_forty-five years of love-letters_, the last as tender and\n passionate as the first. And how full of noble sentiments! The\n midday of our lives was clouded and stormy, full of cares and\n disappointments; but the sunset was bright and serene--as bright as\n the morning, and _more_ serene. Now it is night with me, and must\n remain so till the dawn of another day. I am always alone--that is,\n _I live with him_.\n\nThe most interesting letters in the book are certainly those to M.\nGuizot, with whom she maintained the closest intellectual friendship; but\nthere is hardly one of them that does not contain something clever, or\nthoughtful, or witty, while those addressed to her, in turn, are very\ninteresting. Carlyle writes her letters full of lamentations, the wail\nof a Titan in pain, superbly exaggerated for literary effect.\n\n Literature, one\'s sole craft and staff of life, lies broken in\n abeyance; what room for music amid the braying of innumerable\n jackasses, the howling of innumerable hyaenas whetting the tooth to\n eat them up? Alas for it! it is a sick disjointed time; neither shall\n we ever mend it; at best let us hope to mend ourselves. I declare I\n sometimes think of throwing down the Pen altogether as a worthless\n weapon; and leading out a colony of these poor starving Drudges to the\n waste places of their old Mother Earth, when for sweat of their brow\n bread _will_ rise for them; it were perhaps the worthiest service that\n at this moment could be rendered our old world to throw open for it\n the doors of the New. Thither must they come at last, \'bursts of\n eloquence\' will do nothing; men are starving and will try many things\n before they die. But poor I, ach Gott! I am no Hengist or Alaric;\n only a writer of Articles in bad prose; stick to thy last, O Tutor;\n the Pen is not worthless, it is omnipotent to those who have Faith.\n\nHenri Beyle (Stendhal), the great, I am often tempted to think the\ngreatest of French novelists, writes her a charming letter about nuances.\n\'It seems to me,\' he says, \'that except when they read Shakespeare,\nByron, or Sterne, no Englishman understands "nuances"; we adore them. A\nfool says to a woman, "I love you"; the words mean nothing, he might as\nwell say "Olli Batachor"; it is the nuance which gives force to the\nmeaning.\' In 1839 Mrs. Austin writes to Victor Cousin: \'I have seen\nyoung Gladstone, a distinguished Tory who wants to re-establish education\nbased on the Church in quite a Catholic form\'; and we find her\ncorresponding with Mr. Gladstone on the subject of education. \'If you\nare strong enough to provide motives and checks,\' she says to him, \'you\nmay do two blessed acts--reform your clergy and teach your people. As it\nis, how few of them conceive what it is to teach a people\'! Mr.\nGladstone replies at great length, and in many letters, from which we may\nquote this passage:\n\n You are for pressing and urging the people to their profit against\n their inclination: so am I. You set little value upon all merely\n technical instruction, upon all that fails to touch the inner nature\n of man: so do I. And here I find ground of union broad and deep-laid\n . . .\n\n I more than doubt whether your idea, namely that of raising man to\n social sufficiency and morality, can be accomplished, except through\n the ancient religion of Christ; . . . or whether, the principles of\n eclecticism are legitimately applicable to the Gospel; or whether, if\n we find ourselves in a state of incapacity to work through the Church,\n we can remedy the defect by the adoption of principles contrary to\n hers . . .\n\n But indeed I am most unfit to pursue the subject; private\n circumstances of no common interest are upon me, as I have become very\n recently engaged to Miss Glynne, and I hope your recollections will\n enable you in some degree to excuse me.\n\nLord Jeffrey has a very curious and suggestive letter on popular\neducation, in which he denies, or at least doubts, the effect of this\neducation on morals. He, however, supports it on the ground \'that it\nwill increase the enjoyment of individuals,\' which is certainly a very\nsensible claim. Humboldt writes to her about an old Indian language\nwhich was preserved by a parrot, the tribe who spoke it having been\nexterminated, and about \'young Darwin,\' who had just published his first\nbook. Here are some extracts from her own letters:\n\n I heard from Lord Lansdowne two or three days ago. . . . I think he\n is ce que nous avons de mieux. He wants only the energy that great\n ambition gives. He says, \'We shall have a parliament of railway\n kings\' . . . what can be worse than that?--The deification of money by\n a whole people. As Lord Brougham says, we have no right to give\n ourselves pharisaical airs. I must give you a story sent to me. Mrs.\n Hudson, the railway queen, was shown a bust of Marcus Aurelius at Lord\n Westminster\'s, on which she said, \'I suppose that is not the present\n Marquis.\' To gouter this, you must know that the extreme vulgar\n (hackney coachmen, etc.) in England pronounce \'marquis\' very like\n \'Marcus.\'\n\n Dec, 11th.--Went to Savigny\'s. Nobody was there but W. Grimm and his\n wife and a few men. Grimm told me he had received two volumes of\n Norwegian fairy-tales, and that they were delightful. Talking of\n them, I said, \'Your children appear to be the happiest in the world;\n they live in the midst of fairytales.\' \'Ah,\' said he, \'I must tell\n you about that. When we were at Gottingen, somebody spoke to my\n little son about his father\'s Mahrchen. He had read them, but never\n thought of their being mine. He came running to me, and said with an\n offended air, "Father, they say you wrote those fairy-tales; surely\n you never invented such silly rubbish?" He thought it below my\n dignity.\'\n\n Savigny told a Volksmahrchen too:\n\n \'St. Anselm was grown old and infirm, and lay on the ground among\n thorns and thistles. Der liebe Gott said to him, "You are very badly\n lodged there; why don\'t you build yourself a house?" "Before I take\n the trouble," said Anselm, "I should like to know how long I have to\n live." "About thirty years," said Der liebe Gott. "Oh, for so short\n a time," replied he, "it\'s not worth while," and turned himself round\n among the thistles.\'\n\n Dr. Franck told me a story of which I had never heard before. Voltaire\n had for some reason or other taken a grudge against the prophet\n Habakkuk, and affected to find in him things he never wrote. Somebody\n took the Bible and began to demonstrate to him that he was mistaken.\n \'C\'est egal,\' he said, impatiently, \'Habakkuk etait capable de tout!\'\n\n Oct. 30, 1853.\n\n I am not in love with the Richtung (tendency) of our modern novelists.\n There is abundance of talent; but writing a pretty, graceful,\n touching, yet pleasing story is the last thing our writers nowadays\n think of. Their novels are party pamphlets on political or social\n questions, like Sybil, or Alton Locke, or Mary Barton, or Uncle Tom;\n or they are the most minute and painful dissections of the least\n agreeable and beautiful parts of our nature, like those of Miss\n Bronte--Jane Eyre and Villette; or they are a kind of martyrology,\n like Mrs. Marsh\'s Emilia Wyndham, which makes you almost doubt whether\n any torments the heroine would have earned by being naughty could\n exceed those she incurred by her virtue.\n\n Where, oh! where is the charming, humane, gentle spirit that dictated\n the Vicar of Wakefield--the spirit which Goethe so justly calls\n versohnend (reconciling), with all the weaknesses and woes of\n humanity? . . . Have you read Thackeray\'s Esmond? It is a curious\n and very successful attempt to imitate the style of our old novelists.\n . . . Which of Mrs. Gore\'s novels are translated? They are very\n clever, lively, worldly, bitter, disagreeable, and entertaining. . . .\n Miss Austen\'s--are they translated? They are not new, and are Dutch\n paintings of every-day people--very clever, very true, very\n _unaesthetic_, but amusing. I have not seen Ruth, by Mrs. Gaskell. I\n hear it much admired--and blamed. It is one of the many proofs of the\n desire women now have to friser questionable topics, and to poser\n insoluble moral problems. George Sand has turned their heads in that\n direction. I think a few _broad_ scenes or hearty jokes a la Fielding\n were very harmless in comparison. They _confounded_ nothing. . . .\n\n The Heir of Redcliffe I have not read. . . . I am not worthy of\n superhuman flights of virtue--in a novel. I want to see how people\n act and suffer who are as good-for-nothing as I am myself. Then I\n have the sinful pretension to be amused, whereas all our novelists\n want to reform us, and to show us what a hideous place this world is:\n Ma foi, je ne le sais que trap, without their help.\n\n The Head of the Family has some merits . . . But there is too much\n affliction and misery and frenzy. The heroine is one of those\n creatures now so common (in novels), who remind me of a poor bird tied\n to a stake (as was once the cruel sport of boys) to be \'shyed\' at\n (i.e. pelted) till it died; only our gentle lady-writers at the end of\n all untie the poor battered bird, and assure us that it is never the\n worse for all the blows it has had--nay, the better--and that now,\n with its broken wings and torn feathers and bruised body, it is going\n to be quite happy. No, fair ladies, you know that it is not\n so--_resigned_, if you please, but make me no shams of happiness out\n of such wrecks.\n\nIn politics Mrs. Austin was a philosophical Tory. Radicalism she\ndetested, and she and most of her friends seem to have regarded it as\nmoribund. \'The Radical party is evidently effete,\' she writes to M.\nVictor Cousin; the probable \'leader of the Tory party\' is Mr. Gladstone.\n\'The people must be instructed, must be guided, must be, in short,\ngoverned,\' she writes elsewhere; and in a letter to Dr. Whewell, she says\nthat the state of things in France fills \'me with the deepest anxiety on\none point,--the point on which the permanency of our institutions and our\nsalvation as a nation turn. Are our higher classes able to keep the lead\nof the rest? If they are, we are safe; if not, I agree with my poor dear\nCharles Buller--_our_ turn must come. Now Cambridge and Oxford must\nreally look to this.\' The belief in the power of the Universities to\nstem the current of democracy is charming. She grew to regard Carlyle as\n\'one of the dissolvents of the age--as mischievous as his extravagances\nwill let him be\'; speaks of Kingsley and Maurice as \'pernicious\'; and\ntalks of John Stuart Mill as a \'demagogue.\' She was no doctrinaire. \'One\nounce of education demanded is worth a pound imposed. It is no use to\ngive the meat before you give the hunger.\' She was delighted at a letter\nof St. Hilaire\'s, in which he said, \'We have a system and no results; you\nhave results and no system.\' Yet she had a deep sympathy with the wants\nof the people. She was horrified at something Babbage told her of the\npopulation of some of the manufacturing towns who are _worked out_ before\nthey attain to thirty years of age. \'But I am persuaded that the remedy\nwill not, cannot come from the people,\' she adds. Many of her letters\nare concerned with the question of the higher education of women. She\ndiscusses Buckle\'s lecture on \'The Influence of Women upon the Progress\nof Knowledge,\' admits to M. Guizot that women\'s intellectual life is\nlargely coloured by the emotions, but adds: \'One is not precisely a fool\nbecause one\'s opinions are greatly influenced by one\'s affections. The\nopinions of men are often influenced by worse things.\' Dr. Whewell\nconsults her about lecturing women on Plato, being slightly afraid lest\npeople should think it ridiculous; Comte writes her elaborate letters on\nthe relation of women to progress; and Mr. Gladstone promises that Mrs.\nGladstone will carry out at Hawarden the suggestions contained in one of\nher pamphlets. She was always very practical, and never lost her\nadmiration for plain sewing.\n\nAll through the book we come across interesting and amusing things. She\ngets St. Hilaire to order a large, sensible bonnet for her in Paris,\nwhich was at once christened the \'Aristotelian,\' and was supposed to be\nthe only useful bonnet in England. Grote has to leave Paris after the\ncoup d\'etat, he tells her, because he cannot bear to see the\nestablishment of a Greek tyrant. Alfred de Vigny, Macaulay, John\nStirling, Southey, Alexis de Tocqueville, Hallam, and Jean Jacques Ampere\nall contribute to these pleasant pages. She seems to have inspired the\nwarmest feelings of friendship in those who knew her. Guizot writes to\nher: \'Madame de Stael used to say that the best thing in the world was a\nserious Frenchman. I turn the compliment, and say that the best thing in\nthe world is an affectionate Englishman. How much more an Englishwoman!\nGiven equal qualities, a woman is always more charming than a man.\'\n\nLucie Austin, afterwards Lady Duff Gordon, was born in 1821. Her chief\nplayfellow was John Stuart Mill, and Jeremy Bentham\'s garden was her\nplayground. She was a lovely, romantic child, who was always wanting the\nflowers to talk to her, and used to invent the most wonderful stories\nabout animals, of whom she was passionately fond. In 1834 Mrs. Austin\ndecided on leaving England, and Sydney Smith wrote his immortal letter to\nthe little girl:\n\n Lucie, Lucie, my dear child, don\'t tear your frock: tearing frocks is\n not of itself a proof of genius. But write as your mother writes, act\n as your mother acts: be frank, loyal, affectionate, simple, honest,\n and then integrity or laceration of frock is of little import. And\n Lucie, dear child, mind your arithmetic. You know in the first sum of\n yours I ever saw there was a mistake. You had carried two (as a cab\n is licensed to do), and you ought, dear Lucie, to have carried but\n one. Is this a trifle? What would life be without arithmetic but a\n scene of horrors? You are going to Boulogne, the city of debts,\n peopled by men who have never understood arithmetic. By the time you\n return, I shall probably have received my first paralytic stroke, and\n shall have lost all recollection of you. Therefore I now give you my\n parting advice--don\'t marry anybody who has not a tolerable\n understanding and a thousand a year. And God bless you, dear child.\n\nAt Boulogne she sat next Heine at table d\'hote. \'He heard me speak\nGerman to my mother, and soon began to talk to me, and then said, "When\nyou go back to England, you can tell your friends that you have seen\nHeinrich Heine." I replied, "And who is Heinrich Heine?" He laughed\nheartily and took no offence at my ignorance; and we used to lounge on\nthe end of the pier together, where he told me stories in which fish,\nmermaids, water-sprites and a very funny old French fiddler with a poodle\nwere mixed up in the most fanciful manner, sometimes humorous, and very\noften pathetic, especially when the water-sprites brought him greetings\nfrom the "Nord See." He was . . . so kind to me and so sarcastic to\nevery one else.\' Twenty years afterwards the little girl whose \'braune\nAugen\' Heine had celebrated in his charming poem Wenn ich an deinem\nHause, used to go and see the dying poet in Paris. \'It does one good,\'\nhe said to her, \'to see a woman who does not carry about a broken heart,\nto be mended by all sorts of men, like the women here, who do not see\nthat a total want of heart is their real failing.\' On another occasion\nhe said to her: \'I have now made peace with the whole world, and at last\nalso with God, who sends thee to me as a beautiful angel of death: I\nshall certainly soon die.\' Lady Duff Gordon said to him: \'Poor Poet, do\nyou still retain such splendid illusions, that you transform a travelling\nEnglishwoman into Azrael? That used not to be the case, for you always\ndisliked us.\' He answered: \'Yes, I do not know what possessed me to\ndislike the English, . . . it really was only petulance; I never hated\nthem, indeed, I never knew them. I was only once in England, but knew no\none, and found London very dreary, and the people and the streets odious.\nBut England has revenged herself well; she has sent me most excellent\nfriends--thyself and Milnes, that good Milnes.\'\n\nThere are delightful letters from Dicky Doyle here, with the most amusing\ndrawings, one of the present Sir Robert Peel as he made his maiden speech\nin the House being excellent; and the various descriptions of Hassan\'s\nperformances are extremely amusing. Hassan was a black boy, who had been\nturned away by his master because he was going blind, and was found by\nLady Duff Gordon one night sitting on her doorstep. She took care of\nhim, and had him cured, and he seems to have been a constant source of\ndelight to every one. On one occasion, \'when Prince Louis Napoleon (the\nlate Emperor of the French) came in unexpectedly, he gravely said:\n"Please, my Lady, I ran out and bought twopenny worth of sprats for the\nPrince, and for the honour of the house."\' Here is an amusing letter\nfrom Mrs. Norton:\n\n MY DEAR LUCIE,--We have never thanked you for the red Pots, which no\n early Christian should be without, and which add that finishing stroke\n to the splendour of our demesne, which was supposed to depend on a\n roc\'s egg, in less intelligent times. We have now a warm Pompeian\n appearance, and the constant contemplation of these classical objects\n favours the beauty of the facial line; for what can be deduced from\n the great fact, apparent in all the states of antiquity, that\n _straight noses_ were the ancient custom, but the logical assumption\n that the constant habit of turning up the nose at unsightly\n objects--such as the National Gallery and other offensive and\n obtrusive things--has produced the modern divergence from the true and\n proper line of profile? I rejoice to think that we ourselves are\n exempt. I attribute this to our love of Pompeian Pots (on account of\n the beauty and distinction of this Pot\'s shape I spell it with a big\n P), which has kept us straight in a world of crookedness. The pursuit\n of profiles under difficulties--how much more rare than a pursuit of\n knowledge! Talk of setting good examples before our children! Bah!\n let us set good Pompeian Pots before our children, and when they grow\n up they will not depart from them.\n\nLady Duff Gordon\'s Letters from the Cape, and her brilliant translation\nof The Amber Witch, are, of course, well known. The latter book was,\nwith Lady Wilde\'s translation of Sidonia the Sorceress, my favourite\nromantic reading when a boy. Her letters from Egypt are wonderfully\nvivid and picturesque. Here is an interesting bit of art criticism:\n\n Sheykh Yoosuf laughed so heartily over a print in an illustrated paper\n from a picture of Hilton\'s of Rebekah at the well, with the old\n \'wekeel\' of \'Sidi Ibraheem\' (Abraham\'s chief servant) _kneeling_\n before the girl he was sent to fetch, like an old fool without his\n turban, and Rebekah and the other girls in queer fancy dresses, and\n the camels with snouts like pigs. \'If the painter could not go into\n "Es Sham" to see how the Arab really look,\' said Sheykh Yoosuf, \'why\n did he not paint a well in England, with girls like English\n peasants--at least it would have looked natural to English people? and\n the wekeel would not seem so like a madman if he had taken off a hat!\'\n I cordially agree with Yoosuf\'s art criticism. _Fancy_ pictures of\n Eastern things are hopelessly absurd.\n\nMrs. Ross has certainly produced a most fascinating volume, and her book\nis one of the books of the season. It is edited with tact and judgment.\n\n* * * * *\n\nCaroline, by Lady Lindsay, is certainly Lady Lindsay\'s best work. It is\nwritten in a very clever modern style, and is as full of esprit and wit\nas it is of subtle psychological insight. Caroline is an heiress, who,\ncoming downstairs at a Continental hotel, falls into the arms of a\ncharming, penniless young man. The hero of the novel is the young man\'s\nfriend, Lord Lexamont, who makes the \'great renunciation,\' and succeeds\nin being fine without being priggish, and Quixotic without being\nridiculous. Miss Ffoulkes, the elderly spinster, is a capital character,\nand, indeed, the whole book is cleverly written. It has also the\nadvantage of being in only one volume. The influence of Mudie on\nliterature, the baneful influence of the circulating library, is clearly\non the wane. The gain to literature is incalculable. English novels\nwere becoming very tedious with their three volumes of padding--at least,\nthe second volume was always padding--and extremely indigestible. A\nreckless punster once remarked to me, apropos of English novels, that\n\'the proof of the padding is in the eating,\' and certainly English\nfiction has been very heavy--heavy with the best intentions. Lady\nLindsay\'s book is a sign that better things are in store for us. She is\nbrief and bright.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWhat are the best books to give as Christmas presents to good girls who\nare always pretty, or to pretty girls who are occasionally good? People\nare so fond of giving away what they do not want themselves, that charity\nis largely on the increase. But with this kind of charity I have not\nmuch sympathy. If one gives away a book, it should be a charming book--so\ncharming, that one regrets having given it, and would not take it back.\nLooking over the Christmas books sent to me by various publishers, I find\nthat these are the best and the most pleasing: Gleanings from the\n\'Graphic,\' by Randolph Caldecott, a most fascinating volume full of\nsketches that have real wit and humour of line, and are not simply\ndependent on what the French call the legende, the literary explanation;\nMeg\'s Friend, by Alice Corkran, one of our most delicate and graceful\nprose-writers in the sphere of fiction, and one whose work has the rare\nartistic qualities of refinement and simplicity; Under False Colours, by\nSarah Doudney, an excellent story; The Fisherman\'s Daughter, by Florence\nMontgomery, the author of Misunderstood, a tale with real charm of idea\nand treatment; Under a Cloud, by the author of The Atelier du Lys, and\nquite worthy of its author; The Third Miss St. Quentin, by Mrs.\nMolesworth, and A Christmas Posy from the same fascinating pen, and with\ndelightful illustrations by Walter Crane. Miss Rosa Mulholland\'s\nGiannetta and Miss Agnes Giberne\'s Ralph Hardcastle\'s Will are also\nadmirable books for presents, and the bound volume of Atalanta has much\nthat is delightful both in art and in literature.\n\nThe prettiest, indeed the most beautiful, book from an artistic point of\nview is undoubtedly Mr. Walter Crane\'s Flora\'s Feast. It is an\nimaginative Masque of Flowers, and as lovely in colour as it is exquisite\nin design. It shows us the whole pomp and pageant of the year, the\nSnowdrops like white-crested knights, the little naked Crocus kneeling to\ncatch the sunlight in his golden chalice, the Daffodils blowing their\ntrumpets like young hunters, the Anemones with their wind-blown raiment,\nthe green-kirtled Marsh-marigolds, and the \'Lady-smocks all\nsilver-white,\' tripping over the meadows like Arcadian milk-maids.\nButtercups are here, and the white-plumed Thorn in spiky armour, and the\nCrown-imperial borne in stately procession, and red-bannered Tulips, and\nHyacinths with their spring bells, and Chaucer\'s Daisy--\n\n small and sweet,\n Si douce est la Marguerite.\n\nGorgeous Peonies, and Columbines \'that drew the car of Venus,\' and the\nRose with her lover, and the stately white-vestured Lilies, and wide\nstaring Ox-eyes, and scarlet Poppies pass before us. There are Primroses\nand Corncockles, Chrysanthemums in robes of rich brocade, Sunflowers and\ntall Hollyhocks, and pale Christmas Roses. The designs for the\nDaffodils, the wild Roses, the Convolvulus, and the Hollyhock are\nadmirable, and would be beautiful in embroidery or in any precious\nmaterial. Indeed, any one who wishes to find beautiful designs cannot do\nbetter than get the book. It is, in its way, a little masterpiece, and\nits grace and fancy, and beauty of line and colour, cannot be\nover-estimated. The Greeks gave human form to wood and stream, and saw\nNature best in Naiad or in Dryad. Mr. Crane, with something of Gothic\nfantasy, has caught the Greek feeling, the love of personification, the\npassion for representing things under the conditions of the human form.\nThe flowers are to him so many knights and ladies, page-boys or shepherd-\nboys, divine nymphs or simple girls, and in their fair bodies or fanciful\nraiment one can see the flower\'s very form and absolute essence, so that\none loves their artistic truth no less than their artistic beauty. This\nbook contains some of the best work Mr. Crane has ever done. His art is\nnever so successful as when it is entirely remote from life. The\nslightest touch of actuality seems to kill it. It lives, or should live,\nin a world of its own fashioning. It is decorative in its complete\nsubordination of fact to beauty of effect, in the grandeur of its curves\nand lines, in its entirely imaginative treatment. Almost every page of\nthis book gives a suggestion for some rich tapestry, some fine screen,\nsome painted cassone, some carving in wood or ivory.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFrom Messrs. Hildesheimer and Faulkner I have received a large collection\nof Christmas cards and illustrated books. One of the latter, an edition\nde luxe of Sheridan\'s Here\'s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen, is very\ncleverly illustrated by Miss Alice Havers and Mr. Ernest Wilson. It\nseems to me, however, that there is a danger of modern illustration\nbecoming too pictorial. What we need is good book-ornament, decorative\nornament that will go with type and printing, and give to each page a\nharmony and unity of effect. Merely dotting a page with reproductions of\nwater-colour drawings will not do. It is true that Japanese art, which\nis essentially decorative, is pictorial also. But the Japanese have the\nmost wonderful delicacy of touch, and with a science so subtle that it\ngives the effect of exquisite accident, they can by mere placing make an\nundecorated space decorative. There is also an intimate connection\nbetween their art and their handwriting or printed characters. They both\ngo together, and show the same feeling for form and line. Our aim should\nbe to discover some mode of illustration that will harmonise with the\nshapes of our letters. At present there is a discord between our\npictorial illustrations and our unpictorial type. The former are too\nessentially imitative in character, and often disturb a page instead of\ndecorating it. However, I suppose we must regard most of these Christmas\nbooks merely as books of pictures, with a running accompaniment of\nexplanatory text. As the text, as a rule, consists of poetry, this is\nputting the poet in a very subordinate position; but the poetry in the\nbooks of this kind is not, as a rule, of a very high order of excellence.\n\n(1) Three Generations of English Women. Memoirs and Correspondence of\nSusannah Taylor, Sarah Austin, and Lady Duff Gordon. By Janet Ross,\nAuthor of Italian Sketches, Land of Manfred, etc. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(2) Caroline. By Lady Lindsay. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n(3) Gleanings from the \'Graphic.\' By Randolph Caldecott. (Routledge and\nSons.)\n\n(4) Meg\'s Friend. By Alice Corkran. (Blackie and Sons.)\n\n(5) Under False Colours. By Sarah Doudney. (Blackie and Sons.)\n\n(6) The Fisherman\'s Daughter. By Florence Montgomery. (Hatchards.)\n\n(7) Under a Cloud. By the Author of The Atelier du Lys. (Hatchards.)\n\n(8) The Third Miss St. Quentin. By Mrs. Molesworth. (Hatchards.)\n\n(9) A Christmas Posy. By Mrs. Molesworth. Illustrated by Walter Crane.\n(Hatchards.)\n\n(10) Giannetta. A Girl\'s Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. (Blackie\nand Sons.)\n\n(11) Ralph Hardcastle\'s Will. By Agnes Giberne. (Hatchards.)\n\n(12) Flora\'s Feast. A Masque of Flowers. Penned and Pictured by Walter\nCrane. (Cassell and Co.)\n\n(13) Here\'s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen. By Richard Brinsley\nSheridan. Illustrated by Alice Havers and Ernest Wilson. (Hildesheimer\nand Faulkner.)\n\n\n\n\nPOETRY AND PRISON\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 3, 1889.)\n\nPrison has had an admirable effect on Mr. Wilfrid Blunt as a poet. The\nLove Sonnets of Proteus, in spite of their clever Musset-like modernities\nand their swift brilliant wit, were but affected or fantastic at best.\nThey were simply the records of passing moods and moments, of which some\nwere sad and others sweet, and not a few shameful. Their subject was not\nof high or serious import. They contained much that was wilful and weak.\nIn Vinculis, upon the other hand, is a book that stirs one by its fine\nsincerity of purpose, its lofty and impassioned thought, its depth and\nardour of intense feeling. \'Imprisonment,\' says Mr. Blunt in his\npreface, \'is a reality of discipline most useful to the modern soul,\nlapped as it is in physical sloth and self-indulgence. Like a sickness\nor a spiritual retreat it purifies and ennobles; and the soul emerges\nfrom it stronger and more self-contained.\' To him, certainly, it has\nbeen a mode of purification. The opening sonnets, composed in the bleak\ncell of Galway Gaol, and written down on the fly-leaves of the prisoner\'s\nprayer-book, are full of things nobly conceived and nobly uttered, and\nshow that though Mr. Balfour may enforce \'plain living\' by his prison\nregulations, he cannot prevent \'high thinking\' or in any way limit or\nconstrain the freedom of a man\'s soul. They are, of course, intensely\npersonal in expression. They could not fail to be so. But the\npersonality that they reveal has nothing petty or ignoble about it. The\npetulant cry of the shallow egoist which was the chief characteristic of\nthe Love Sonnets of Proteus is not to be found here. In its place we\nhave wild grief and terrible scorn, fierce rage and flame-like passion.\nSuch a sonnet as the following comes out of the very fire of heart and\nbrain:\n\n God knows, \'twas not with a fore-reasoned plan\n I left the easeful dwellings of my peace,\n And sought this combat with ungodly Man,\n And ceaseless still through years that do not cease\n Have warred with Powers and Principalities.\n My natural soul, ere yet these strifes began,\n Was as a sister diligent to please\n And loving all, and most the human clan.\n\n God knows it. And He knows how the world\'s tears\n Touched me. And He is witness of my wrath,\n How it was kindled against murderers\n Who slew for gold, and how upon their path\n I met them. Since which day the World in arms\n Strikes at my life with angers and alarms.\n\nAnd this sonnet has all the strange strength of that despair which is but\nthe prelude to a larger hope:\n\n I thought to do a deed of chivalry,\n An act of worth, which haply in her sight\n Who was my mistress should recorded be\n And of the nations. And, when thus the fight\n Faltered and men once bold with faces white\n Turned this and that way in excuse to flee,\n I only stood, and by the foeman\'s might\n Was overborne and mangled cruelly.\n\n Then crawled I to her feet, in whose dear cause\n I made this venture, and \'Behold,\' I said,\n \'How I am wounded for thee in these wars.\'\n But she, \'Poor cripple, would\'st thou I should wed\n A limbless trunk?\' and laughing turned from me.\n Yet she was fair, and her name \'Liberty.\'\n\nThe sonnet beginning\n\n A prison is a convent without God--\n Poverty, Chastity, Obedience\n Its precepts are:\n\nis very fine; and this, written just after entering the gaol, is\npowerful:\n\n Naked I came into the world of pleasure,\n And naked come I to this house of pain.\n Here at the gate I lay down my life\'s treasure,\n My pride, my garments and my name with men.\n The world and I henceforth shall be as twain,\n No sound of me shall pierce for good or ill\n These walls of grief. Nor shall I hear the vain\n Laughter and tears of those who love me still.\n\n Within, what new life waits me! Little ease,\n Cold lying, hunger, nights of wakefulness,\n Harsh orders given, no voice to soothe or please,\n Poor thieves for friends, for books rules meaningless;\n This is the grave--nay, hell. Yet, Lord of Might,\n Still in Thy light my spirit shall see light.\n\nBut, indeed, all the sonnets are worth reading, and The Canon of Aughrim,\nthe longest poem in the book, is a most masterly and dramatic description\nof the tragic life of the Irish peasant. Literature is not much indebted\nto Mr. Balfour for his sophistical Defence of Philosophic Doubt which is\none of the dullest books we know, but it must be admitted that by sending\nMr. Blunt to gaol he has converted a clever rhymer into an earnest and\ndeep-thinking poet. The narrow confines of the prison cell seem to suit\nthe \'sonnet\'s scanty plot of ground,\' and an unjust imprisonment for a\nnoble cause strengthens as well as deepens the nature.\n\nIn Vinculis. By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, Author of The Wind and the\nWhirlwind, The Love Sonnets of Proteus, etc. etc. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO WALT WHITMAN\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 25, 1889.)\n\n\'No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary\nperformance . . . or as aiming mainly toward art and aestheticism.\'\n\'Leaves of Grass . . . has mainly been the outcropping of my own\nemotional and other personal nature--an attempt, from first to last, to\nput _a Person_, a human being (myself, in the latter half of the\nNineteenth Century in America,) freely, fully and truly on record. I\ncould not find any similar personal record in current literature that\nsatisfied me.\' In these words Walt Whitman gives us the true attitude we\nshould adopt towards his work, having, indeed, a much saner view of the\nvalue and meaning of that work than either his eloquent admirers or noisy\ndetractors can boast of possessing. His last book, November Boughs, as\nhe calls it, published in the winter of the old man\'s life, reveals to\nus, not indeed a soul\'s tragedy, for its last note is one of joy and\nhope, and noble and unshaken faith in all that is fine and worthy of such\nfaith, but certainly the drama of a human soul, and puts on record with a\nsimplicity that has in it both sweetness and strength the record of his\nspiritual development, and of the aim and motive both of the manner and\nthe matter of his work. His strange mode of expression is shown in these\npages to have been the result of deliberate and self-conscious choice.\nThe \'barbaric yawp\' which he sent over \'the roofs of the world\' so many\nyears ago, and which wrung from Mr. Swinburne\'s lip such lofty panegyric\nin song and such loud clamorous censure in prose, appears here in what\nwill be to many an entirely new light. For in his very rejection of art\nWalt Whitman is an artist. He tried to produce a certain effect by\ncertain means and he succeeded. There is much method in what many have\ntermed his madness, too much method, indeed, some may be tempted to\nfancy.\n\nIn the story of his life, as he tells it to us, we find him at the age of\nsixteen beginning a definite and philosophical study of literature:\n\n Summers and falls, I used to go off, sometimes for a week at a\n stretch, down in the country, or to Long Island\'s seashores--there, in\n the presence of outdoor influences, I went over thoroughly the Old and\n New Testaments, and absorb\'d (probably to better advantage for me than\n in any library or indoor room--it makes such difference _where_ you\n read) Shakspere, Ossian, the best translated versions I could get of\n Homer, Eschylus, Sophocles, the old German Nibelungen, the ancient\n Hindoo poems, and one or two other masterpieces, Dante\'s among them.\n As it happened, I read the latter mostly in an old wood. The Iliad\n . . . I read first thoroughly on the peninsula of Orient, northeast end\n of Long Island, in a sheltered hollow of rock and sand, with the sea\n on each side. (I have wonder\'d since why I was not overwhelmed by\n those mighty masters. Likely because I read them, as described, in\n the full presence of Nature, under the sun, with the far-spreading\n landscape and vistas, or the sea rolling in.)\n\nEdgar Allan Poe\'s amusing bit of dogmatism that, for our occasions and\nour day, \'there can be no such thing as a long poem,\' fascinated him.\n\'The same thought had been haunting my mind before,\' he said, \'but Poe\'s\nargument . . . work\'d the sum out, and proved it to me,\' and the English\ntranslation of the Bible seems to have suggested to him the possibility\nof a poetic form which, while retaining the spirit of poetry, would still\nbe free from the trammels of rhyme and of a definite metrical system.\nHaving thus, to a certain degree, settled upon what one might call the\n\'technique\' of Whitmanism, he began to brood upon the nature of that\nspirit which was to give life to the strange form. The central point of\nthe poetry of the future seemed to him to be necessarily \'an identical\nbody and soul, a personality,\' in fact, which personality, he tells us\nfrankly, \'after many considerations and ponderings I deliberately settled\nshould be myself.\' However, for the true creation and revealing of this\npersonality, at first only dimly felt, a new stimulus was needed. This\ncame from the Civil War. After describing the many dreams and passions\nof his boyhood and early manhood, he goes on to say:\n\n These, however, and much more might have gone on and come to naught\n (almost positively would have come to naught,) if a sudden, vast,\n terrible, direct and indirect stimulus for new and national\n declamatory expression had not been given to me. It is certain, I\n say, that although I had made a start before, only from the occurrence\n of the Secession War, and what it show\'d me as by flashes of\n lightning, with the emotional depths it sounded and arous\'d (of\n course, I don\'t mean in my own heart only, I saw it just as plainly in\n others, in millions)--that only from the strong flare and provocation\n of that war\'s sights and scenes the final reasons-for-being of an\n autochthonic and passionate song definitely came forth.\n\n I went down to the war fields of Virginia . . . lived thenceforward in\n camp--saw great battles and the days and nights afterward--partook of\n all the fluctuations, gloom, despair, hopes again arous\'d, courage\n evoked--death readily risk\'d--_the cause_, too--along and filling\n those agonistic and lurid following years . . . the real parturition\n years . . . of this henceforth homogeneous Union. Without those three\n or four years and the experiences they gave, Leaves of Grass would not\n now be existing.\n\nHaving thus obtained the necessary stimulus for the quickening and\nawakening of the personal self, some day to be endowed with universality,\nhe sought to find new notes of song, and, passing beyond the mere passion\nfor expression, he aimed at \'Suggestiveness\' first.\n\n I round and finish little, if anything; and could not, consistently\n with my scheme. The reader will have his or her part to do, just as\n much as I have had mine. I seek less to state or display any theme or\n thought, and more to bring you, reader, into the atmosphere of the\n theme or thought--there to pursue your own flight.\n\nAnother \'impetus-word\' is Comradeship, and other \'word-signs\' are Good\nCheer, Content and Hope. Individuality, especially, he sought for:\n\n I have allowed the stress of my poems from beginning to end to bear\n upon American individuality and assist it--not only because that is a\n great lesson in Nature, amid all her generalising laws, but as\n counterpoise to the leveling tendencies of Democracy--and for other\n reasons. Defiant of ostensible literary and other conventions, I\n avowedly chant \'the great pride of man in himself,\' and permit it to\n be more or less a motif of nearly all my verse. I think this pride\n indispensable to an American. I think it not inconsistent with\n obedience, humility, deference, and self-questioning.\n\nA new theme also was to be found in the relation of the sexes, conceived\nin a natural, simple and healthy form, and he protests against poor Mr.\nWilliam Rossetti\'s attempt to Bowdlerise and expurgate his song.\n\n From another point of view Leaves of Grass is avowedly the song of Sex\n and Amativeness, and even Animality--though meanings that do not\n usually go along with these words are behind all, and will duly\n emerge; and all are sought to be lifted into a different light and\n atmosphere. Of this feature, intentionally palpable in a few lines, I\n shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives breath\n to my whole scheme that the bulk of the pieces might as well have been\n left unwritten were those lines omitted. . . .\n\n Universal as are certain facts and symptoms of communities . . . there\n is nothing so rare in modern conventions and poetry as their normal\n recognizance. Literature is always calling in the doctor for\n consultation and confession, and always giving evasions and swathing\n suppressions in place of that \'heroic nudity,\' on which only a genuine\n diagnosis . . . can be built. And in respect to editions of Leaves of\n Grass in time to come (if there should be such) I take occasion now to\n confirm those lines with the settled convictions and deliberate\n renewals of thirty years, and to hereby prohibit, as far as word of\n mine can do so, any elision of them.\n\nBut beyond all these notes and moods and motives is the lofty spirit of a\ngrand and free acceptance of all things that are worthy of existence. He\ndesired, he says, \'to formulate a poem whose every thought or fact should\ndirectly or indirectly be or connive at an implicit belief in the wisdom,\nhealth, mystery, beauty of every process, every concrete object, every\nhuman or other existence, not only consider\'d from the point of view of\nall, but of each.\' His two final utterances are that \'really great\npoetry is always . . . the result of a national spirit, and not the\nprivilege of a polish\'d and select few\'; and that \'the strongest and\nsweetest songs yet remain to be sung.\'\n\nSuch are the views contained in the opening essay A Backward Glance O\'er\nTravel\'d Roads, as he calls it; but there are many other essays in this\nfascinating volume, some on poets such as Burns and Lord Tennyson, for\nwhom Walt Whitman has a profound admiration; some on old actors and\nsingers, the elder Booth, Forrest, Alboni and Mario being his special\nfavourites; others on the native Indians, on the Spanish element in\nAmerican nationality, on Western slang, on the poetry of the Bible, and\non Abraham Lincoln. But Walt Whitman is at his best when he is analysing\nhis own work and making schemes for the poetry of the future. Literature,\nto him, has a distinctly social aim. He seeks to build up the masses by\n\'building up grand individuals.\' And yet literature itself must be\npreceded by noble forms of life. \'The best literature is always the\nresult of something far greater than itself--not the hero but the\nportrait of the hero. Before there can be recorded history or poem there\nmust be the transaction.\' Certainly, in Walt Whitman\'s views there is a\nlargeness of vision, a healthy sanity and a fine ethical purpose. He is\nnot to be placed with the professional litterateurs of his country,\nBoston novelists, New York poets and the like. He stands apart, and the\nchief value of his work is in its prophecy, not in its performance. He\nhas begun a prelude to larger themes. He is the herald to a new era. As\na man he is the precursor of a fresh type. He is a factor in the heroic\nand spiritual evolution of the human being. If Poetry has passed him by,\nPhilosophy will take note of him.\n\nNovember Boughs. By Walt Whitman. (Alexander Gardner.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEW PRESIDENT\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, January 26, 1889.)\n\nIn a little book that he calls The Enchanted Island Mr. Wyke Bayliss, the\nnew President of the Royal Society of British Artists, has given his\ngospel of art to the world. His predecessor in office had also a gospel\nof art but it usually took the form of an autobiography. Mr. Whistler\nalways spelt art, and we believe still spells it, with a capital \'I.\'\nHowever, he was never dull. His brilliant wit, his caustic satire, and\nhis amusing epigrams, or, perhaps, we should say epitaphs, on his\ncontemporaries, made his views on art as delightful as they were\nmisleading and as fascinating as they were unsound. Besides, he\nintroduced American humour into art criticism, and for this, if for no\nother reason, he deserves to be affectionately remembered. Mr. Wyke\nBayliss, upon the other hand, is rather tedious. The last President\nnever said much that was true, but the present President never says\nanything that is new; and, if art be a fairy-haunted wood or an enchanted\nisland, we must say that we prefer the old Puck to the fresh Prospero.\nWater is an admirable thing--at least, the Greeks said it was--and Mr.\nRuskin is an admirable writer; but a combination of both is a little\ndepressing.\n\nStill, it is only right to add that Mr. Wyke Bayliss, at his best, writes\nvery good English. Mr. Whistler, for some reason or other, always\nadopted the phraseology of the minor prophets. Possibly it was in order\nto emphasise his well-known claims to verbal inspiration, or perhaps he\nthought with Voltaire that Habakkuk etait capable de tout, and wished to\nshelter himself under the shield of a definitely irresponsible writer\nnone of whose prophecies, according to the French philosopher, has ever\nbeen fulfilled. The idea was clever enough at the beginning, but\nultimately the manner became monotonous. The spirit of the Hebrews is\nexcellent but their mode of writing is not to be imitated, and no amount\nof American jokes will give it that modernity which is essential to a\ngood literary style. Admirable as are Mr. Whistler\'s fireworks on\ncanvas, his fireworks in prose are abrupt, violent and exaggerated.\nHowever, oracles, since the days of the Pythia, have never been\nremarkable for style, and the modest Mr. Wyke Bayliss is as much Mr.\nWhistler\'s superior as a writer as he is his inferior as a painter and an\nartist. Indeed, some of the passages in this book are so charmingly\nwritten and with such felicity of phrase that we cannot help feeling that\nthe President of the British Artists, like a still more famous President\nof our day, can express himself far better through the medium of\nliterature than he can through the medium of line and colour. This,\nhowever, applies only to Mr. Wyke Bayliss\'s prose. His poetry is very\nbad, and the sonnets at the end of the book are almost as mediocre as the\ndrawings that accompany them. As we read them we cannot but regret that,\nin this point at any rate, Mr. Bayliss has not imitated the wise example\nof his predecessor who, with all his faults, was never guilty of writing\na line of poetry, and is, indeed, quite incapable of doing anything of\nthe kind.\n\nAs for the matter of Mr. Bayliss\'s discourses, his views on art must be\nadmitted to be very commonplace and old-fashioned. What is the use of\ntelling artists that they should try and paint Nature as she really is?\nWhat Nature really is, is a question for metaphysics not for art. Art\ndeals with appearances, and the eye of the man who looks at Nature, the\nvision, in fact, of the artist, is far more important to us than what he\nlooks at. There is more truth in Corot\'s aphorism that a landscape is\nsimply \'the mood of a man\'s mind\' than there is in all Mr. Bayliss\'s\nlaborious disquisitions on naturalism. Again, why does Mr. Bayliss waste\na whole chapter in pointing out real or supposed resemblances between a\nbook of his published twelve years ago and an article by Mr. Palgrave\nwhich appeared recently in the Nineteenth Century? Neither the book nor\nthe article contains anything of real interest, and as for the hundred or\nmore parallel passages which Mr. Wyke Bayliss solemnly prints side by\nside, most of them are like parallel lines and never meet. The only\noriginal proposal that Mr. Bayliss has to offer us is that the House of\nCommons should, every year, select some important event from national and\ncontemporary history and hand it over to the artists who are to choose\nfrom among themselves a man to make a picture of it. In this way Mr.\nBayliss believes that we could have the historic art, and suggests as\nexamples of what he means a picture of Florence Nightingale in the\nhospital at Scutari, a picture of the opening of the first London Board-\nschool, and a picture of the Senate House at Cambridge with the girl\ngraduate receiving a degree \'that shall acknowledge her to be as wise as\nMerlin himself and leave her still as beautiful as Vivien.\' This\nproposal is, of course, very well meant, but, to say nothing of the\ndanger of leaving historic art at the mercy of a majority in the House of\nCommons, who would naturally vote for its own view of things, Mr. Bayliss\ndoes not seem to realise that a great event is not necessarily a\npictorial event. \'The decisive events of the world,\' as has been well\nsaid, \'take place in the intellect,\' and as for Board-schools, academic\nceremonies, hospital wards and the like, they may well be left to the\nartists of the illustrated papers, who do them admirably and quite as\nwell as they need be done. Indeed, the pictures of contemporary events,\nRoyal marriages, naval reviews and things of this kind that appear in the\nAcademy every year, are always extremely bad; while the very same\nsubjects treated in black and white in the Graphic or the London News are\nexcellent. Besides, if we want to understand the history of a nation\nthrough the medium of art, it is to the imaginative and ideal arts that\nwe have to go and not to the arts that are definitely imitative. The\nvisible aspect of life no longer contains for us the secret of life\'s\nspirit. Probably it never did contain it. And, if Mr. Barker\'s Waterloo\nBanquet and Mr. Frith\'s Marriage of the Prince of Wales are examples of\nhealthy historic art, the less we have of such art the better. However,\nMr. Bayliss is full of the most ardent faith and speaks quite gravely of\ngenuine portraits of St. John, St. Peter and St. Paul dating from the\nfirst century, and of the establishment by the Israelites of a school of\nart in the wilderness under the now little appreciated Bezaleel. He is a\npleasant, picturesque writer, but he should not speak about art. Art is\na sealed book to him.\n\nThe Enchanted Island. By Wyke Bayliss, F.S.A., President of the Royal\nSociety of British Artists. (Allen and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--II\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, February 1889.)\n\n\'The various collectors of Irish folk-lore,\' says Mr. W. B. Yeats in his\ncharming little book Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, \'have,\nfrom our point of view, one great merit, and from the point of view of\nothers, one great fault.\'\n\n They have made their work literature rather than science, and told us\n of the Irish peasantry rather than of the primitive religion of\n mankind, or whatever else the folk-lorists are on the gad after. To\n be considered scientists they should have tabulated all their tales in\n forms like grocers\' bills--item the fairy king, item the queen.\n Instead of this they have caught the very voice of the people, the\n very pulse of life, each giving what was most noticed in his day.\n Croker and Lover, full of the ideas of harum-scarum Irish gentility,\n saw everything humorised. The impulse of the Irish literature of\n their time came from a class that did not--mainly for political\n reasons--take the populace seriously, and imagined the country as a\n humorist\'s Arcadia; its passion, its gloom, its tragedy, they knew\n nothing of. What they did was not wholly false; they merely magnified\n an irresponsible type, found oftenest among boatmen, carmen, and\n gentlemen\'s servants, into the type of a whole nation, and created the\n stage Irishman. The writers of \'Forty-eight, and the famine combined,\n burst their bubble. Their work had the dash as well as the\n shallowness of an ascendant and idle class, and in Croker is touched\n everywhere with beauty--a gentle Arcadian beauty. Carleton, a peasant\n born, has in many of his stories, . . . more especially in his ghost\n stories, a much more serious way with him, for all his humour.\n Kennedy, an old bookseller in Dublin, who seems to have had a\n something of genuine belief in the fairies, comes next in time. He\n has far less literary faculty, but is wonderfully accurate, giving\n often the very words the stories were told in. But the best book\n since Croker is Lady Wilde\'s Ancient Legends. The humour has all\n given way to pathos and tenderness. We have here the innermost heart\n of the Celt in the moments he has grown to love through years of\n persecution, when, cushioning himself about with dreams, and hearing\n fairy-songs in the twilight, he ponders on the soul and on the dead.\n Here is the Celt, only it is the Celt dreaming.\n\nInto a volume of very moderate dimensions, and of extremely moderate\nprice, Mr. Yeats has collected together the most characteristic of our\nIrish folklore stories, grouping them together according to subject.\nFirst come The Trooping Fairies. The peasants say that these are \'fallen\nangels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost\';\nbut the Irish antiquarians see in them \'the gods of pagan Ireland,\' who,\n\'when no longer worshipped and fed with offerings, dwindled away in the\npopular imagination, and now are only a few spans high.\' Their chief\noccupations are feasting, fighting, making love, and playing the most\nbeautiful music. \'They have only one industrious person amongst them,\nthe lepra-caun--the shoemaker.\' It is his duty to repair their shoes\nwhen they wear them out with dancing. Mr. Yeats tells us that \'near the\nvillage of Ballisodare is a little woman who lived amongst them seven\nyears. When she came home she had no toes--she had danced them off.\' On\nMay Eve, every seventh year, they fight for the harvest, for the best\nears of grain belong to them. An old man informed Mr. Yeats that he saw\nthem fight once, and that they tore the thatch off a house. \'Had any one\nelse been near they would merely have seen a great wind whirling\neverything into the air as it passed.\' When the wind drives the leaves\nand straws before it, \'that is the fairies, and the peasants take off\ntheir hats and say "God bless them."\' When they are gay, they sing. Many\nof the most beautiful tunes of Ireland \'are only their music, caught up\nby eavesdroppers.\' No prudent peasant would hum The Pretty Girl Milking\nthe Cow near a fairy rath, \'for they are jealous, and do not like to hear\ntheir songs on clumsy mortal lips.\' Blake once saw a fairy\'s funeral.\nBut this, as Mr. Yeats points out, must have been an English fairy, for\nthe Irish fairies never die; they are immortal.\n\nThen come The Solitary Fairies, amongst whom we find the little Lepracaun\nmentioned above. He has grown very rich, as he possesses all the\ntreasure-crocks buried in war-time. In the early part of this century,\naccording to Croker, they used to show in Tipperary a little shoe\nforgotten by the fairy shoemaker. Then there are two rather disreputable\nlittle fairies--the Cluricaun, who gets intoxicated in gentlemen\'s\ncellars, and the Red Man, who plays unkind practical jokes. \'The Fear-\nGorta (Man of Hunger) is an emaciated phantom that goes through the land\nin famine time, begging an alms and bringing good luck to the giver.\' The\nWater-sheerie is \'own brother to the English Jack-o\'-Lantern.\' \'The\nLeanhaun Shee (fairy mistress) seeks the love of mortals. If they\nrefuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are hers, and can\nonly escape by finding another to take their place. The fairy lives on\ntheir life, and they waste away. Death is no escape from her. She is\nthe Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The\nGaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain\nlong on earth.\' The Pooka is essentially an animal spirit, and some have\nconsidered him the forefather of Shakespeare\'s \'Puck.\' He lives on\nsolitary mountains, and among old ruins \'grown monstrous with much\nsolitude,\' and \'is of the race of the nightmare.\' \'He has many shapes--is\nnow a horse, . . . now a goat, now an eagle. Like all spirits, he is\nonly half in the world of form.\' The banshee does not care much for our\ndemocratic levelling tendencies; she loves only old families, and\ndespises the parvenu or the nouveau riche. When more than one banshee is\npresent, and they wail and sing in chorus, it is for the death of some\nholy or great one. An omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is \'.\n. . an immense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless\nhorses driven by a Dullahan.\' A Dullahan is the most terrible thing in\nthe world. In 1807 two of the sentries stationed outside St. James\'s\nPark saw one climbing the railings, and died of fright. Mr. Yeats\nsuggests that they are possibly \'descended from that Irish giant who swam\nacross the Channel with his head in his teeth.\'\n\nThen come the stories of ghosts, of saints and priests, and of giants.\nThe ghosts live in a state intermediary between this world and the next.\nThey are held there by some earthly longing or affection, or some duty\nunfulfilled, or anger against the living; they are those who are too good\nfor hell, and too bad for heaven. Sometimes they \'take the forms of\ninsects, especially of butterflies.\' The author of the Parochial Survey\nof Ireland \'heard a woman say to a child who was chasing a butterfly,\n"How do you know it is not the soul of your grandfather?" On November\neve they are abroad, and dance with the fairies.\' As for the saints and\npriests, \'there are no martyrs in the stories.\' That ancient chronicler\nGiraldus Cambrensis \'taunted the Archbishop of Cashel, because no one in\nIreland had received the crown of martyrdom. "Our people may be\nbarbarous," the prelate answered, "but they have never lifted their hands\nagainst God\'s saints; but now that a people have come amongst us who know\nhow to make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have\nmartyrs plentifully."\' The giants were the old pagan heroes of Ireland,\nwho grew bigger and bigger, just as the gods grew smaller and smaller.\nThe fact is they did not wait for offerings; they took them vi et armis.\n\nSome of the prettiest stories are those that cluster round Tir-na-n-Og.\nThis is the Country of the Young, \'for age and death have not found it;\nneither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it.\' \'One man has gone\nthere and returned. The bard, Oisen, who wandered away on a white horse,\nmoving on the surface of the foam with his fairy Niamh lived there three\nhundred years, and then returned looking for his comrades. The moment\nhis foot touched the earth his three hundred years fell on him, and he\nwas bowed double, and his beard swept the ground. He described his\nsojourn in the Land of Youth to Patrick before he died.\' Since then,\naccording to Mr. Yeats, \'many have seen it in many places; some in the\ndepths of lakes, and have heard rising therefrom a vague sound of bells;\nmore have seen it far off on the horizon, as they peered out from the\nwestern cliffs. Not three years ago a fisherman imagined that he saw\nit.\'\n\nMr. Yeats has certainly done his work very well. He has shown great\ncritical capacity in his selection of the stories, and his little\nintroductions are charmingly written. It is delightful to come across a\ncollection of purely imaginative work, and Mr. Yeats has a very quick\ninstinct in finding out the best and the most beautiful things in Irish\nfolklore. I am also glad to see that he has not confined himself\nentirely to prose, but has included Allingham\'s lovely poem on The\nFairies:\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren\'t go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trooping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl\'s feather!\n\n Down along the rocky shore\n Some make their home,\n They live on crispy pancakes\n Of yellow tide-foam;\n Some in the reeds\n Of the black mountain lake,\n With frogs for their watch-dogs\n All night awake.\n\n High on the hill-top\n The old King sits;\n He is now so old and gray\n He\'s nigh lost his wits.\n With a bridge of white mist\n Columbkill he crosses,\n On his stately journeys\n From Slieveleague to Rosses;\n Or going up with music,\n On cold starry nights,\n To sup with the Queen\n Of the gay Northern Lights.\n\nAll lovers of fairy tales and folklore should get this little book. The\nHorned Women, The Priest\'s Soul, {411} and Teig O\'Kane, are really\nmarvellous in their way; and, indeed, there is hardly a single story that\nis not worth reading and thinking over.\n\nThe wittiest writer in France at present is a woman. That clever, that\nspirituelle grande dame, who has adopted the pseudonym of \'Gyp,\' has in\nher own country no rival. Her wit, her delicate and delightful esprit,\nher fascinating modernity, and her light, happy touch, give her a unique\nposition in that literary movement which has taken for its object the\nreproduction of contemporary life. Such books as Autour du Mariage,\nAutour du Divorce, and Le Petit Bob, are, in their way, little playful\nmasterpieces, and the only work in England that we could compare with\nthem is Violet Fane\'s Edwin and Angelina Papers. To the same brilliant\npen which gave us these wise and witty studies of modern life we owe now\na more serious, more elaborate production. Helen Davenant is as\nearnestly wrought out as it is cleverly conceived. If it has a fault, it\nis that it is too full of matter. Out of the same material a more\neconomical writer would have made two novels and half a dozen\npsychological studies for publication in American magazines. Thackeray\nonce met Bishop Wilberforce at dinner at Dean Stanley\'s, and, after\nlistening to the eloquent prelate\'s extraordinary flow and fund of\nstories, remarked to his neighbour, \'I could not afford to spend at that\nrate.\' Violet Fane is certainly lavishly extravagant of incident, plot,\nand character. But we must not quarrel with richness of subject-matter\nat a time when tenuity of purpose and meagreness of motive seem to be\nbecoming the dominant notes of contemporary fiction. The side-issues of\nthe story are so complex that it is difficult, almost impossible, to\ndescribe the plot in any adequate manner. The interest centres round a\nyoung girl, Helen Davenant by name, who contracts a private and\nclandestine marriage with one of those mysterious and fascinating foreign\nnoblemen who are becoming so invaluable to writers of fiction, either in\nnarrative or dramatic form. Shortly after the marriage her husband is\narrested for a terrible murder committed some years before in Russia,\nunder the evil influence of occult magic and mesmerism. The crime was\ndone in a hypnotic state, and, as described by Violet Fane, seems much\nmore probable than the actual hypnotic experiments recorded in scientific\npublications. This is the supreme advantage that fiction possesses over\nfact. It can make things artistically probable; can call for imaginative\nand realistic credence; can, by force of mere style, compel us to\nbelieve. The ordinary novelists, by keeping close to the ordinary\nincidents of commonplace life, seem to me to abdicate half their power.\nRomance, at any rate, welcomes what is wonderful; the temper of wonder is\npart of her own secret; she loves what is strange and curious. But\nbesides the marvels of occultism and hypnotism, there are many other\nthings in Helen Davenant that are worthy of study. Violet Fane writes an\nadmirable style. The opening chapter of the book, with its terrible\npoignant tragedy, is most powerfully written, and I cannot help wondering\nthat the clever authoress cared to abandon, even for a moment, the superb\npsychological opportunity that this chapter affords. The touches of\nnature, the vivid sketches of high life, the subtle renderings of the\nphases and fancies of society, are also admirably done. Helen Davenant\nis certainly clever, and shows that Violet Fane can write prose that is\nas good as her verse, and can look at life not merely from the point of\nview of the poet, but also from the standpoint of the philosopher, the\nkeen observer, the fine social critic. To be a fine social critic is no\nsmall thing, and to be able to incorporate in a work of fiction the\nresults of such careful observation is to achieve what is out of the\nreach of many. The difficulty under which the novelists of our day\nlabour seems to me to be this: if they do not go into society, their\nbooks are unreadable; and if they do go into society, they have no time\nleft for writing. However, Violet Fane has solved the problem.\n\n The chronicles which I am about to present to the reader are not the\n result of any conscious effort of the imagination. They are, as the\n title-page indicates, records of dreams occurring at intervals during\n the last ten years, and transcribed, pretty nearly in the order of\n their occurrence, from my diary. Written down as soon as possible\n after awaking from the slumber during which they presented themselves,\n these narratives, necessarily unstudied in style, and wanting in\n elegance of diction, have at least the merit of fresh and vivid\n colour; for they were committed to paper at a moment when the effect\n and impress of each successive vision were strong and forceful on the\n mind. . . .\n\n The most remarkable features of the experiences I am about to record\n are the methodical consecutiveness of their sequences, and the\n intelligent purpose disclosed alike in the events witnessed and in the\n words heard or read. . . . I know of no parallel to this phenomenon,\n unless in the pages of Bulwer Lytton\'s romance entitled The Pilgrims\n of the Rhine, in which is related the story of a German student\n endowed with so marvellous a faculty of dreaming, that for him the\n normal conditions of sleeping and waking became reversed; his true\n life was that which he lived in his slumbers, and his hours of\n wakefulness appeared to him as so many uneventful and inactive\n intervals of arrest, occurring in an existence of intense and vivid\n interest which was wholly passed in the hypnotic state. . . .\n\n During the whole period covered by these dreams I have been busily and\n almost continuously engrossed with scientific and literary pursuits,\n demanding accurate judgment and complete self-possession and rectitude\n of mind. At the time when many of the most vivid and remarkable\n visions occurred I was following my course as a student at the Paris\n Faculty of Medicine, preparing for examinations, daily visiting\n hospital wards as dresser, and attending lectures. Later, when I had\n taken my degree, I was engaged in the duties of my profession and in\n writing for the Press on scientific subjects. Neither had I ever\n taken opium, haschish, or other dream-producing agent. A cup of tea\n or coffee represents the extent of my indulgences in this direction. I\n mention these details in order to guard against inferences which might\n otherwise be drawn as to the genesis of my faculty.\n\n It may, perhaps, be worthy of notice that by far the larger number of\n the dreams set down in this volume occurred towards dawn; sometimes\n even, after sunrise, during a \'second sleep.\' A condition of fasting,\n united possibly with some subtle magnetic or other atmospheric state,\n seems, therefore, to be that most open to impressions of the kind.\n\nThis is the account given by the late Dr. Anna Kingsford of the genesis\nof her remarkable volume, Dreams and Dream-Stories; and certainly some of\nthe stories, especially those entitled Steepside, Beyond the Sunset, and\nThe Village of Seers, are well worth reading, though not intrinsically\nfiner, either in motive or idea, than the general run of magazine\nstories. No one who had the privilege of knowing Mrs. Kingsford, who was\none of the brilliant women of our day, can doubt for a single moment that\nthese tales came to her in the way she describes; but to me the result is\njust a little disappointing. Perhaps, however, I expect too much. There\nis no reason whatsoever why the imagination should be finer in hours of\ndreaming than in its hours of waking. Mrs. Kingsford quotes a letter\nwritten by Jamblichus to Agathocles, in which he says: \'The soul has a\ntwofold life, a lower and a higher. In sleep the soul is liberated from\nthe constraint of the body, and enters, as an emancipated being, on its\ndivine life of intelligence. The nobler part of the mind is thus united\nby abstraction to higher natures, and becomes a participant in the wisdom\nand foreknowledge of the gods. . . . The night-time of the body is the\nday-time of the soul.\' But the great masterpieces of literature and the\ngreat secrets of wisdom have not been communicated in this way; and even\nin Coleridge\'s case, though Kubla Khan is wonderful, it is not more\nwonderful, while it is certainly less complete, than the Ancient Mariner.\n\nAs for the dreams themselves, which occupy the first portion of the book,\ntheir value, of course, depends chiefly on the value of the truths or\npredictions which they are supposed to impart. I must confess that most\nmodern mysticism seems to me to be simply a method of imparting useless\nknowledge in a form that no one can understand. Allegory, parable, and\nvision have their high artistic uses, but their philosophical and\nscientific uses are very small. However, here is one of Mrs. Kingsford\'s\ndreams. It has a pleasant quaintness about it:\n\n THE WONDERFUL SPECTACLES\n\n I was walking alone on the sea-shore. The day was singularly clear\n and sunny. Inland lay the most beautiful landscape ever seen; and far\n off were ranges of tall hills, the highest peaks of which were white\n with glittering snows. Along the sands by the sea came towards me a\n man accoutred as a postman. He gave me a letter. It was from you. It\n ran thus:\n\n \'I have got hold of the earliest and most precious book extant. It\n was written before the world began. The text is easy enough to read;\n but the notes, which are very copious and numerous, are in such minute\n and obscure characters that I cannot make them out. I want you to get\n for me the spectacles which Swedenborg used to wear; not the smaller\n pair--those he gave to Hans Christian Andersen--but the large pair,\n and these seem to have got mislaid. I think they are Spinoza\'s make.\n You know, he was an optical-glass maker by profession, and the best we\n ever had. See if you can get them for me.\'\n\n When I looked up after reading this letter I saw the postman hastening\n away across the sands, and I cried out to him, \'Stop! how am I to send\n the answer? Will you not wait for it?\'\n\n He looked round, stopped, and came back to me.\n\n \'I have the answer here,\' he said, tapping his letter-bag, \'and I\n shall deliver it immediately.\'\n\n \'How can you have the answer before I have written it?\' I asked. \'You\n are making a mistake.\'\n\n \'No,\' he said. \'In the city from which I come the replies are all\n written at the office, and sent out with the letters themselves. Your\n reply is in my bag.\'\n\n \'Let me see it,\' I said. He took another letter from his wallet, and\n gave it to me. I opened it, and read, in my own handwriting, this\n answer, addressed to you:\n\n \'The spectacles you want can be bought in London; but you will not be\n able to use them at once, for they have not been worn for many years,\n and they sadly want cleaning. This you will not be able to do\n yourself in London, because it is too dark there to see well, and\n because your fingers are not small enough to clean them properly.\n Bring them here to me, and I will do it for you.\'\n\n I gave this letter back to the postman. He smiled and nodded at me;\n and then I perceived, to my astonishment, that he wore a camel\'s-hair\n tunic round his waist. I had been on the point of addressing him--I\n know not why--as Hermes. But I now saw that he must be John the\n Baptist; and in my fright at having spoken to so great a Saint I\n awoke.\n\nMr. Maitland, who edits the present volume, and who was joint-author with\nMrs. Kingsford of that curious book The Perfect Way, states in a footnote\nthat in the present instance the dreamer knew nothing of Spinoza at the\ntime, and was quite unaware that he was an optician; and the\ninterpretation of the dream, as given by him, is that the spectacles in\nquestion were intended to represent Mrs. Kingsford\'s remarkable faculty\nof intuitional and interpretative perception. For a spiritual message\nfraught with such meaning, the mere form of this dream seems to me\nsomewhat ignoble, and I cannot say that I like the blending of the\npostman with St. John the Baptist. However, from a psychological point\nof view, these dreams are interesting, and Mrs. Kingsford\'s book is\nundoubtedly a valuable addition to the literature of the mysticism of the\nnineteenth century.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe Romance of a Shop, by Miss Amy Levy, is a more mundane book, and\ndeals with the adventures of some young ladies who open a photographic\nstudio in Baker Street to the horror of some of their fashionable\nrelatives. It is so brightly and pleasantly written that the sudden\nintroduction of a tragedy into it seems violent and unnecessary. It\nlacks the true tragic temper, and without this temper in literature all\nmisfortunes and miseries seem somewhat mean and ordinary. With this\nexception the book is admirably done, and the style is clever and full of\nquick observation. Observation is perhaps the most valuable faculty for\na writer of fiction. When novelists reflect and moralise, they are, as a\nrule, dull. But to observe life with keen vision and quick intellect, to\ncatch its many modes of expression, to seize upon the subtlety, or\nsatire, or dramatic quality of its situations, and to render life for us\nwith some spirit of distinction and fine selection--this, I fancy, should\nbe the aim of the modern realistic novelist. It would be, perhaps, too\nmuch to say that Miss Levy has distinction; this is the rarest quality in\nmodern literature, though not a few of its masters are modern; but she\nhas many other qualities which are admirable.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFaithful and Unfaithful is a powerful but not very pleasing novel.\nHowever, the object of most modern fiction is not to give pleasure to the\nartistic instinct, but rather to portray life vividly for us, to draw\nattention to social anomalies, and social forms of injustice. Many of\nour novelists are really pamphleteers, reformers masquerading as story-\ntellers, earnest sociologists seeking to mend as well as to mirror life.\nThe heroine, or rather martyr, of Miss Margaret Lee\'s story is a very\nnoble and graciously Puritanic American girl, who is married at the age\nof eighteen to a man whom she insists on regarding as a hero. Her\nhusband cannot live in the high rarefied atmosphere of idealism with\nwhich she surrounds him; her firm and fearless faith in him becomes a\nfactor in his degradation. \'You are too good for me,\' he says to her in\na finely conceived scene at the end of the book; \'we have not an idea, an\ninclination, or a passion in common. I\'m sick and tired of seeming to\nlive up to a standard that is entirely beyond my reach and my desire. We\nmake each other miserable! I can\'t pull you down, and for ten years you\nhave been exhausting yourself in vain efforts to raise me to your level.\nThe thing must end!\' He asks her to divorce him, but she refuses. He\nthen abandons her, and availing himself of those curious facilities for\nbreaking the marriage-tie that prevail in the United States, succeeds in\ndivorcing her without her consent, and without her knowledge. The book\nis certainly characteristic of an age so practical and so literary as\nours, an age in which all social reforms have been preceded and have been\nlargely influenced by fiction. Faithful and Unfaithful seems to point to\nsome coming change in the marriage-laws of America.\n\n(1) Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry. Edited and Selected by\nW. B. Yeats. (Walter Scott.)\n\n(2) Helen Davenant. By Violet Fane. (Chapman and Hall.)\n\n(3) Dreams and Dream-Stories. By Dr. Anna Kingsford. (Redway.)\n\n(4) The Romance of a Shop. By Amy Levy. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(5) Faithful and Unfaithful. By Margaret Lee. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nONE OF THE BIBLES OF THE WORLD\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 12, 1889.)\n\nThe Kalevala is one of those poems that Mr. William Morris once described\nas \'The Bibles of the World.\' It takes its place as a national epic\nbeside the Homeric poems, the Niebelunge, the Shahnameth and the\nMahabharata, and the admirable translation just published by Mr. John\nMartin Crawford is sure to be welcomed by all scholars and lovers of\nprimitive poetry. In his very interesting preface Mr. Crawford claims\nfor the Finns that they began earlier than any other European nation to\ncollect and preserve their ancient folklore. In the seventeenth century\nwe meet men of literary tastes like Palmskold who tried to collect and\ninterpret the various national songs of the fen-dwellers of the North.\nBut the Kalevala proper was collected by two great Finnish scholars of\nour own century, Zacharias Topelius and Elias Lonnrot. Both were\npractising physicians, and in this capacity came into frequent contact\nwith the people of Finland. Topelius, who collected eighty epical\nfragments of the Kalevala, spent the last eleven years of his life in\nbed, afflicted with a fatal disease. This misfortune, however, did not\ndamp his enthusiasm. Mr. Crawford tells us that he used to invite the\nwandering Finnish merchants to his bedside and induce them to sing their\nheroic poems which he copied down as soon as they were uttered, and that\nwhenever he heard of a renowned Finnish minstrel he did all in his power\nto bring the song-man to his house in order that he might gather new\nfragments of the national epic. Lonnrot travelled over the whole\ncountry, on horseback, in reindeer sledges and in canoes, collecting the\nold poems and songs from the hunters, the fishermen and the shepherds.\nThe people gave him every assistance, and he had the good fortune to come\nacross an old peasant, one of the oldest of the runolainen in the Russian\nprovince of Wuokinlem, who was by far the most renowned song-man of the\ncountry, and from him he got many of the most splendid runes of the poem.\nAnd certainly the Kalevala, as it stands, is one of the world\'s great\npoems. It is perhaps hardly accurate to describe it as an epic. It\nlacks the central unity of a true epic in our sense of the word. It has\nmany heroes beside Wainomoinen and is, properly speaking, a collection of\nfolk-songs and ballads. Of its antiquity there is no doubt. It is\nthoroughly pagan from beginning to end, and even the legend of the Virgin\nMariatta to whom the Sun tells where \'her golden babe lies hidden\'--\n\n Yonder is thy golden infant,\n There thy holy babe lies sleeping\n Hidden to his belt in water,\n Hidden in the reeds and rushes--\n\nis, according to all scholars, essentially pre-Christian in origin. The\ngods are chiefly gods of air and water and forest. The highest is the\nsky-god Ukks who is \'The Father of the Breezes,\' \'The Shepherd of the\nLamb-Clouds\'; the lightning is his sword, the rainbow is his bow; his\nskirt sparkles with fire, his stockings are blue and his shoes crimson-\ncoloured. The daughters of the Sun and Moon sit on the scarlet rims of\nthe clouds and weave the rays of light into a gleaming web. Untar\npresides over fogs and mists, and passes them through a silver sieve\nbefore sending them to the earth. Ahto, the wave-god, lives with \'his\ncold and cruel-hearted spouse,\' Wellamo, at the bottom of the sea in the\nchasm of the Salmon-Rocks, and possesses the priceless treasure of the\nSampo, the talisman of success. When the branches of the primitive oak-\ntrees shut out the light of the sun from the Northland, Pikku-Mies (the\nPygmy) emerged from the sea in a suit of copper, with a copper hatchet in\nhis belt, and having grown to a giant\'s stature felled the huge oak with\nthe third stroke of his axe. Wirokannas is \'The Green-robed Priest of\nthe Forest,\' and Tapio, who has a coat of tree-moss and a high-crowned\nhat of fir-leaves, is \'The Gracious God of the Woodlands.\' Otso, the\nbear, is the \'Honey-Paw of the Mountains,\' the \'Fur-robed Forest Friend.\'\nIn everything, visible and invisible, there is God, a divine presence.\nThere are three worlds, and they are all peopled with divinities.\n\nAs regards the poem itself, it is written in trochaic eight-syllabled\nlines with alliteration and the part-line echo, the metre which\nLongfellow adopted for Hiawatha. One of its distinguishing\ncharacteristics is its wonderful passion for nature and for the beauty of\nnatural objects. Lemenkainen says to Tapio:\n\n Sable-bearded God of forests,\n In thy hat and coat of ermine,\n Robe thy trees in finest fibres,\n Deck thy groves in richest fabrics,\n Give the fir-trees shining silver,\n Deck with gold the slender balsams,\n Give the spruces copper-belting,\n And the pine-trees silver girdles,\n Give the birches golden flowers,\n Deck their stems with silver fretwork,\n This their garb in former ages\n When the days and nights were brighter,\n When the fir-trees shone like sunlight,\n And the birches like the moonbeams;\n Honey breathe throughout the forest,\n Settled in the glens and highlands,\n Spices in the meadow-borders,\n Oil outpouring from the lowlands.\n\nAll handicrafts and art-work are, as in Homer, elaborately described:\n\n Then the smiter Ilmarinen\n The eternal artist-forgeman,\n In the furnace forged an eagle\n From the fire of ancient wisdom,\n For this giant bird of magic\n Forged he talons out of iron,\n And his beak of steel and copper;\n Seats himself upon the eagle,\n On his back between the wing-bones\n Thus addresses he his creature,\n Gives the bird of fire this order.\n Mighty eagle, bird of beauty,\n Fly thou whither I direct thee,\n To Tuoni\'s coal-black river,\n To the blue-depths of the Death-stream,\n Seize the mighty fish of Mana,\n Catch for me this water-monster.\n\nAnd Wainamoinen\'s boat-building is one of the great incidents of the\npoem:\n\n Wainamoinen old and skilful,\n The eternal wonder-worker,\n Builds his vessel with enchantment,\n Builds his boat by art and magic,\n From the timber of the oak-tree,\n Forms its posts and planks and flooring.\n Sings a song and joins the framework;\n Sings a second, sets the siding;\n Sings a third time, sets the rowlocks;\n Fashions oars, and ribs, and rudder,\n Joins the sides and ribs together.\n\n . . . . .\n\n Now he decks his magic vessel,\n Paints the boat in blue and scarlet,\n Trims in gold the ship\'s forecastle,\n Decks the prow in molten silver;\n Sings his magic ship down gliding,\n On the cylinders of fir-tree;\n Now erects the masts of pine-wood,\n On each mast the sails of linen,\n Sails of blue, and white, and scarlet,\n Woven into finest fabric.\n\nAll the characteristics of a splendid antique civilisation are mirrored\nin this marvellous poem, and Mr. Crawford\'s admirable translation should\nmake the wonderful heroes of Suomi song as familiar if not as dear to our\npeople as the heroes of the great Ionian epic.\n\nThe Kalevala, the Epic Poem of Finland. Translated into English by John\nMartin Crawford. (G. P. Putnam\'s Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nPOETICAL SOCIALISTS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 15, 1889.)\n\nMr. Stopford Brooke said some time ago that Socialism and the socialistic\nspirit would give our poets nobler and loftier themes for song, would\nwiden their sympathies and enlarge the horizon of their vision and would\ntouch, with the fire and fervour of a new faith, lips that had else been\nsilent, hearts that but for this fresh gospel had been cold. What Art\ngains from contemporary events is always a fascinating problem and a\nproblem that is not easy to solve. It is, however, certain that\nSocialism starts well equipped. She has her poets and her painters, her\nart lecturers and her cunning designers, her powerful orators and her\nclever writers. If she fails it will not be for lack of expression. If\nshe succeeds her triumph will not be a triumph of mere brute force. The\nfirst thing that strikes one, as one looks over the list of contributors\nto Mr. Edward Carpenter\'s Chants of Labour, is the curious variety of\ntheir several occupations, the wide differences of social position that\nexist between them, and the strange medley of men whom a common passion\nhas for the moment united. The editor is a \'Science lecturer\'; he is\nfollowed by a draper and a porter; then we have two late Eton masters and\nthen two bootmakers; and these are, in their turn, succeeded by an ex-\nLord Mayor of Dublin, a bookbinder, a photographer, a steel-worker and an\nauthoress. On one page we have a journalist, a draughtsman and a music-\nteacher: and on another a Civil servant, a machine fitter, a medical\nstudent, a cabinet-maker and a minister of the Church of Scotland.\nCertainly, it is no ordinary movement that can bind together in close\nbrotherhood men of such dissimilar pursuits, and when we mention that Mr.\nWilliam Morris is one of the singers, and that Mr. Walter Crane has\ndesigned the cover and frontispiece of the book, we cannot but feel that,\nas we pointed out before, Socialism starts well equipped.\n\nAs for the songs themselves, some of them, to quote from the editor\'s\npreface, are \'purely revolutionary, others are Christian in tone; there\nare some that might be called merely material in their tendency, while\nmany are of a highly ideal and visionary character.\' This is, on the\nwhole, very promising. It shows that Socialism is not going to allow\nherself to be trammelled by any hard and fast creed or to be stereotyped\ninto an iron formula. She welcomes many and multiform natures. She\nrejects none and has room for all. She has the attraction of a wonderful\npersonality and touches the heart of one and the brain of another, and\ndraws this man by his hatred of injustice, and his neighbour by his faith\nin the future, and a third, it may be, by his love of art or by his wild\nworship of a lost and buried past. And all of this is well. For, to\nmake men Socialists is nothing, but to make Socialism human is a great\nthing.\n\nThey are not of any very high literary value, these poems that have been\nso dexterously set to music. They are meant to be sung, not to be read.\nThey are rough, direct and vigorous, and the tunes are stirring and\nfamiliar. Indeed, almost any mob could warble them with ease. The\ntranspositions that have been made are rather amusing. \'Twas in\nTrafalgar Square is set to the tune of \'Twas in Trafalgar\'s Bay; Up, Ye\nPeople! a very revolutionary song by Mr. John Gregory, boot-maker, with a\nrefrain of\n\n Up, ye People! or down into your graves!\n Cowards ever will be slaves!\n\nis to be sung to the tune of Rule, Britannia! the old melody of The Vicar\nof Bray is to accompany the new Ballade of Law and Order--which, however,\nis not a ballade at all--and to the air of Here\'s to the Maiden of\nBashful Fifteen the democracy of the future is to thunder forth one of\nMr. T. D. Sullivan\'s most powerful and pathetic lyrics. It is clear that\nthe Socialists intend to carry on the musical education of the people\nsimultaneously with their education in political science and, here as\nelsewhere, they seem to be entirely free from any narrow bias or formal\nprejudice. Mendelssohn is followed by Moody and Sankey; the Wacht am\nRhein stands side by side with the Marseillaise; Lillibulero, a chorus\nfrom Norma, John Brown and an air from Beethoven\'s Ninth Symphony are all\nequally delightful to them. They sing the National Anthem in Shelley\'s\nversion and chant William Morris\'s Voice of Toil to the flowing numbers\nof Ye Banks and Braes of Bonny Doon. Victor Hugo talks somewhere of the\nterrible cry of \'Le Tigre Populaire,\' but it is evident from Mr.\nCarpenter\'s book that should the Revolution ever break out in England we\nshall have no inarticulate roar but, rather, pleasant glees and graceful\npart-songs. The change is certainly for the better. Nero fiddled while\nRome was burning--at least, inaccurate historians say he did; but it is\nfor the building up of an eternal city that the Socialists of our day are\nmaking music, and they have complete confidence in the art instincts of\nthe people.\n\n They say that the people are brutal--\n That their instincts of beauty are dead--\n Were it so, shame on those who condemn them\n To the desperate struggle for bread.\n But they lie in their throats when they say it,\n For the people are tender at heart,\n And a wellspring of beauty lies hidden\n Beneath their life\'s fever and smart,\n\nis a stanza from one of the poems in this volume, and the feeling\nexpressed in these words is paramount everywhere. The Reformation gained\nmuch from the use of popular hymn-tunes, and the Socialists seem\ndetermined to gain by similar means a similar hold upon the people.\nHowever, they must not be too sanguine about the result. The walls of\nThebes rose up to the sound of music, and Thebes was a very dull city\nindeed.\n\nChants of Labour: A Song-Book of the People. With Music. Edited by\nEdward Carpenter. With Designs by Walter Crane. (Swan Sonnenschein and\nCo.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. BRANDER MATTHEWS\' ESSAYS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 27, 1889.)\n\n\'If you to have your book criticized favorably, give yourself a good\nnotice in the Preface!\' is the golden rule laid down for the guidance of\nauthors by Mr. Brander Matthews in an amusing essay on the art of preface-\nwriting and, true to his own theory, he announces his volume as \'the most\ninteresting, the most entertaining, and the most instructive book of the\ndecade.\' Entertaining it certainly is in parts. The essay on Poker, for\ninstance, is very brightly and pleasantly written. Mr. Proctor objected\nto Poker on the somewhat trivial ground that it was a form of lying, and\non the more serious ground that it afforded special opportunities for\ncheating; and, indeed, he regarded the mere existence of the game outside\ngambling dens as \'one of the most portentous phenomena of American\ncivilisation.\' Mr. Brander Matthews points out, in answer to these grave\ncharges, that Bluffing is merely a suppressio veri and that it requires a\ngreat deal of physical courage on the part of the player. As for the\ncheating, he claims that Poker affords no more opportunities for the\nexercise of this art than either Whist or Ecarte, though he admits that\nthe proper attitude towards an opponent whose good luck is unduly\npersistent is that of the German-American who, finding four aces in his\nhand, was naturally about to bet heavily, when a sudden thought struck\nhim and he inquired, \'Who dole dem carts?\' \'Jakey Einstein\' was the\nanswer. \'Jakey Einstein?\' he repeated, laying down his hand; \'den I pass\nout.\'\n\nThe history of the game will be found very interesting by all\ncard-lovers. Like most of the distinctly national products of America,\nit seems to have been imported from abroad and can be traced back to an\nItalian game in the fifteenth century. Euchre was probably acclimatised\non the Mississippi by the Canadian voyageurs, being a form of the French\ngame of Triomphe. It was a Kentucky citizen who, desiring to give his\nsons a few words of solemn advice for their future guidance in life, had\nthem summoned to his deathbed and said to them, \'Boys, when you go down\nthe river to Orleens jest you beware of a game called Yucker where the\njack takes the ace;--it\'s unchristian!\'--after which warning he lay back\nand died in peace. And \'it was Euchre which the two gentlemen were\nplaying in a boat on the Missouri River when a bystander, shocked by the\nfrequency with which one of the players turned up the jack, took the\nliberty of warning the other player that the winner was dealing from the\nbottom, to which the loser, secure in his power of self-protection,\nanswered gruffly, "Well, suppose he is--it\'s his deal, isn\'t it?"\'\n\nThe chapter On the Antiquity of Jests, with its suggestion of an\nInternational Exhibition of Jokes, is capital. Such an exhibition, Mr.\nMatthews remarks, would at least dispel any lingering belief in the old\nsaying that there are only thirty-eight good stories in existence and\nthat thirty-seven of these cannot be told before ladies; and the\nRetrospective Section would certainly be the constant resort of any true\nfolklorist. For most of the good stories of our time are really\nfolklore, myth survivals, echoes of the past. The two well-known\nAmerican proverbs, \'We have had a hell of a time\' and \'Let the other man\nwalk\' are both traced back by Mr. Matthews: the first to Walpole\'s\nletters, and the other to a story Poggio tells of an inhabitant of\nPerugia who walked in melancholy because he could not pay his debts.\n\'Vah, stulte,\' was the advice given to him, \'leave anxiety to your\ncreditors!\' and even Mr. William M. Evart\'s brilliant repartee when he\nwas told that Washington once threw a dollar across the Natural Bridge in\nVirginia, \'In those days a dollar went so much farther than it does now!\'\nseems to be the direct descendant of a witty remark of Foote\'s, though we\nmust say that in this case we prefer the child to the father. The essay\nOn the French Spoken by Those who do not Speak French is also cleverly\nwritten and, indeed, on every subject, except literature, Mr. Matthews is\nwell worth reading.\n\nOn literature and literary subjects he is certainly \'sadly to seek.\' The\nessay on The Ethics of Plagiarism, with its laborious attempt to\nrehabilitate Mr. Rider Haggard and its foolish remarks on Poe\'s admirable\npaper Mr. Longfellow and Other Plagiarists, is extremely dull and\ncommonplace and, in the elaborate comparison that he draws between Mr.\nFrederick Locker and Mr. Austin Dobson, the author of Pen and Ink shows\nthat he is quite devoid of any real critical faculty or of any fine sense\nof the difference between ordinary society verse and the exquisite work\nof a very perfect artist in poetry. We have no objection to Mr. Matthews\nlikening Mr. Locker to Mr. du Maurier, and Mr. Dobson to Randolph\nCaldecott and Mr. Edwin Abbey. Comparisons of this kind, though\nextremely silly, do not do much harm. In fact, they mean nothing and are\nprobably not intended to mean anything. Upon the other hand, we really\nmust protest against Mr. Matthews\' efforts to confuse the poetry of\nPiccadilly with the poetry of Parnassus. To tell us, for instance, that\nMr. Austin Dobson\'s verse \'has not the condensed clearness nor the\nincisive vigor of Mr. Locker\'s\' is really too bad even for Transatlantic\ncriticism. Nobody who lays claim to the slightest knowledge of\nliterature and the forms of literature should ever bring the two names\ninto conjunction. Mr. Locker has written some pleasant vers de societe,\nsome tuneful trifles in rhyme admirably suited for ladies\' albums and for\nmagazines. But to mention Herrick and Suckling and Mr. Austin Dobson in\nconnection with him is absurd. He is not a poet. Mr. Dobson, upon the\nother hand, has produced work that is absolutely classical in its\nexquisite beauty of form. Nothing more artistically perfect in its way\nthan the Lines to a Greek Girl has been written in our time. This little\npoem will be remembered in literature as long as Thyrsis is remembered,\nand Thyrsis will never be forgotten. Both have that note of distinction\nthat is so rare in these days of violence, exaggeration and rhetoric. Of\ncourse, to suggest, as Mr. Matthews does, that Mr. Dobson\'s poems belong\nto \'the literature of power\' is ridiculous. Power is not their aim, nor\nis it their effect. They have other qualities, and in their own\ndelicately limited sphere they have no contemporary rivals; they have\nnone even second to them. However, Mr. Matthews is quite undaunted and\ntries to drag poor Mr. Locker out of Piccadilly, where he was really\nquite in his element, and to set him on Parnassus where he has no right\nto be and where he would not claim to be. He praises his work with the\nrecklessness of an eloquent auctioneer. These very commonplace and\nslightly vulgar lines on A Human Skull:\n\n It may have held (to shoot some random shots)\n Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron Byron\'s;\n The wits of Nelly Gwynne or Doctor Watts--\n Two quoted bards. Two philanthropic sirens.\n\n But this, I trust, is clearly understood,\n If man or woman, if adored or hated--\n Whoever own\'d this Skull was not so good\n Nor quite so bad as many may have stated;\n\nare considered by him to be \'sportive and brightsome\' and full of\n\'playful humor,\' and \'two things especially are to be noted in\nthem--individuality and directness of expression.\' Individuality and\ndirectness of expression! We wonder what Mr. Matthews thinks these words\nmean.\n\nUnfortunate Mr. Locker with his uncouth American admirer! How he must\nblush to read these heavy panegyrics! Indeed, Mr. Matthews himself has\nat least one fit of remorse for his attempt to class Mr. Locker\'s work\nwith the work of Mr. Austin Dobson, but like most fits of remorse it\nleads to nothing. On the very next page we have the complaint that Mr.\nDobson\'s verse has not \'the condensed clearness\' and the \'incisive vigor\'\nof Mr. Locker\'s. Mr. Matthews should confine himself to his clever\njournalistic articles on Euchre, Poker, bad French and old jokes. On\nthese subjects he can, to use an expression of his own, \'write funny.\' He\n\'writes funny,\' too, upon literature, but the fun is not quite so\namusing.\n\nPen and Ink: Papers on Subjects of More or Less Importance. By Brander\nMatthews. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--III\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, March 1889.)\n\nMiss Nesbit has already made herself a name as a writer of graceful and\ncharming verse, and though her last volume, Leaves of Life, does not show\nany distinct advance on her former work, it still fully maintains the\nhigh standard already achieved, and justifies the reputation of the\nauthor. There are some wonderfully pretty poems in it, poems full of\nquick touches of fancy, and of pleasant ripples of rhyme; and here and\nthere a poignant note of passion flashes across the song, as a scarlet\nthread flashes through the shuttlerace of a loom, giving a new value to\nthe delicate tints, and bringing the scheme of colour to a higher and\nmore perfect key. In Miss Nesbit\'s earlier volume, the Lays and Legends,\nas it was called, there was an attempt to give poetic form to\nhumanitarian dreams and socialistic aspirations; but the poems that dealt\nwith these subjects were, on the whole, the least successful of the\ncollection; and with the quick, critical instinct of an artist, Miss\nNesbit seems to have recognised this. In the present volume, at any\nrate, such poems are rare, and these few felicitous verses give us the\npoet\'s defence:\n\n A singer sings of rights and wrongs,\n Of world\'s ideals vast and bright,\n And feels the impotence of songs\n To scourge the wrong or help the right;\n And only writhes to feel how vain\n Are songs as weapons for his fight;\n And so he turns to love again,\n And sings of love for heart\'s delight.\n\n For heart\'s delight the singers bind\n The wreath of roses round the head,\n And will not loose it lest they find\n Time victor, and the roses dead.\n \'Man can but sing of what he knows--\n I saw the roses fresh and red!\'\n And so they sing the deathless rose,\n With withered roses garlanded.\n\n And some within their bosom hide\n Their rose of love still fresh and fair,\n And walk in silence, satisfied\n To keep its folded fragrance rare.\n And some--who bear a flag unfurled--\n Wreathe with their rose the flag they bear,\n And sing their banner for the world,\n And for their heart the roses there.\n\n Yet thus much choice in singing is;\n We sing the good, the true, the just,\n Passionate duty turned to bliss,\n And honour growing out of trust.\n Freedom we sing, and would not lose\n Her lightest footprint in life\'s dust.\n We sing of her because we choose,\n We sing of love because we must.\n\nCertainly Miss Nesbit is at her best when she sings of love and nature.\nHere she is close to her subject, and her temperament gives colour and\nform to the various dramatic moods that are either suggested by Nature\nherself or brought to Nature for interpretation. This, for instance, is\nvery sweet and graceful:\n\n When all the skies with snow were grey,\n And all the earth with snow was white,\n I wandered down a still wood way,\n And there I met my heart\'s delight\n Slow moving through the silent wood,\n The spirit of its solitude:\n The brown birds and the lichened tree\n Seemed less a part of it than she.\n\n Where pheasants\' feet and rabbits\' feet\n Had marked the snow with traces small,\n I saw the footprints of my sweet--\n The sweetest woodland thing of all.\n With Christmas roses in her hand,\n One heart-beat\'s space I saw her stand;\n And then I let her pass, and stood\n Lone in an empty world of wood.\n\n And though by that same path I\'ve passed\n Down that same woodland every day,\n That meeting was the first and last,\n And she is hopelessly away.\n I wonder was she really there--\n Her hands, and eyes, and lips, and hair?\n Or was it but my dreaming sent\n Her image down the way I went?\n\n Empty the woods are where we met--\n They will be empty in the spring;\n The cowslip and the violet\n Will die without her gathering.\n But dare I dream one radiant day\n Red rose-wreathed she will pass this way\n Across the glad and honoured grass;\n And then--I will not let her pass.\n\nAnd this Dedication, with its tender silver-grey notes of colour, is\ncharming:\n\n In any meadow where your feet may tread,\n In any garland that your love may wear,\n May be the flower whose hidden fragrance shed\n Wakes some old hope or numbs some old despair,\n And makes life\'s grief not quite so hard to bear,\n And makes life\'s joy more poignant and more dear\n Because of some delight dead many a year.\n\n Or in some cottage garden there may be\n The flower whose scent is memory for you;\n The sturdy southern-wood, the frail sweet-pea,\n Bring back the swallow\'s cheep, the pigeon\'s coo,\n And youth, and hope, and all the dreams they knew,\n The evening star, the hedges grey with mist,\n The silent porch where Love\'s first kiss was kissed.\n\n So in my garden may you chance to find\n Or royal rose or quiet meadow flower,\n Whose scent may be with some dear dream entwined,\n And give you back the ghost of some sweet hour,\n As lilies fragrant from an August shower,\n Or airs of June that over bean-fields blow,\n Bring back the sweetness of my long ago.\n\nAll through the volume we find the same dexterous refining of old themes,\nwhich is indeed the best thing that our lesser singers can give us, and a\nthing always delightful. There is no garden so well tilled but it can\nbear another blossom, and though the subject-matter of Miss Nesbit\'s book\nis as the subject-matter of almost all books of poetry, she can certainly\nlend a new grace and a subtle sweetness to almost everything on which she\nwrites.\n\nThe Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems is from the clever pen of Mr. W.\nB. Yeats, whose charming anthology of Irish fairy-tales I had occasion to\nnotice in a recent number of the Woman\'s World. {437} It is, I believe,\nthe first volume of poems that Mr. Yeats has published, and it is\ncertainly full of promise. It must be admitted that many of the poems\nare too fragmentary, too incomplete. They read like stray scenes out of\nunfinished plays, like things only half remembered, or, at best, but\ndimly seen. But the architectonic power of construction, the power to\nbuild up and make perfect a harmonious whole, is nearly always the\nlatest, as it certainly is the highest, development of the artistic\ntemperament. It is somewhat unfair to expect it in early work. One\nquality Mr. Yeats has in a marked degree, a quality that is not common in\nthe work of our minor poets, and is therefore all the more welcome to\nus--I mean the romantic temper. He is essentially Celtic, and his verse,\nat its best, is Celtic also. Strongly influenced by Keats, he seems to\nstudy how to \'load every rift with ore,\' yet is more fascinated by the\nbeauty of words than by the beauty of metrical music. The spirit that\ndominates the whole book is perhaps more valuable than any individual\npoem or particular passage, but this from The Wanderings of Oisin is\nworth quoting. It describes the ride to the Island of Forgetfulness:\n\n And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow light,\n For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world\n and the sun,\n Ceased on our hands and faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,\n And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was\n one;\n\n Till the horse gave a whinny; for cumbrous with stems of the hazel and\n oak,\n Of hollies, and hazels, and oak-trees, a valley was sloping away\n From his hoofs in the heavy grasses, with monstrous slumbering folk,\n Their mighty and naked and gleaming bodies heaped loose where they\n lay.\n\n More comely than man may make them, inlaid with silver and gold,\n Were arrow and shield and war-axe, arrow and spear and blade,\n And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollows a child of three years old\n Could sleep on a couch of rushes, round and about them laid.\n\nAnd this, which deals with the old legend of the city lying under the\nwaters of a lake, is strange and interesting:\n\n The maker of the stars and worlds\n Sat underneath the market cross,\n And the old men were walking, walking,\n And little boys played pitch-and-toss.\n\n \'The props,\' said He, \'of stars and worlds\n Are prayers of patient men and good.\'\n The boys, the women, and old men,\n Listening, upon their shadows stood.\n\n A grey professor passing cried,\n \'How few the mind\'s intemperance rule!\n What shallow thoughts about deep things!\n The world grows old and plays the fool.\'\n\n The mayor came, leaning his left ear--\n There were some talking of the poor--\n And to himself cried, \'Communist!\'\n And hurried to the guardhouse door.\n\n The bishop came with open book,\n Whispering along the sunny path;\n There was some talking of man\'s God,\n His God of stupor and of wrath.\n\n The bishop murmured, \'Atheist!\n How sinfully the wicked scoff!\'\n And sent the old men on their way,\n And drove the boys and women off.\n\n The place was empty now of people;\n A cock came by upon his toes;\n An old horse looked across the fence,\n And rubbed along the rail his nose.\n\n The maker of the stars and worlds\n To His own house did Him betake,\n And on that city dropped a tear,\n And now that city is a lake.\n\nMr. Yeats has a great deal of invention, and some of the poems in his\nbook, such as Mosada, Jealousy, and The Island of Statues, are very\nfinely conceived. It is impossible to doubt, after reading his present\nvolume, that he will some day give us work of high import. Up to this he\nhas been merely trying the strings of his instrument, running over the\nkeys.\n\n* * * * *\n\nLady Munster\'s Dorinda is an exceedingly clever novel. The heroine is a\nsort of well-born Becky Sharp, only much more beautiful than Becky, or at\nleast than Thackeray\'s portraits of her, which, however, have always\nseemed to me rather ill-natured. I feel sure that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley\nwas extremely pretty, and I have never understood how it was that\nThackeray could caricature with his pencil so fascinating a creation of\nhis pen. In the first chapter of Lady Munster\'s novel we find Dorinda at\na fashionable school, and the sketches of the three old ladies who\npreside over the select seminary are very amusing. Dorinda is not very\npopular, and grave suspicions rest upon her of having stolen a cheque.\nThis is a startling debut for a heroine, and I was a little afraid at\nfirst that Dorinda, after undergoing endless humiliations, would be\nproved innocent in the last chapter. It was quite a relief to find that\nDorinda was guilty. In fact, Dorinda is a kleptomaniac; that is to say,\nshe is a member of the upper classes who spends her time in collecting\nworks of art that do not belong to her. This, however, is only one of\nher accomplishments, and it does not occupy any important place in the\nstory till the last volume is reached. Here we find Dorinda married to a\nStyrian Prince, and living in the luxury for which she had always longed.\nUnfortunately, while staying in the house of a friend she is detected\nstealing some rare enamels. Her punishment, as described by Lady\nMunster, is extremely severe; and when she finally commits suicide,\nmaddened by the imprisonment to which her husband had subjected her, it\nis difficult not to feel a good deal of pity for her. Lady Munster\nwrites a very clever, bright style, and has a wonderful faculty of\ndrawing in a few sentences the most lifelike portraits of social types\nand social exceptions. Sir Jasper Broke and his sister, the Duke and\nDuchess of Cheviotdale, Lord and Lady Glenalmond, and Lord Baltimore, are\nall admirably drawn. The \'novel of high life,\' as it used to be called,\nhas of late years fallen into disrepute. Instead of duchesses in\nMayfair, we have philanthropic young ladies in Whitechapel; and the\nfashionable and brilliant young dandies, in whom Disraeli and Bulwer\nLytton took such delight, have been entirely wiped out as heroes of\nfiction by hardworking curates in the East End. The aim of most of our\nmodern novelists seems to be, not to write good novels, but to write\nnovels that will do good; and I am afraid that they are under the\nimpression that fashionable life is not an edifying subject. They wish\nto reform the morals, rather than to portray the manners of their age.\nThey have made the novel the mode of propaganda. It is possible,\nhowever, that Dorinda points to some coming change, and certainly it\nwould be a pity if the Muse of Fiction confined her attention entirely to\nthe East End.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe four remarkable women whom Mrs. Walford has chosen as the subjects of\nher Four Biographies from \'Blackwood\' are Jane Taylor, Elizabeth Fry,\nHannah More, and Mary Somerville. Perhaps it is too much to say that\nJane Taylor is remarkable. In her day she was said to have been \'known\nto four continents,\' and Sir Walter Scott described her as \'among the\nfirst women of her time\'; but no one now cares to read Essays in Rhyme,\nor Display, though the latter is really a very clever novel and full of\ncapital things. Elizabeth Fry is, of course, one of the great\npersonalities of this century, at any rate in the particular sphere to\nwhich she devoted herself, and ranks with the many uncanonised saints\nwhom the world has loved, and whose memory is sweet. Mrs. Walford gives\na most interesting account of her. We see her first a gay, laughing,\nflaxen-haired girl, \'mightily addicted to fun,\' pleased to be finely\ndressed and sent to the opera to see the \'Prince,\' and be seen by him;\npleased to exhibit her pretty figure in a becoming scarlet riding-habit,\nand to be looked at with obvious homage by the young officers quartered\nhard by, as she rode along the Norfolk lanes; \'dissipated\' by simply\nhearing their band play in the square, and made giddy by the veriest\ntrifle: \'an idle, flirting, worldly girl,\' to use her own words. Then\ncame the eventful day when \'in purple boots laced with scarlet\' she went\nto hear William Savery preach at the Meeting House. This was the turning-\npoint of her life, her psychological moment, as the phrase goes. After\nit came the era of \'thees\' and \'thous,\' of the drab gown and the beaver\nhat, of the visits to Newgate and the convict ships, of the work of\nrescuing the outcast and seeking the lost. Mrs. Walford quotes the\nfollowing interesting account of the famous interview with Queen\nCharlotte at the Mansion-House:\n\n Inside the Egyptian Hall there was a subject for Hayter--the\n diminutive stature of the Queen, covered with diamonds, and her\n countenance lighted up with the kindest benevolence; Mrs. Fry, her\n simple Quaker\'s dress adding to the height of her figure--though a\n little flushed--preserving her wonted calmness of look and manner;\n several of the bishops standing near; the platform crowded with waving\n feathers, jewels, and orders; the hall lined with spectators, gaily\n and nobly clad, and the centre filled with hundreds of children,\n brought there from their different schools to be examined. A murmur\n of applause ran through the assemblage as the Queen took Mrs. Fry by\n the hand. The murmur was followed by a clap and a shout, which was\n taken up by the multitudes without till it died away in the distance.\n\nThose who regard Hannah More as a prim maiden lady of the conventional\ntype, with a pious and literary turn of mind, will be obliged to change\ntheir views should they read Mrs. Walford\'s admirable sketch of the\nauthoress of Percy. Hannah More was a brilliant wit, a femme d\'esprit,\npassionately fond of society, and loved by society in return. When the\nserious-minded little country girl, who at the age of eight had covered a\nwhole quire of paper with letters seeking to reform imaginary depraved\ncharacters, and with return epistles full of contrition and promises of\namendment, paid her first visit to London, she became at once the\nintimate friend of Johnson, Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Garrick, and most\nof the distinguished people of the day, delighting them by her charm, and\ngrace, and wit. \'I dined at the Adelphi yesterday,\' she writes in one of\nher letters. \'Garrick was the very soul of the company, and I never saw\nJohnson in more perfect good-humour. After all had risen to go we stood\nround them for above an hour, laughing, in defiance of every rule of\ndecorum and Chesterfield. I believe we should never have thought of\nsitting down, nor of parting, had not an impertinent watchman been\nsaucily vociferating. Johnson outstaid them all, and sat with me for\nhalf an hour.\' The following is from her sister\'s pen:\n\n On Tuesday evening we drank tea at Sir Joshua\'s with Dr. Johnson.\n Hannah is certainly a great favourite. She was placed next him, and\n they had the entire conversation to themselves. They were both in\n remarkably high spirits, and it was certainly her lucky night; I never\n heard her say so many good things. The old genius was as jocular as\n the young one was pleasant. You would have imagined we were at some\n comedy had you heard our peals of laughter. They certainly tried\n which could \'pepper the highest,\' and it is not clear to me that the\n lexicographer was really the highest seasoner.\n\nHannah More was certainly, as Mrs. Walford says, \'the feted and caressed\nidol of society.\' The theatre at Bristol vaunted, \'Boast we not a More?\'\nand the learned cits at Oxford inscribed their acknowledgment of her\nauthority. Horace Walpole sat on the doorstep--or threatened to do\nso--till she promised to go down to Strawberry Hill; Foster quoted her;\nMrs. Thrale twined her arms about her; Wilberforce consulted her and\nemployed her. When The Estimate of the Religion of the Fashionable World\nwas published anonymously, \'Aut Morus, aut Angelus,\' exclaimed the Bishop\nof London, before he had read six pages. Of her village stories and\nballads two million copies were sold during the first year. Caelebs in\nSearch of a Wife ran into thirty editions. Mrs. Barbauld writes to tell\nher about \'a good and sensible woman\' of her acquaintance, who, on being\nasked how she contrived to divert herself in the country, replied, \'I\nhave my spinning-wheel and my Hannah More. When I have spun one pound of\nflax I put on another, and when I have finished my book I begin it again.\n_I want no other amusement_.\' How incredible it all sounds! No wonder\nthat Mrs. Walford exclaims, \'No other amusement! Good heavens! Breathes\nthere a man, woman, or child with soul so quiescent nowadays as to be\nsatisfied with reels of flax and yards of Hannah More? Give us Hannah\'s\ncompany, but not--not her writings!\' It is only fair to say that Mrs.\nWalford has thoroughly carried out the views she expresses in this\npassage, for she gives us nothing of Hannah More\'s grandiloquent literary\nproductions, and yet succeeds in making us know her thoroughly. The\nwhole book is well written, but the biography of Hannah More is a\nwonderfully brilliant sketch, and deserves great praise.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss Mabel Wotton has invented a new form of picture-gallery. Feeling\nthat the visible aspect of men and women can be expressed in literature\nno less than through the medium of line and colour, she has collected\ntogether a series of Word Portraits of Famous Writers extending from\nGeoffrey Chaucer to Mrs. Henry Wood. It is a far cry from the author of\nthe Canterbury Tales to the authoress of East Lynne; but as a beauty, at\nany rate, Mrs. Wood deserved to be described, and we hear of the pure\noval of her face, of her perfect mouth, her \'dazzling\' complexion, and\nthe extraordinary youth by which \'she kept to the last the . . .\nfreshness of a young girl.\' Many of the \'famous writers\' seem to have\nbeen very ugly. Thomson, the poet, was of a dull countenance, and a\ngross, unanimated, uninviting appearance; Richardson looked \'like a plump\nwhite mouse in a wig.\' Pope is described in the Guardian, in 1713, as \'a\nlively little creature, with long arms and legs: a spider is no ill\nemblem of him. He has been taken at a distance for a small windmill.\'\nCharles Kingsley appears as \'rather tall, very angular, surprisingly\nawkward, with thin staggering legs, a hatchet face adorned with scraggy\ngray whiskers, a faculty for falling into the most ungainly attitudes,\nand making the most hideous contortions of visage and frame; with a rough\nprovincial accent and an uncouth way of speaking which would be set down\nfor absurd caricature on the boards of a comic theatre.\' Lamb is\ndescribed by Carlyle as \'the leanest of mankind; tiny black breeches\nbuttoned to the knee-cap and no further, surmounting spindle legs also in\nblack, face and head fineish, black, bony, lean, and of a Jew type\nrather\'; and Talfourd says that the best portrait of him is his own\ndescription of Braham--\'a compound of the Jew, the gentleman, and the\nangel.\' William Godwin was \'short and stout, his clothes loosely and\ncarelessly put on, and usually old and worn; his hands were generally in\nhis pockets; he had a remarkably large, bald head, and a weak voice;\nseeming generally half asleep when he walked, and even when he talked.\'\nLord Charlemont spoke of David Hume as more like a \'turtle-eating\nalderman\' than \'a refined philosopher.\' Mary Russell Mitford was ill-\nnaturedly described by L.E.L. as \'Sancho Panza in petticoats!\'; and as\nfor poor Rogers, who was somewhat cadaverous, the descriptions given of\nhim are quite dreadful. Lord Dudley once asked him \'why, now that he\ncould afford it, he did not set up his hearse,\' and it is said that\nSydney Smith gave him mortal offence by recommending him \'when he sat for\nhis portrait to be drawn saying his prayers, with his face hidden in his\nhands,\' christened him the \'Death dandy,\' and wrote underneath a picture\nof him, \'Painted in his lifetime.\' We must console ourselves--if not\nwith Mr. Hardy\'s statement that \'ideal physical beauty is incompatible\nwith mental development, and a full recognition of the evil of things\'--at\nleast with the pictures of those who had some comeliness, and grace, and\ncharm. Dr. Grosart says of a miniature of Edmund Spenser, \'It is an\nexquisitely beautiful face. The brow is ample, the lips thin but mobile,\nthe eyes a grayish-blue, the hair and beard a golden red (as of "red\nmonie" of the ballads) or goldenly chestnut, the nose with\nsemi-transparent nostril and keen, the chin firm-poised, the expression\nrefined and delicate. Altogether just such "presentment" of the Poet of\nBeauty par excellence, as one would have imagined.\' Antony Wood\ndescribes Sir Richard Lovelace as being, at the age of sixteen, \'the most\namiable and beautiful person that ever eye beheld.\' Nor need we wonder\nat this when we remember the portrait of Lovelace that hangs at Dulwich\nCollege. Barry Cornwall, described himself by S. C. Hall as \'a decidedly\nrather pretty little fellow,\' said of Keats: \'His countenance lives in my\nmind as one of singular beauty and brightness,--it had an expression as\nif he had been looking on some glorious sight.\' Chatterton and Byron\nwere splendidly handsome, and beauty of a high spiritual order may be\nclaimed both for Milton and Shelley, though an industrious gentleman\nlately wrote a book in two volumes apparently for the purpose of proving\nthat the latter of these two poets had a snub nose. Hazlitt once said\nthat \'A man\'s life may be a lie to himself and others, and yet a picture\npainted of him by a great artist would probably stamp his character.\' Few\nof the word-portraits in Miss Wotton\'s book can be said to have been\ndrawn by a great artist, but they are all interesting, and Miss Wotton\nhas certainly shown a wonderful amount of industry in collecting her\nreferences and in grouping them. It is not a book to be read through\nfrom beginning to end, but it is a delightful book to glance at, and by\nits means one can raise the ghosts of the dead, at least as well as the\nPsychical Society can.\n\n(1) Leaves of Life. By E. Nesbit. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n(2) The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems. By W. B. Yeats. (Kegan\nPaul.)\n\n(3) Dorinda. By Lady Munster. (Hurst and Blackett.)\n\n(4) Four Biographies from \'Blackwood.\' By Mrs. Walford. (Blackwood and\nSons.)\n\n(5) Word Portraits of Famous Writers. Edited by Mabel Wotton. (Bentley\nand Son.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. WILLIAM MORRIS\'S LAST BOOK\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 2, 1889.)\n\nMr. Morris\'s last book is a piece of pure art workmanship from beginning\nto end, and the very remoteness of its style from the common language and\nordinary interests of our day gives to the whole story a strange beauty\nand an unfamiliar charm. It is written in blended prose and verse, like\nthe mediaeval \'cante-fable,\' and tells the tale of the House of the\nWolfings in its struggles against the legionaries of Rome then advancing\ninto Northern Germany. It is a kind of Saga, and the language in which\nthe folk-epic, as we may call it, is set forth recalls the antique\ndignity and directness of our English tongue four centuries ago. From an\nartistic point of view it may be described as an attempt to return by a\nself-conscious effort to the conditions of an earlier and a fresher age.\nAttempts of this kind are not uncommon in the history of art. From some\nsuch feeling came the Pre-Raphaelite movement of our own day and the\narchaistic movement of later Greek sculpture. When the result is\nbeautiful the method is justified, and no shrill insistence upon a\nsupposed necessity for absolute modernity of form can prevail against the\nvalue of work that has the incomparable excellence of style. Certainly,\nMr. Morris\'s work possesses this excellence. His fine harmonies and rich\ncadences create in the reader that spirit by which alone can its own\nspirit be interpreted, awake in him something of the temper of romance\nand, by taking him out of his own age, place him in a truer and more\nvital relation to the great masterpieces of all time. It is a bad thing\nfor an age to be always looking in art for its own reflection. It is\nwell that, now and then, we are given work that is nobly imaginative in\nits method and purely artistic in its aim. As we read Mr. Morris\'s story\nwith its fine alternations of verse and prose, its decorative and\ndescriptive beauties, its wonderful handling of romantic and adventurous\nthemes, we cannot but feel that we are as far removed from the ignoble\nfiction as we are from the ignoble facts of our own day. We breathe a\npurer air, and have dreams of a time when life had a kind of poetical\nquality of its own, and was simple and stately and complete.\n\nThe tragic interest of The House of the Wolfings centres round the figure\nof Thiodolf, the great hero of the tribe. The goddess who loves him\ngives him, as he goes to battle against the Romans, a magical hauberk on\nwhich rests this strange fate: that he who wears it shall save his own\nlife and destroy the life of his land. Thiodolf, finding out this\nsecret, brings the hauberk back to the Wood-Sun, as she is called, and\nchooses death for himself rather than the ruin of his cause, and so the\nstory ends.\n\nBut Mr. Morris has always preferred romance to tragedy, and set the\ndevelopment of action above the concentration of passion. His story is\nlike some splendid old tapestry crowded with stately images and enriched\nwith delicate and delightful detail. The impression it leaves on us is\nnot of a single central figure dominating the whole, but rather of a\nmagnificent design to which everything is subordinated, and by which\neverything becomes of enduring import. It is the whole presentation of\nthe primitive life that really fascinates. What in other hands would\nhave been mere archaeology is here transformed by quick artistic instinct\nand made wonderful for us, and human and full of high interest. The\nancient world seems to have come to life again for our pleasure.\n\nOf a work so large and so coherent, completed with no less perfection\nthan it is conceived, it is difficult by mere quotation to give any\nadequate idea. This, however, may serve as an example of its narrative\npower. The passage describes the visit of Thiodolf to the Wood-Sun:\n\n The moonlight lay in a great flood on the grass without, and the dew\n was falling in the coldest hour of the night, and the earth smelled\n sweetly: the whole habitation was asleep now, and there was no sound\n to be known as the sound of any creature, save that from the distant\n meadow came the lowing of a cow that had lost her calf, and that a\n white owl was flitting about near the eaves of the Roof with her wild\n cry that sounded like the mocking of merriment now silent. Thiodolf\n turned toward the wood, and walked steadily through the scattered\n hazel-trees, and thereby into the thick of the beech-trees, whose\n boles grew smooth and silver-grey, high and close-set: and so on and\n on he went as one going by a well-known path, though there was no\n path, till all the moonlight was quenched under the close roof of the\n beech-leaves, though yet for all the darkness, no man could go there\n and not feel that the roof was green above him. Still he went on in\n despite of the darkness, till at last there was a glimmer before him,\n that grew greater till he came unto a small wood-lawn whereon the turf\n grew again, though the grass was but thin, because little sunlight got\n to it, so close and thick were the tall trees round about it. . . .\n Nought looked Thiodolf either at the heavens above, or the trees, as\n he strode from off the husk-strewn floor of the beech wood on to the\n scanty grass of the lawn, but his eyes looked straight before him at\n that which was amidmost of the lawn: and little wonder was that; for\n there on a stone chair sat a woman exceeding fair, clad in glittering\n raiment, her hair lying as pale in the moonlight on the grey stone as\n the barley acres in the August night before the reaping-hook goes in\n amongst them. She sat there as though she were awaiting some one, and\n he made no stop nor stay, but went straight up to her, and took her in\n his arms, and kissed her mouth and her eyes, and she him again; and\n then he sat himself down beside her.\n\nAs an example of the beauty of the verse we would take this from the song\nof the Wood-Sun. It at least shows how perfectly the poetry harmonises\nwith the prose, and how natural the transition is from the one to the\nother:\n\n In many a stead Doom dwelleth, nor sleepeth day nor night:\n The rim of the bowl she kisseth, and beareth the chambering light\n When the kings of men wend happy to the bride-bed from the board.\n It is little to say that she wendeth the edge of the grinded sword,\n When about the house half builded she hangeth many a day;\n The ship from the strand she shoveth, and on his wonted way\n By the mountain hunter fareth where his foot ne\'er failed before:\n She is where the high bank crumbles at last on the river\'s shore:\n The mower\'s scythe she whetteth; and lulleth the shepherd to sleep\n Where the deadly ling-worm wakeneth in the desert of the sheep.\n Now we that come of the God-kin of her redes for ourselves we wot,\n But her will with the lives of men-folk and their ending know we not.\n So therefore I bid thee not fear for thyself of Doom and her deed,\n But for me: and I bid thee hearken to the helping of my need.\n Or else--Art thou happy in life, or lusteth thou to die\n In the flower of thy days, when thy glory and thy longing bloom on\n high?\n\nThe last chapter of the book in which we are told of the great feast made\nfor the dead is so finely written that we cannot refrain from quoting\nthis passage:\n\n Now was the glooming falling upon the earth; but the Hall was bright\n within even as the Hall-Sun had promised. Therein was set forth the\n Treasure of the Wolfings; fair cloths were hung on the walls, goodly\n broidered garments on the pillars: goodly brazen cauldrons and fair-\n carven chests were set down in nooks where men could see them well,\n and vessels of gold and silver were set all up and down the tables of\n the feast. The pillars also were wreathed with flowers, and flowers\n hung garlanded from the walls over the precious hangings; sweet gums\n and spices were burning in fair-wrought censers of brass, and so many\n candles were alight under the Roof, that scarce had it looked more\n ablaze when the Romans had litten the faggots therein for its burning\n amidst the hurry of the Morning Battle.\n\n There then they fell to feasting, hallowing in the high-tide of their\n return with victory in their hands: and the dead corpses of Thiodolf\n and Otter, clad in precious glittering raiment, looked down on them\n from the High-seat, and the kindreds worshipped them and were glad;\n and they drank the Cup to them before any others, were they Gods or\n men.\n\nIn days of uncouth realism and unimaginative imitation, it is a high\npleasure to welcome work of this kind. It is a work in which all lovers\nof literature cannot fail to delight.\n\nA Tale of the House of the Wolfings and all the Kindreds of the Mark.\nWritten in Prose and in Verse by William Morris. (Reeves and Turner.)\n\n\n\n\nADAM LINDSAY GORDON\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 25, 1889.)\n\nA critic recently remarked of Adam Lindsay Gordon that through him\nAustralia had found her first fine utterance in song. {452} This,\nhowever, is an amiable error. There is very little of Australia in\nGordon\'s poetry. His heart and mind and fancy were always preoccupied\nwith memories and dreams of England and such culture as England gave him.\nHe owed nothing to the land of his adoption. Had he stayed at home he\nwould have done much better work. In a few poems such as The Sick\nStockrider, From the Wreck, and Wolf and Hound there are notes of\nAustralian influences, and these Swinburnian stanzas from the dedication\nto the Bush Ballads deserve to be quoted, though the promise they hold\nout was never fulfilled:\n\n They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less\n Of sound than of words,\n In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,\n And songless bright birds;\n Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses,\n Insatiable summer oppresses\n Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses,\n And faint flocks and herds.\n\n Whence gather\'d?--The locust\'s grand chirrup\n May furnish a stave;\n The ring of a rowel and stirrup,\n The wash of a wave.\n The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes,\n That chimes through the pauses and hushes\n Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes,\n The tempests that rave.\n\n In the gathering of night gloom o\'erhead, in\n The still silent change,\n All fire-flushed when forest trees redden\n On slopes of the range.\n When the gnarl\'d, knotted trunks Eucalyptian\n Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian,\n With curious device--quaint inscription,\n And hieroglyph strange;\n\n In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles\n \'Twixt shadow and shine,\n When each dew-laden air draught resembles\n A long draught of wine;\n When the sky-line\'s blue burnish\'d resistance\n Makes deeper the dreamiest distance,\n Some song in all hearts hath existence,--\n Such songs have been mine.\n\nAs a rule, however, Gordon is distinctly English, and the landscapes he\ndescribes are always the landscapes of our own country. He writes about\nmediaeval lords and ladies in his Rhyme of Joyous Garde, about Cavaliers\nand Roundheads in The Romance of Britomarte, and Ashtaroth, his longest\nand most ambitious poem, deals with the adventures of the Norman barons\nand Danish knights of ancient days. Steeped in Swinburne and bewildered\nwith Browning, he set himself to reproduce the marvellous melody of the\none and the dramatic vigour and harsh strength of the other. From the\nWreck is a sort of Australian edition of the Ride to Ghent. These are\nthe first three stanzas of one of the so-called Bush Ballads:\n\n On skies still and starlit\n White lustres take hold,\n And grey flashes scarlet,\n And red flashes gold.\n And sun-glories cover\n The rose, shed above her,\n Like lover and lover\n They flame and unfold.\n\n . . . . .\n\n Still bloom in the garden\n Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,\n Though pasture lands harden\n And drought fissures yawn.\n While leaves, not a few fall,\n Let rose-leaves for you fall,\n Leaves pearl-strung with dewfall,\n And gold shot with dawn.\n\n Does the grass-plot remember\n The fall of your feet\n In Autumn\'s red ember\n When drought leagues with heat,\n When the last of the roses\n Despairingly closes\n In the lull that reposes\n Ere storm winds wax fleet?\n\nAnd the following verses show that the Norman Baron of Ashtaroth had read\nDolores just once too often:\n\n Dead priests of Osiris, and Isis,\n And Apis! that mystical lore,\n Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis\n Of fever, is studied no more;\n Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles\n The arch of yon firmament vast\n Looks calm, like a host of white angels\n On dry dust of votaries past.\n\n On seas unexplored can the ship shun\n Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life\'s links,\n Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian\n Or Theban, unspoken by Sphynx?\n The riddle remains yet, unravell\'d\n By students consuming night oil.\n O earth! we have toil\'d, we have travailed:\n How long shall we travail and toil?\n\nBy the classics Gordon was always very much fascinated. He loved what he\ncalls \'the scroll that is godlike and Greek,\' though he is rather\nuncertain about his quantities, rhyming \'Polyxena\' to \'Athena\' and\n\'Aphrodite\' to \'light,\' and occasionally makes very rash statements, as\nwhen he represents Leonidas exclaiming to the three hundred at\nThermopylae:\n\n \'Ho! comrades let us gaily dine--\n This night with Plato we shall sup,\'\n\nif this be not, as we hope it is, a printer\'s error. What the\nAustralians liked best were his spirited, if somewhat rough, horse-racing\nand hunting poems. Indeed, it was not till he found that How We Beat the\nFavourite was on everybody\'s lips that he consented to forego his\nanonymity and appear in the unsuspected character of a verse-writer,\nhaving up to that time produced his poems shyly, scribbled them on scraps\nof paper, and sent them unsigned to the local magazines. The fact is\nthat the social atmosphere of Melbourne was not favourable to poets, and\nthe worthy colonials seem to have shared Audrey\'s doubts as to whether\npoetry was a true and honest thing. It was not till Gordon won the Cup\nSteeplechase for Major Baker in 1868 that he became really popular, and\nprobably there were many who felt that to steer Babbler to the winning-\npost was a finer achievement than \'to babble o\'er green fields.\'\n\nOn the whole, it is impossible not to regret that Gordon ever emigrated.\nHis literary power cannot be denied, but it was stunted in uncongenial\nsurroundings and marred by the rude life he was forced to lead. Australia\nhas converted many of our failures into prosperous and admirable\nmediocrities, but she certainly spoiled one of our poets for us. Ovid at\nTomi is not more tragic than Gordon driving cattle or farming an\nunprofitable sheep-ranch.\n\nThat Australia, however, will some day make amends by producing a poet of\nher own we cannot doubt, and for him there will be new notes to sound and\nnew wonders to tell of. The description, given by Mr. Marcus Clarke in\nthe preface to this volume, of the aspect and spirit of Nature in\nAustralia is most curious and suggestive. The Australian forests, he\ntells us, are funereal and stern, and \'seem to stifle, in their black\ngorges, a story of sullen despair.\' No leaves fall from the trees, but\n\'from the melancholy gum strips of white bark hang and rustle. Great\ngrey kangaroos hop noiselessly over the coarse grass. Flights of\ncockatoos stream out, shrieking like evil souls. The sun suddenly sinks\nand the mopokes burst out into horrible peals of semi-human laughter.\'\nThe aborigines aver that, when night comes, from the bottomless depth of\nsome lagoon a misshapen monster rises, dragging his loathsome length\nalong the ooze. From a corner of the silent forest rises a dismal chant,\nand around a fire dance natives painted like skeletons. All is\nfear-inspiring and gloomy. No bright fancies are linked with the\nmemories of the mountains. Hopeless explorers have named them out of\ntheir sufferings--Mount Misery, Mount Dreadful, Mount Despair.\n\n In Australia alone (says Mr. Clarke) is to be found the Grotesque, the\n Weird, the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write. But\n the dweller in the wilderness acknowledges the subtle charm of the\n fantastic land of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with the beauty\n of loneliness. Whispered to by the myriad tongues of the wilderness,\n he learns the language of the barren and the uncouth, and can read the\n hieroglyphs of haggard gum-trees, blown into odd shapes, distorted\n with fierce hot winds, or cramped with cold nights, when the Southern\n Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue. The phantasmagoria of\n that wild dream-land termed the Bush interprets itself, and the Poet\n of our desolation begins to comprehend why free Esau loved his\n heritage of desert sand better than all the bountiful richness of\n Egypt.\n\nHere, certainly, is new material for the poet, here is a land that is\nwaiting for its singer. Such a singer Gordon was not. He remained\nthoroughly English, and the best that we can say of him is that he wrote\nimperfectly in Australia those poems that in England he might have made\nperfect.\n\nPoems. By Adam Lindsay Gordon. (Samuel Mullen.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--IX\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, March 30, 1889.)\n\nJudges, like the criminal classes, have their lighter moments, and it was\nprobably in one of his happiest and, certainly, in one of his most\ncareless moods that Mr. Justice Denman conceived the idea of putting the\nearly history of Rome into doggerel verse for the benefit of a little boy\nof the name of Jack. Poor Jack! He is still, we learn from the preface,\nunder six years of age, and it is sad to think of the future career of a\nboy who is being brought up on bad history and worse poetry. Here is a\npassage from the learned judge\'s account of Romulus:\n\n Poor Tatius by some unknown hand\n Was soon assassinated,\n Some said by Romulus\' command;\n I know not--but \'twas fated.\n\n Sole King again, this Romulus\n Play\'d some fantastic tricks,\n Lictors he had, who hatchets bore\n Bound up with rods of sticks.\n\n He treated all who thwarted him\n No better than a dog,\n Sometimes \'twas \'Heads off, Lictors, there!\'\n Sometimes \'Ho! Lictors, flog!\'\n\n Then he created Senators,\n And gave them rings of gold;\n Old soldiers all; their name deriv\'d\n From \'Senex\' which means \'old.\'\n\n Knights, too, he made, good horsemen all,\n Who always were at hand\n To execute immediately\n Whate\'er he might command.\n\n But these were of Patrician rank,\n Plebeians all the rest;\n Remember this distinction, Jack!\n For \'tis a useful test.\n\nThe reign of Tullius Hostilius opens with a very wicked rhyme:\n\n As Numa, dying, only left\n A daughter, named Pompilia,\n The Senate had to choose a King.\n They choose one sadly _sillier_.\n\nIf Jack goes to the bad, Mr. Justice Denman will have much to answer for.\n\nAfter such a terrible example from the Bench, it is pleasant to turn to\nthe seats reserved for Queen\'s Counsel. Mr. Cooper Willis\'s Tales and\nLegends, if somewhat boisterous in manner, is still very spirited and\nclever. The Prison of the Danes is not at all a bad poem, and there is a\ngreat deal of eloquent, strong writing in the passage beginning:\n\n The dying star-song of the night sinks in the dawning day,\n And the dark-blue sheen is changed to green, and the green fades into\n grey,\n And the sleepers are roused from their slumbers, and at last the\n Danesmen know\n How few of all their numbers are left them by the foe.\n\nNot much can be said of a poet who exclaims:\n\n Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,\n To glow with one, and with the latter soar.\n\nAnd yet Mr. Moodie is one of the best of those South African poets whose\nworks have been collected and arranged by Mr. Wilmot. Pringle, the\n\'father of South African verse,\' comes first, of course, and his best\npoem is, undoubtedly, Afar in the Desert:\n\n Afar in the desert I love to ride,\n With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:\n Away, away, from the dwelling of men\n By the wild-deer\'s haunt, by the buffalo\'s glen:\n By valleys remote where the oribi plays,\n Where the gnu, the gazelle and the hartebeest graze,\n And the kudu and eland unhunted recline\n By the skirts of grey forests o\'erhung with wild vine,\n Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,\n And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,\n And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will\n In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.\n\nIt is not, however, a very remarkable production.\n\nThe Smouse, by Fannin, has the modern merit of incomprehensibility. It\nreads like something out of The Hunting of the Snark:\n\n I\'m a Smouse, I\'m a Smouse in the wilderness wide,\n The veld is my home, and the wagon\'s my pride:\n The crack of my \'voerslag\' shall sound o\'er the lea,\n I\'m a Smouse, I\'m a Smouse, and the trader is free!\n I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law,\n I care not for civilisation one straw,\n And ne\'er to \'Ompanda\'--\'Umgazis\' I\'ll throw\n While my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe!\n \'Trek,\' \'trek,\' ply the whip--touch the fore oxen\'s skin,\n I\'ll warrant we\'ll \'go it\' through thick and through thin--\n Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vikmaan trek jy;\n I\'m a Smouse, I\'m a Smouse, and the trader is free!\n\nThe South African poets, as a class, are rather behind the age. They\nseem to think that \'Aurora\' is a very novel and delightful epithet for\nthe dawn. On the whole they depress us.\n\nChess, by Mr. Louis Tylor, is a sort of Christmas masque in which the\ndramatis personae consist of some unmusical carollers, a priggish young\nman called Eric, and the chessmen off the board. The White Queen\'s\nKnight begins a ballad and the Black King\'s Bishop completes it. The\nPawns sing in chorus and the Castles converse with each other. The\nsilliness of the form makes it an absolutely unreadable book.\n\nMr. Williamson\'s Poems of Nature and Life are as orthodox in spirit as\nthey are commonplace in form. A few harmless heresies of art and thought\nwould do this poet no harm. Nearly everything that he says has been said\nbefore and said better. The only original thing in the volume is the\ndescription of Mr. Robert Buchanan\'s \'grandeur of mind.\' This is\ndecidedly new.\n\nDr. Cockle tells us that Mullner\'s Guilt and The Ancestress of\nGrillparzer are the masterpieces of German fate-tragedy. His translation\nof the first of these two masterpieces does not make us long for any\nfurther acquaintance with the school. Here is a specimen from the fourth\nact of the fate-tragedy.\n\n SCENE VIII.\n\n ELVIRA. HUGO.\n\n ELVIRA (after long silence, leaving the harp, steps to Hugo, and seeks\n his gaze).\n\n HUGO (softly). Though I made sacrifice of thy sweet life. The Father\n has forgiven. Can the wife--Forgive?\n\n ELVIRA (on his breast). She can!\n\n HUGO (with all the warmth of love). Dear wife!\n\n ELVIRA (after a pause, in deep sorrow). Must it be so, beloved one?\n\n HUGO (sorry to have betrayed himself). What?\n\nIn his preface to The Circle of Seasons, a series of hymns and verses for\nthe seasons of the Church, the Rev. T. B. Dover expresses a hope that\nthis well-meaning if somewhat tedious book \'may be of value to those many\nearnest people to whom the subjective aspect of truth is helpful.\' The\npoem beginning\n\n Lord, in the inn of my poor worthless heart\n Guests come and go; but there is room for Thee,\n\nhas some merit and might be converted into a good sonnet. The majority\nof the poems, however, are quite worthless. There seems to be some\ncurious connection between piety and poor rhymes.\n\nLord Henry Somerset\'s verse is not so good as his music. Most of the\nSongs of Adieu are marred by their excessive sentimentality of feeling\nand by the commonplace character of their weak and lax form. There is\nnothing that is new and little that is true in verse of this kind:\n\n The golden leaves are falling,\n Falling one by one,\n Their tender \'Adieux\' calling\n To the cold autumnal sun.\n The trees in the keen and frosty air\n Stand out against the sky,\n \'Twould seem they stretch their branches bare\n To Heaven in agony.\n\nIt can be produced in any quantity. Lord Henry Somerset has too much\nheart and too little art to make a good poet, and such art as he does\npossess is devoid of almost every intellectual quality and entirely\nlacking in any intellectual strength. He has nothing to say and says it.\n\nMrs. Cora M. Davis is eloquent about the splendours of what the authoress\nof The Circle of Seasons calls \'this earthly ball.\'\n\n Let\'s sing the beauties of this grand old earth,\n\nshe cries, and proceeds to tell how\n\n Imagination paints old Egypt\'s former glory,\n Of mighty temples reaching heavenward,\n Of grim, colossal statues, whose barbaric story\n The caustic pens of erudition still record,\n Whose ancient cities of glittering minarets\n Reflect the gold of Afric\'s gorgeous sunsets.\n\n\'The caustic pens of erudition\' is quite delightful and will be\nappreciated by all Egyptologists. There is also a charming passage in\nthe same poem on the pictures of the Old Masters:\n\n the mellow richness of whose tints impart,\n By contrast, greater delicacy still to modern art.\n\nThis seems to us the highest form of optimism we have ever come across in\nart criticism. It is American in origin, Mrs. Davis, as her biographer\ntells us, having been born in Alabama, Genesee co., N.Y.\n\n(1) The Story of the Kings of Rome in Verse. By the Hon. G. Denman,\nJudge of the High Court of Justice. (Trubner and Co.)\n\n(2) Tales and Legends in Verse. By E. Cooper Willis, Q.C. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(3) The Poetry of South Africa. Collected and arranged by A. Wilmot.\n(Sampson Low and Co.)\n\n(4) Chess. A Christmas Masque. By Louis Tylor. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n(5) Poems of Nature and Life. By David R. Williamson. (Blackwood.)\n\n(6) Guilt. Translated from the German by J. Cockle, M.D. (Williams and\nNorgate.)\n\n(7) The Circle of Seasons. By K. E. V. (Elliot Stock.)\n\n(8) Songs of Adieu. By Lord Henry Somerset. (Chatto and Windus.)\n\n(9) Immortelles. By Cora M. Davis. (G. P. Putnam\'s Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--IV\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, April 1889.)\n\n\'In modern life,\' said Matthew Arnold once, \'you I cannot well enter a\nmonastery; but you can enter the Wordsworth Society.\' I fear that this\nwill sound to many a somewhat uninviting description of this admirable\nand useful body, whose papers and productions have been recently\npublished by Professor Knight, under the title of Wordsworthiana. \'Plain\nliving and high thinking\' are not popular ideals. Most people prefer to\nlive in luxury, and to think with the majority. However, there is really\nnothing in the essays and addresses of the Wordsworth Society that need\ncause the public any unnecessary alarm; and it is gratifying to note\nthat, although the society is still in the first blush of enthusiasm, it\nhas not yet insisted upon our admiring Wordsworth\'s inferior work. It\npraises what is worthy of praise, reverences what should be reverenced,\nand explains what does not require explanation. One paper is quite\ndelightful; it is from the pen of Mr. Rawnsley, and deals with such\nreminiscences of Wordsworth as still linger among the peasantry of\nWestmoreland. Mr. Rawnsley grew up, he tells us, in the immediate\nvicinity of the present Poet-Laureate\'s old home in Lincolnshire, and had\nbeen struck with the swiftness with which,\n\n As year by year the labourer tills\n His wonted glebe, or lops the glades,\n\nthe memories of the poet of the Somersby Wold had \'faded from off the\ncircle of the hills\'--had, indeed, been astonished to note how little\nreal interest was taken in him or his fame, and how seldom his works were\nmet with in the houses of the rich or poor in the very neighbourhood.\nAccordingly, when he came to reside in the Lake Country, he endeavoured\nto find out what of Wordsworth\'s memory among the men of the Dales still\nlingered on--how far he was still a moving presence among them--how far\nhis works had made their way into the cottages and farmhouses of the\nvalleys. He also tried to discover how far the race of Westmoreland and\nCumberland farm-folk--the \'Matthews\' and the \'Michaels\' of the poet, as\ndescribed by him--were real or fancy pictures, or how far the characters\nof the Dalesmen had been altered in any remarkable manner by tourist\ninfluences during the thirty-two years that have passed since the Lake\npoet was laid to rest.\n\nWith regard to the latter point, it will be remembered that Mr. Ruskin,\nwriting in 1876, said that \'the Border peasantry, painted with absolute\nfidelity by Scott and Wordsworth,\' are, as hitherto, a scarcely injured\nrace; that in his fields at Coniston he had men who might have fought\nwith Henry V. at Agincourt without being distinguished from any of his\nknights; that he could take his tradesmen\'s word for a thousand pounds,\nand need never latch his garden gate; and that he did not fear\nmolestation, in wood or on moor, for his girl guests. Mr. Rawnsley,\nhowever, found that a certain beauty had vanished which the simple\nretirement of old valley days fifty years ago gave to the men among whom\nWordsworth lived. \'The strangers,\' he says, \'with their gifts of gold,\ntheir vulgarity, and their requirements, have much to answer for.\' As\nfor their impressions of Wordsworth, to understand them one must\nunderstand the vernacular of the Lake District. \'What was Mr. Wordsworth\nlike in personal appearance?\' said Mr. Rawnsley once to an old retainer,\nwho still lives not far from Rydal Mount. \'He was a ugly-faaced man, and\na mean liver,\' was the answer; but all that was really meant was that he\nwas a man of marked features, and led a very simple life in matters of\nfood and raiment. Another old man, who believed that Wordsworth \'got\nmost of his poetry out of Hartley,\' spoke of the poet\'s wife as \'a very\nonpleasant woman, very onpleasant indeed. A close-fisted woman, that\'s\nwhat she was.\' This, however, seems to have been merely a tribute to\nMrs. Wordsworth\'s admirable housekeeping qualities.\n\nThe first person interviewed by Mr. Rawnsley was an old lady who had been\nonce in service at Rydal Mount, and was, in 1870, a lodging-house keeper\nat Grasmere. She was not a very imaginative person, as may be gathered\nfrom the following anecdote:--Mr. Rawnsley\'s sister came in from a late\nevening walk, and said, \'O Mrs. D---, have you seen the wonderful\nsunset?\' The good lady turned sharply round and, drawing herself to her\nfull height, as if mortally offended, answered: \'No, miss; I\'m a tidy\ncook, I know, and "they say" a decentish body for a landlady, but I don\'t\nknaw nothing about sunsets or them sort of things, they\'ve never been in\nmy line.\' Her reminiscence of Wordsworth was as worthy of tradition as\nit was explanatory, from her point of view, of the method in which\nWordsworth composed, and was helped in his labours by his enthusiastic\nsister. \'Well, you know,\' she said, \'Mr. Wordsworth went humming and\nbooing about, and she, Miss Dorothy, kept close behint him, and she\npicked up the bits as he let \'em fall, and tak\' \'em down, and put \'em\ntogether on paper for him. And you may be very well sure as how she\ndidn\'t understand nor make sense out of \'em, and I doubt that he didn\'t\nknow much about them either himself, but, howivver, there\'s a great many\nfolk as do, I dare say.\' Of Wordsworth\'s habit of talking to himself,\nand composing aloud, we hear a great deal. \'Was Mr. Wordsworth a\nsociable man?\' asked Mr. Rawnsley of a Rydal farmer. \'Wudsworth, for a\'\nhe had noa pride nor nowt,\' was the answer, \'was a man who was quite one\nto hissel, ye kna. He was not a man as folks could crack wi\', nor not a\nman as could crack wi\' folks. But there was another thing as kep\' folk\noff, he had a ter\'ble girt deep voice, and ye might see his faace agaan\nfor long enuff. I\'ve knoan folks, village lads and lasses, coming over\nby old road above, which runs from Grasmere to Rydal, flayt a\'most to\ndeath there by Wishing Gaate to hear the girt voice a groanin\' and\nmutterin\' and thunderin\' of a still evening. And he had a way of\nstandin\' quite still by the rock there in t\' path under Rydal, and folks\ncould hear sounds like a wild beast coming from the rocks, and childer\nwere scared fit to be dead a\'most.\'\n\nWordsworth\'s description of himself constantly recurs to one:\n\n And who is he with modest looks,\n And clad in sober russet gown?\n He murmurs by the running brooks,\n A music sweeter than their own;\n He is retired as noontide dew,\n Or fountain in a noonday grove.\n\nBut the corroboration comes in strange guise. Mr. Rawnsley asked one of\nthe Dalesmen about Wordsworth\'s dress and habits. This was the reply:\n\'Wudsworth wore a Jem Crow, never seed him in a boxer in my life,--a Jem\nCrow and an old blue cloak was his rig, and _as for his habits, he had\nnoan_; niver knew him with a pot i\' his hand, or a pipe i\' his mouth. But\nhe was a great skater, for a\' that--noan better in these parts--why, he\ncould cut his own naame upo\' the ice, could Mr. Wudsworth.\' Skating\nseems to have been Wordsworth\'s one form of amusement. He was \'over\nfeckless i\' his hands\'--could not drive or ride--\'not a bit of fish in\nhim,\' and \'nowt of a mountaineer.\' But he could skate. The rapture of\nthe time when, as a boy, on Esthwaite\'s frozen lake, he had\n\n wheeled about,\n Proud and exulting like an untired horse\n That cares not for his home, and, shod with steel,\n Had hissed along the polished ice,\n\nwas continued, Mr. Rawnsley tells us, into manhood\'s later day; and Mr.\nRawnsley found many proofs that the skill the poet had gained, when\n\n Not seldom from the uproar he retired,\n Into a silent bay, or sportively\n Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng\n To cut across the reflex of a star,\n\nwas of such a kind as to astonish the natives among whom he dwelt. The\nrecollection of a fall he once had, when his skate caught on a stone,\nstill lingers in the district. A boy had been sent to sweep the snow\nfrom the White Moss Tarn for him. \'Did Mr. Wudsworth gie ye owt?\' he was\nasked, when he returned from his labour. \'Na, but I seed him tumlle,\nthough!\' was the answer. \'He was a ter\'ble girt skater, was Wudsworth\nnow,\' says one of Mr. Rawnsley\'s informants; \'he would put one hand i\'\nhis breast (he wore a frill shirt i\' them days), and t\'other hand i\' his\nwaistband, same as shepherds does to keep their hands warm, and he would\nstand up straight and sway and swing away grandly.\'\n\nOf his poetry they did not think much, and whatever was good in it they\nascribed to his wife, his sister, and Hartley Coleridge. He wrote\npoetry, they said, \'because he couldn\'t help it--because it was his\nhobby\'--for sheer love, and not for money. They could not understand his\ndoing work \'for nowt,\' and held his occupation in somewhat light esteem\nbecause it did not bring in \'a deal o\' brass to the pocket.\' \'Did you\never read his poetry, or see any books about in the farmhouses?\' asked\nMr. Rawnsley. The answer was curious: \'Ay, ay, time or two. But ya\'re\nweel aware there\'s potry and potry. There\'s potry wi\' a li\'le bit\npleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can laugh at or the childer\nunderstand, and some as takes a deal of mastery to make out what\'s said,\nand a deal of Wudsworth\'s was this sort, ye kna. You could tell fra the\nman\'s faace his potry would niver have no laugh in it. His potry was\nquite different work from li\'le Hartley. Hartley \'ud goa running along\nbeside o\' the brooks and mak his, and goa in the first oppen door and\nwrite what he had got upo\' paper. But Wudsworth\'s potry was real hard\nstuff, and bided a deal of makking, and he\'d keep it in his head for long\nenough. Eh, but it\'s queer, mon, different ways folks hes of making\npotry now . . . Not but what Mr. Wudsworth didn\'t stand very high, and\nwas a well-spoken man enough.\' The best criticism on Wordsworth that Mr.\nRawnsley heard was this: \'He was an open-air man, and a great critic of\ntrees.\'\n\nThere are many useful and well-written essays in Professor Knight\'s\nvolume, but Mr. Rawnsley\'s is far the most interesting of all. It gives\nus a graphic picture of the poet as he appeared in outward semblance and\nmanner to those about whom he wrote.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMary Myles is Mrs. Edmonds\'s first attempt at writing fiction. Mrs.\nEdmonds is well known as an authority on modern Greek literature, and her\nstyle has often a very pleasant literary flavour, though in her dialogues\nshe has not as yet quite grasped the difference between la langue parlee\nand la langue ecrite. Her heroine is a sort of Nausicaa from Girton, who\ndevelops into the Pallas Athena of a provincial school. She has her love-\nromance, like her Homeric prototype, and her Odysseus returns to her at\nthe close of the book. It is a nice story.\n\n* * * * *\n\nLady Dilke\'s Art in the Modern State is a book that cannot fail to\ninterest deeply every one who cares either for art or for history. The\n\'modern State\' which gives its title to the book is that political and\nsocial organisation of our day that comes to us from the France of\nRichelieu and Colbert, and is the direct outcome of the \'Grand Siecle,\'\nthe true greatness of which century, as Lady Dilke points out, consists\nnot in its vain wars, and formal stage and stilted eloquence, and pompous\npalaces, but in the formation and working out of the political and social\nsystem of which these things were the first-fruits. To the question that\nnaturally rises on one\'s lips, \'How can one dwell on the art of the\nseventeenth century?--it has no charm,\' Lady Dilke answers that this art\npresents in its organisation, from the point of view of social polity,\nproblems of the highest intellectual interest. Throughout all its\nphases--to quote her own words--\'the life of France wears, during the\nseventeenth century, a political aspect. The explanation of all changes\nin the social system, in letters, in the arts, in fashions even, has to\nbe sought in the necessities of the political position; and the seeming\ncaprices of taste take their rise from the same causes which went to\ndetermine the making of a treaty or the promulgation of an edict. This\nseems all the stranger because, in times preceding, letters and the arts,\nat least, appeared to flourish in conditions as far removed from the\naction of statecraft as if they had been a growth of fairyland. In the\nMiddle Ages they were devoted to a virgin image of Virtue; they framed,\nin the shade of the sanctuary, an ideal shining with the beauty born of\nself-renunciation, of resignation to self-enforced conditions of moral\nand physical suffering. By the queenly Venus of the Renaissance they\nwere consecrated to the joys of life, and the world saw that through\ntheir perfect use men might renew their strength, and behold virtue and\nbeauty with clear eyes. It was, however, reserved for the rulers of\nFrance in the seventeenth century fully to realise the political function\nof letters and the arts in the modern State, and their immense importance\nin connection with the prosperity of a commercial nation.\'\n\nThe whole subject is certainly extremely fascinating. The Renaissance\nhad for its object the development of great personalities. The perfect\nfreedom of the temperament in matters of art, the perfect freedom of the\nintellect in intellectual matters, the full development of the\nindividual, were the things it aimed at. As we study its history we find\nit full of great anarchies. It solved no political or social problems;\nit did not seek to solve them. The ideal of the \'Grand Siecle,\' and of\nRichelieu, in whom the forces of that great age were incarnate, was\ndifferent. The ideas of citizenship, of the building up of a great\nnation, of the centralisation of forces, of collective action, of ethnic\nunity of purpose, came before the world. It was inevitable that they\nshould have done so, and Lady Dilke, with her keen historic sense and her\nwonderful power of grouping facts, has told us the story of their\nstruggle and their victory. Her book is, from every point of view, a\nmost remarkable work. Her style is almost French in its clearness, its\nsobriety, its fine and, at times, ascetic simplicity. The whole ground-\nplan and intellectual-conception is admirable.\n\nIt is, of course, easy to see how much Art lost by having a new mission\nforced upon her. The creation of a formal tradition upon classical lines\nis never without its danger, and it is sad to find the provincial towns\nof France, once so varied and individual in artistic expression, writing\nto Paris for designs and advice. And yet, through Colbert\'s great\ncentralising scheme of State supervision and State aid, France was the\none country in Europe, and has remained the one country in Europe, where\nthe arts are not divorced from industry. The Academy of Painting and\nSculpture and the School of Architecture were not, to quote Lady Dilke\'s\nwords, called into being in order that royal palaces should be raised\nsurpassing all others in magnificence:\n\n Bievrebache and the Savonnerie were not established only that such\n palaces should be furnished more sumptuously than those of an Eastern\n fairy-tale. Colbert did not care chiefly to inquire, when organising\n art administration, what were the institutions best fitted to foster\n the proper interests of art; he asked, in the first place, what would\n most contribute to swell the national importance. Even so, in\n surrounding the King with the treasures of luxury, his object was\n twofold--their possession should, indeed, illustrate the Crown, but\n should also be a unique source of advantage to the people.\n Glass-workers were brought from Venice, and lace-makers from Flanders,\n that they might yield to France the secrets of their skill. Palaces\n and public buildings were to afford commissions for French artists,\n and a means of technical and artistic education for all those employed\n upon them. The royal collections were but a further instrument in\n educating the taste and increasing the knowledge of the working\n classes. The costly factories of the Savonnerie and the Gobelins were\n practical schools, in which every detail of every branch of all those\n industries which contribute to the furnishing and decoration of houses\n were brought to perfection; whilst a band of chosen apprentices were\n trained in the adjoining schools. To Colbert is due the honour of\n having foreseen, not only that the interests of the modern State were\n inseparably bound up with those of industry, but also that the\n interests of industry could not, without prejudice, be divorced from\n art.\n\nMr. Bret Harte has never written anything finer than Cressy. It is one\nof his most brilliant and masterly productions, and will take rank with\nthe best of his Californian stories. Hawthorne re-created for us the\nAmerica of the past with the incomparable grace of a very perfect artist,\nbut Mr. Bret Harte\'s emphasised modernity has, in its own sphere, won\nequal, or almost equal, triumphs. Wit, pathos, humour, realism,\nexaggeration, and romance are in this marvellous story all blended\ntogether, and out of the very clash and chaos of these things comes life\nitself. And what a curious life it is, half civilised and half\nbarbarous, naive and corrupt, chivalrous and commonplace, real and\nimprobable! Cressy herself is the most tantalising of heroines. She is\nalways eluding one\'s grasp. It is difficult to say whether she\nsacrifices herself on the altar of romance, or is merely a girl with an\nextraordinary sense of humour. She is intangible, and the more we know\nof her, the more incomprehensible she becomes. It is pleasant to come\nacross a heroine who is not identified with any great cause, and\nrepresents no important principle, but is simply a wonderful nymph from\nAmerican backwoods, who has in her something of Artemis, and not a little\nof Aphrodite.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIt is always a pleasure to come across an American poet who is not\nnational, and who tries to give expression to the literature that he\nloves rather than to the land in which he lives. The Muses care so\nlittle for geography! Mr. Richard Day\'s Poems have nothing distinctively\nAmerican about them. Here and there in his verse one comes across a\nflower that does not bloom in our meadows, a bird to which our woodlands\nhave never listened. But the spirit that animates the verse is simple\nand human, and there is hardly a poem in the volume that English lips\nmight not have uttered. Sounds of the Temple has much in it that is\ninteresting in metre as well as in matter:--\n\n Then sighed a poet from his soul:\n \'The clouds are blown across the stars,\n And chill have grown my lattice bars;\n I cannot keep my vigil whole\n By the lone candle of my soul.\n\n \'This reed had once devoutest tongue,\n And sang as if to its small throat\n God listened for a perfect note;\n As charily this lyre was strung:\n God\'s praise is slow and has no tongue.\'\n\nBut the best poem is undoubtedly the Hymn to the Mountain:--\n\n Within the hollow of thy hand--\n This wooded dell half up the height,\n Where streams take breath midway in flight--\n Here let me stand.\n\n Here warbles not a lowland bird,\n Here are no babbling tongues of men;\n Thy rivers rustling through the glen\n Alone are heard.\n\n Above no pinion cleaves its way,\n Save when the eagle\'s wing, as now,\n With sweep imperial shades thy brow\n Beetling and grey.\n\n What thoughts are thine, majestic peak?\n And moods that were not born to chime\n With poets\' ineffectual rhyme\n And numbers weak?\n\n The green earth spreads thy gaze before,\n And the unfailing skies are brought\n Within the level of thy thought.\n There is no more.\n\n The stars salute thy rugged crown\n With syllables of twinkling fire;\n Like choral burst from distant choir,\n Their psalm rolls down.\n\n And I within this temple niche,\n Like statue set where prophets talk,\n Catch strains they murmur as they walk,\n And I am rich.\n\nMiss Ella Curtis\'s A Game of Chance is certainly the best novel that this\nclever young writer has as yet produced. If it has a fault, it is that\nit is crowded with too much incident, and often surrenders the study of\ncharacter to the development of plot. Indeed, it has many plots, each of\nwhich, in more economical hands, would have served as the basis of a\ncomplete story. We have as the central incident the career of a clever\nlady\'s-maid who personifies her mistress, and is welcomed by Sir John\nErskine, an English country gentleman, as the widow of his dead son. The\nreal husband of the adventuress tracks his wife to England, and claims\nher. She pretends that he is insane, and has him removed. Then he tries\nto murder her, and when she recovers, she finds her beauty gone and her\nsecret discovered. There is quite enough sensation here to interest even\nthe jaded City man, who is said to have grown quite critical of late on\nthe subject of what is really a thrilling plot. But Miss Curtis is not\nsatisfied. The lady\'s-maid has an extremely handsome brother, who is a\nwonderful musician, and has a divine tenor voice. With him the stately\nLady Judith falls wildly in love, and this part of the story is treated\nwith a great deal of subtlety and clever analysis. However, Lady Judith\ndoes not marry her rustic Orpheus, so the social convenances are\nundisturbed. The romance of the Rector of the Parish, who falls in love\nwith a charming school-teacher, is a good deal overshadowed by Lady\nJudith\'s story, but it is pleasantly told. A more important episode is\nthe marriage between the daughter of the Tory squire and the Radical\ncandidate for the borough. They separate on their wedding-day, and are\nnot reconciled till the third volume. No one could say that Miss\nCurtis\'s book is dull. In fact, her style is very bright and amusing. It\nis impossible, perhaps, not to be a little bewildered by the amount of\ncharacters, and by the crowded incidents; but, on the whole, the scheme\nof the construction is clear, and certainly the decoration is admirable.\n\n(1) Wordsworthiana: A Selection from Papers read to the Wordsworth\nSociety. Edited by William Knight. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(2) Mary Myles. By E. M. Edmonds. (Remington and Co.)\n\n(3) Art in the Modern State. By Lady Dilke. (Chapman and Hall.)\n\n(4) Cressy. By Bret Harte. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(5) Poems. By Richard Day. (New York: Cassell and Co.)\n\n(6) A Game of Chance. By Ella Curtis. (Hurst and Blackett.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. FROUDE\'S BLUE-BOOK\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, April 13, 1889.)\n\nBlue-books are generally dull reading, but Blue-books on Ireland have\nalways been interesting. They form the record of one of the great\ntragedies of modern Europe. In them England has written down her\nindictment against herself and has given to the world the history of her\nshame. If in the last century she tried to govern Ireland with an\ninsolence that was intensified by race hatred and religious prejudice,\nshe has sought to rule her in this century with a stupidity that is\naggravated by good intentions. The last of these Blue-books, Mr.\nFroude\'s heavy novel, has appeared, however, somewhat too late. The\nsociety that he describes has long since passed away. An entirely new\nfactor has appeared in the social development of the country, and this\nfactor is the Irish-American and his influence. To mature its powers, to\nconcentrate its actions, to learn the secret of its own strength and of\nEngland\'s weakness, the Celtic intellect has had to cross the Atlantic.\nAt home it had but learned the pathetic weakness of nationality; in a\nstrange land it realised what indomitable forces nationality possesses.\nWhat captivity was to the Jews, exile has been to the Irish. America and\nAmerican influence has educated them. Their first practical leader is an\nIrish-American.\n\nBut while Mr. Froude\'s book has no practical relation to modern Irish\npolitics, and does not offer any solution of the present question, it has\na certain historical value. It is a vivid picture of Ireland in the\nlatter half of the eighteenth century, a picture often false in its\nlights and exaggerated in its shadows, but a picture none the less. Mr.\nFroude admits the martyrdom of Ireland but regrets that the martyrdom was\nnot more completely carried out. His ground of complaint against the\nExecutioner is not his trade but his bungling. It is the bluntness not\nthe cruelty of the sword that he objects to. Resolute government, that\nshallow shibboleth of those who do not understand how complex a thing the\nart of government is, is his posthumous panacea for past evils. His\nhero, Colonel Goring, has the words Law and Order ever on his lips,\nmeaning by the one the enforcement of unjust legislation, and implying by\nthe other the suppression of every fine national aspiration. That the\ngovernment should enforce iniquity and the governed submit to it, seems\nto Mr. Froude, as it certainly is to many others, the true ideal of\npolitical science. Like most penmen he overrates the power of the sword.\nWhere England has had to struggle she has been wise. Where physical\nstrength has been on her side, as in Ireland, she has been made unwieldy\nby that strength. Her own strong hands have blinded her. She has had\nforce but no direction.\n\nThere is, of course, a story in Mr. Froude\'s novel. It is not simply a\npolitical disquisition. The interest of the tale, such as it is, centres\nround two men, Colonel Goring and Morty Sullivan, the Cromwellian and the\nCelt. These men are enemies by race and creed and feeling. The first\nrepresents Mr. Froude\'s cure for Ireland. He is a resolute \'Englishman,\nwith strong Nonconformist tendencies,\' who plants an industrial colony on\nthe coast of Kerry, and has deep-rooted objections to that illicit trade\nwith France which in the last century was the sole method by which the\nIrish people were enabled to pay their rents to their absentee landlords.\nColonel Goring bitterly regrets that the Penal Laws against the Catholics\nare not rigorously carried out. He is a \'_Police_ at any price\' man.\n\n \'And this,\' said Goring scornfully, \'is what you call governing\n Ireland, hanging up your law like a scarecrow in the garden till every\n sparrow has learnt to make a jest of it. Your Popery Acts! Well, you\n borrowed them from France. The French Catholics did not choose to\n keep the Hugonots among them, and recalled the Edict of Nantes. As\n they treated the Hugonots, so you said to all the world that you would\n treat the Papists. You borrowed from the French the very language of\n your Statute, but they are not afraid to stand by their law, and you\n are afraid to stand by yours. You let the people laugh at it, and in\n teaching them to despise one law, you teach them to despise all\n laws--God\'s and man\'s alike. I cannot say how it will end; but I can\n tell you this, that you are training up a race with the education\n which you are giving them that will astonish mankind by and bye.\'\n\nMr. Froude\'s resume of the history of Ireland is not without power though\nit is far from being really accurate. \'The Irish,\' he tells us, \'had\ndisowned the facts of life, and the facts of life had proved the\nstrongest.\' The English, unable to tolerate anarchy so near their\nshores, \'consulted the Pope. The Pope gave them leave to interfere, and\nthe Pope had the best of the bargain. For the English brought him in,\nand the Irish . . . kept him there.\' England\'s first settlers were\nNorman nobles. They became more Irish than the Irish, and England found\nherself in this difficulty: \'To abandon Ireland would be discreditable,\nto rule it as a province would be contrary to English traditions.\' She\nthen \'tried to rule by dividing,\' and failed. The Pope was too strong\nfor her. At last she made her great political discovery. What Ireland\nwanted was evidently an entirely new population \'of the same race and the\nsame religion as her own.\' The new policy was partly carried out:\n\n Elizabeth first and then James and then Cromwell replanted the Island,\n introducing English, Scots, Hugonots, Flemings, Dutch, tens of\n thousands of families of vigorous and earnest Protestants, who brought\n their industries along with them. Twice the Irish . . . tried . . .\n to drive out this new element . . . They failed. . . . [But] England\n . . . had no sooner accomplished her long task than she set herself to\n work to spoil it again. She destroyed the industries of her colonists\n by her trade laws. She set the Bishops to rob them of their religion.\n . . . [As for the gentry,] The purpose for which they had been\n introduced into Ireland was unfulfilled. They were but alien\n intruders, who did nothing, who were allowed to do nothing. The time\n would come when an exasperated population would demand that the land\n should be given back to them, and England would then, perhaps, throw\n the gentry to the wolves, in the hope of a momentary peace. But her\n own turn would follow. She would be face to face with the old\n problem, either to make a new conquest or to retire with disgrace.\n\nPolitical disquisitions of this kind, and prophecies after the event, are\nfound all through Mr. Froude\'s book, and on almost every second page we\ncome across aphorisms on the Irish character, on the teachings of Irish\nhistory and on the nature of England\'s mode of government. Some of them\nrepresent Mr. Froude\'s own views, others are entirely dramatic and\nintroduced for the purpose of characterisation. We append some\nspecimens. As epigrams they are not very felicitous, but they are\ninteresting from some points of view.\n\n Irish Society grew up in happy recklessness. Insecurity added zest to\n enjoyment.\n\n We Irish must either laugh or cry, and if we went in for crying, we\n should all hang ourselves.\n\n Too close a union with the Irish had produced degeneracy both of\n character and creed in all the settlements of English.\n\n We age quickly in Ireland with the whiskey and the broken heads.\n\n The Irish leaders cannot fight. They can make the country\n ungovernable, and keep an English army occupied in watching them.\n\n No nation can ever achieve a liberty that will not be a curse to them,\n except by arms in the field.\n\n [The Irish] are taught from their cradles that English rule is the\n cause of all their miseries. They were as ill off under their own\n chiefs; but they would bear from their natural leaders what they will\n not bear from us, and if we have not made their lot more wretched we\n have not made it any better.\n\n \'Patriotism? Yes! Patriotism of the Hibernian order. The country\n has been badly treated, and is poor and miserable. This is the\n patriot\'s stock in trade. Does he want it mended? Not he. His own\n occupation would be gone.\'\n\n Irish corruption is the twin-brother of Irish eloquence.\n\n England will not let us break the heads of our scoundrels; she will\n not break them herself; we are a free country, and must take the\n consequences.\n\n The functions of the Anglo-Irish Government were to do what ought not\n to be done, and to leave undone what ought to be done.\n\n The Irish race have always been noisy, useless and ineffectual. They\n have produced nothing, they have done nothing, which it is possible to\n admire. What they are, that they have always been, and the only hope\n for them is that their ridiculous Irish nationality should be buried\n and forgotten.\n\n The Irish are the best actors in the world.\n\n Order is an exotic in Ireland. It has been imported from England, but\n it will not grow. It suits neither soil, nor climate. If the English\n wanted order in Ireland, they should have left none of us alive.\n\n When ruling powers are unjust, nature reasserts her rights.\n\n Even anarchy has its advantages.\n\n Nature keeps an accurate account. . . . The longer a bill is left\n unpaid, the heavier the accumulation of interest.\n\n You cannot live in Ireland without breaking laws on one side or\n another. Pecca fortiter, therefore, as . . . Luther said.\n\n The animal spirits of the Irish remained when all else was gone, and\n if there was no purpose in their lives, they could at least enjoy\n themselves.\n\n The Irish peasants can make the country hot for the Protestant\n gentleman, but that is all they are fit for.\n\nAs we said before, if Mr. Froude intended his book to help the Tory\nGovernment to solve the Irish question he has entirely missed his aim.\nThe Ireland of which he writes has disappeared. As a record, however, of\nthe incapacity of a Teutonic to rule a Celtic people against their own\nwish, his book is not without value. It is dull, but dull books are very\npopular at present; and as people have grown a little tired of talking\nabout Robert Elsmere, they will probably take to discussing The Two\nChiefs of Dunboy. There are some who will welcome with delight the idea\nof solving the Irish question by doing away with the Irish people. There\nare others who will remember that Ireland has extended her boundaries,\nand that we have now to reckon with her not merely in the Old World but\nin the New.\n\nThe Two Chiefs of Dunboy: or An Irish Romance of the Last Century. By J.\nA. Froude. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--V\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, May 1889.)\n\nMiss Caroline Fitz Gerald\'s volume of poems, Venetia Victrix, is\ndedicated to Mr. Robert Browning, and in the poem that gives its title to\nthe book it is not difficult to see traces of Mr. Browning\'s influence.\nVenetia Victrix is a powerful psychological study of a man\'s soul, a\nvivid presentation of a terrible, fiery-coloured moment in a marred and\nincomplete life. It is sometimes complex and intricate in expression,\nbut then the subject itself is intricate and complex. Plastic simplicity\nof outline may render for us the visible aspect of life; it is different\nwhen we come to deal with those secrets which self-consciousness alone\ncontains, and which self-consciousness itself can but half reveal. Action\ntakes place in the sunlight, but the soul works in the dark.\n\nThere is something curiously interesting in the marked tendency of modern\npoetry to become obscure. Many critics, writing with their eyes fixed on\nthe masterpieces of past literature, have ascribed this tendency to\nwilfulness and to affectation. Its origin is rather to be found in the\ncomplexity of the new problems, and in the fact that self-consciousness\nis not yet adequate to explain the contents of the Ego. In Mr.\nBrowning\'s poems, as in life itself which has suggested, or rather\nnecessitated, the new method, thought seems to proceed not on logical\nlines, but on lines of passion. The unity of the individual is being\nexpressed through its inconsistencies and its contradictions. In a\nstrange twilight man is seeking for himself, and when he has found his\nown image, he cannot understand it. Objective forms of art, such as\nsculpture and the drama, sufficed one for the perfect presentation of\nlife; they can no longer so suffice.\n\nThe central motive of Miss Caroline Fitz Gerald\'s psychological poem is\nthe study of a man who to do a noble action wrecks his own soul, sells it\nto evil, and to the spirit of evil. Many martyrs have for a great cause\nsacrificed their physical life; the sacrifice of the spiritual life has a\nmore poignant and a more tragic note. The story is supposed to be told\nby a French doctor, sitting at his window in Paris one evening:\n\n How far off Venice seems to-night! How dim\n The still-remembered sunsets, with the rim\n Of gold round the stone haloes, where they stand,\n Those carven saints, and look towards the land,\n Right Westward, perched on high, with palm in hand,\n Completing the peaked church-front. Oh how clear\n And dark against the evening splendour! Steer\n Between the graveyard island and the quay,\n Where North-winds dash the spray on Venice;--see\n The rosy light behind dark dome and tower,\n Or gaunt smoke-laden chimney;--mark the power\n Of Nature\'s gentleness, in rise or fall\n Of interlinked beauty, to recall\n Earth\'s majesty in desecration\'s place,\n Lending yon grimy pile that dream-like face\n Of evening beauty;--note yon rugged cloud,\n Red-rimmed and heavy, drooping like a shroud\n Over Murano in the dying day.\n I see it now as then--so far away!\n\nThe face of a boy in the street catches his eye. He seems to see in it\nsome likeness to a dead friend. He begins to think, and at last\nremembers a hospital ward in Venice:\n\n \'Twas an April day,\n The year Napoleon\'s troops took Venice--say\n The twenty-fifth of April. All alone\n Walking the ward, I heard a sick man moan,\n In tones so piteous, as his heart would break:\n \'Lost, lost, and lost again--for Venice\' sake!\'\n I turned. There lay a man no longer young,\n Wasted with fever. I had marked, none hung\n About his bed, as friends, with tenderness,\n And, when the priest went by, he spared to bless,\n Glancing perplexed--perhaps mere sullenness.\n I stopped and questioned: \'What is lost, my friend?\'\n \'My soul is lost, and now draws near the end.\n My soul is surely lost. Send me no priest!\n They sing and solemnise the marriage feast\n Of man\'s salvation in the house of love,\n And I in Hell, and God in Heaven above,\n And Venice safe and fair on earth between--\n No love of mine--mere service--for my Queen.\'\n\nHe was a seaman, and the tale he tells the doctor before he dies is\nstrange and not a little terrible. Wild rage against a foster-brother\nwho had bitterly wronged him, and who was one of the ten rulers over\nVenice, drives him to make a mad oath that on the day when he does\nanything for his country\'s good he will give his soul to Satan. That\nnight he sails for Dalmatia, and as he is keeping the watch, he sees a\nphantom boat with seven fiends sailing to Venice:\n\n I heard the fiends\' shrill cry: \'For Venice\' good!\n Rival thine ancient foe in gratitude,\n Then come and make thy home with us in Hell!\'\n I knew it must be so. I knew the spell\n Of Satan on my soul. I felt the power\n Granted by God to serve Him one last hour,\n Then fall for ever as the curse had wrought.\n I climbed aloft. My brain had grown one thought,\n One hope, one purpose. And I heard the hiss\n Of raging disappointment, loth to miss\n Its prey--I heard the lapping of the flame,\n That through the blanched figures went and came,\n Darting in frenzy to the devils\' yell.\n I set that cross on high, and cried: \'To Hell\n My soul for ever, and my deed to God!\n Once Venice guarded safe, let this vile clod\n Drift where fate will.\'\n And then (the hideous laugh\n Of fiends in full possession, keen to quaff\n The wine of one new soul not weak with tears,\n Pealing like ruinous thunder in mine ears)\n I fell, and heard no more. The pale day broke\n Through lazar-windows, when once more I woke,\n Remembering I might no more dare to pray.\n\nThe idea of the story is extremely powerful, and Venetia Victrix is\ncertainly the best poem in the volume--better than Ophelion, which is\nvague, and than A Friar\'s Story, which is pretty but ordinary. It shows\nthat we have in Miss Fitz Gerald a new singer of considerable ability and\nvigour of mind, and it serves to remind us of the splendid dramatic\npossibilities extant in life, which are ready for poetry, and unsuitable\nfor the stage. What is really dramatic is not necessarily that which is\nfitting for presentation in a theatre. The theatre is an accident of the\ndramatic form. It is not essential to it. We have been deluded by the\nname of action. To think is to act.\n\nOf the shorter poems collected here, this Hymn to Persephone is, perhaps,\nthe best:\n\n Oh, fill my cup, Persephone,\n With dim red wine of Spring,\n And drop therein a faded leaf\n Plucked from the Autumn\'s bearded sheaf,\n Whence, dread one, I may quaff to thee,\n While all the woodlands ring.\n\n Oh, fill my heart, Persephone,\n With thine immortal pain,\n That lingers round the willow bowers\n In memories of old happy hours,\n When thou didst wander fair and free\n O\'er Enna\'s blooming plain.\n\n Oh, fill my soul, Persephone,\n With music all thine own!\n Teach me some song thy childhood knew,\n Lisped in the meadow\'s morning dew,\n Or chant on this high windy lea,\n Thy godhead\'s ceaseless moan.\n\nBut this Venetian Song also has a good deal of charm:\n\n Leaning between carved stone and stone,\n As glossy birds peer from a nest\n Scooped in the crumbling trunk where rest\n Their freckled eggs, I pause alone\n And linger in the light awhile,\n Waiting for joy to come to me--\n Only the dawn beyond yon isle,\n Only the sunlight on the sea.\n\n I gaze--then turn and ply my loom,\n Or broider blossoms close beside;\n The morning world lies warm and wide,\n But here is dim, cool silent gloom,\n Gold crust and crimson velvet pile,\n And not one face to smile on me--\n Only the dawn beyond yon isle,\n Only the sunlight on the sea.\n\n Over the world the splendours break\n Of morning light and noontide glow,\n And when the broad red sun sinks low,\n And in the wave long shadows shake,\n Youths, maidens, glad with song and wile,\n Glide and are gone, and leave with me\n Only the dawn beyond yon isle,\n Only the sunlight on the sea.\n\nDarwinism and Politics, by Mr. David Ritchie, of Jesus College, Oxford,\ncontains some very interesting speculations on the position and the\nfuture of women in the modern State. The one objection to the equality\nof the sexes that he considers deserves serious attention is that made by\nSir James Stephen in his clever attack on John Stuart Mill. Sir James\nStephen points out in Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, that women may\nsuffer more than they have done, if plunged into a nominally equal but\nreally unequal contest in the already overcrowded labour market. Mr.\nRitchie answers that, while the conclusion usually drawn from this\nargument is a sentimental reaction in favour of the old family ideal, as,\nfor instance, in Mr. Besant\'s books, there is another alternative, and\nthat is the resettling of the labour question. \'The elevation of the\nstatus of women and the regulation of the conditions of labour are\nultimately,\' he says, \'inseparable questions. On the basis of\nindividualism, I cannot see how it is possible to answer the objections\nof Sir James Stephen.\' Mr. Herbert Spencer, in his Sociology, expresses\nhis fear that women, if admitted now to political life, might do mischief\nby introducing the ethics of the family into the State. \'Under the\nethics of the family the greatest benefits must be given where the merits\nare smallest; under the ethics of the State the benefits must be\nproportioned to the merits.\' In answer to this, Mr. Ritchie asks whether\nin any society we have ever seen people so get benefits in proportion to\ntheir merits, and protests against Mr. Spencer\'s separation of the ethics\nof the family from those of the State. If something is right in a\nfamily, it is difficult to see why it is therefore, without any further\nreason, wrong in the State. If the participation of women in politics\nmeans that as a good family educates all its members, so must a good\nState, what better issue could there be? The family ideal of the State\nmay be difficult of attainment, but as an ideal it is better than the\npoliceman theory. It would mean the moralisation of politics. The\ncultivation of separate sorts of virtues and separate ideals of duty in\nmen and women has led to the whole social fabric being weaker and\nunhealthier than it need be. As for the objection that in countries\nwhere it is considered necessary to have compulsory military service for\nall men, it would be unjust and inexpedient that women should have a\nvoice in political matters, Mr. Ritchie meets it, or tries to meet it, by\nproposing that all women physically fitted for such purpose should be\ncompelled to undergo training as nurses, and should be liable to be\ncalled upon to serve as nurses in time of war. This training, he\nremarks, \'would be more useful to them and to the community in time of\npeace than his military training is to the peasant or artisan.\' Mr.\nRitchie\'s little book is extremely suggestive, and full of valuable ideas\nfor the philosophic student of sociology.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMr. Alan Cole\'s lecture on Irish lace, delivered recently before the\nSociety of Arts, contains some extremely useful suggestions as to the\nbest method of securing an immediate connection between the art schools\nof a country and the country\'s ordinary manufactures. In 1883, Mr. Cole\nwas deputed by the Department of Science and Art to lecture at Cork and\nat Limerick on the subject of lace-making, and to give a history of its\nrise and development in other countries, as well as a review of the many\nkinds of ornamental patterns used from the sixteenth century to modern\ntimes. In order to make these lectures of practical value, Mr. Cole\nplaced typical specimens of Irish laces beside Italian, Flemish, and\nFrench laces, which seem to be the prototypes of the lace of Ireland. The\npublic interest was immediately aroused. Some of the newspapers stoutly\nmaintained that the ornament and patterns of Irish lace were of such a\nnational character that it was wrong to asperse them on that score.\nOthers took a different view, and came to the conclusion that Irish lace\ncould be vastly improved in all respects, if some systematic action could\nbe taken to induce the lace-makers to work from more intelligently\ncomposed patterns than those in general use. There was a consensus of\nopinion that the workmanship of Irish laces was good, and that it could\nbe applied to better materials than those ordinarily used, and that its\nmethods were suited to render a greater variety of patterns than those\nusually attempted.\n\nThese and other circumstances seem to have prompted the promoters of the\nCork Exhibition to further efforts in the cause of lace-making. Towards\nthe close of the year 1883 they made fresh representations to Government,\nand inquired what forms of State assistance could be given. A number of\nconvents in the neighbourhood of Cork was engaged in giving instruction\nto children under their care in lace and crochet making. At some, rooms\nwere allotted for the use of grown-up workers who made laces under the\nsupervision of the nuns. These convents obviously were centres where\nexperiments in reform could be tried. The convents, however, lacked\ninstruction in the designing of patterns for laces. An excellent School\nof Art was at work at Cork, but the students there had not been\ninstructed in specially designing for lace. If the convents with their\nworkrooms could be brought into relation with this School of Art, it\nseemed possible that something of a serious character might be done to\nbenefit lace-makers, and also to open up a new field in ornamental design\nfor the students at the School of Art. The rules of the Department of\nScience and Art were found to be adapted to aid in meeting such wants as\nthose sketched out by the promoters at Cork. As the nuns in the\ndifferent lace-making convents had not been able to attend in Cork to\nhear Mr. Cole\'s lectures, they asked that he should visit them and repeat\nthem at the convents. This Mr. Cole did early in 1884, the masters of\nthe local Schools of Art accompanying him on his visits. Negotiations\nwere forthwith opened for connecting the convents with the art schools.\nBy the end of 1885 some six or seven different lace-making convents had\nplaced themselves in connection with Schools of Art at Cork and\nWaterford. These convents were attended not only by the nuns but by\noutside pupils also; and, at the request of the convents, Mr. Cole has\nvisited them twice a year, lecturing and giving advice upon designs for\nlace. The composition of new patterns for lace was attempted, and old\npatterns which had degenerated were revised and redrawn for the use of\nthe workers connected with the convents. There are now twelve convents,\nMr. Cole tells us, where instruction in drawing and in the composition of\npatterns is given, and some of the students have won some of the higher\nprizes offered by the Department of Science and Art for designing lace-\npatterns.\n\nThe Cork School of Art then acquired a collection of finely-patterned old\nlaces, selections from which are freely circulated through the different\nconvents connected with that school. They have also the privilege of\nborrowing similar specimens of old lace from the South Kensington Museum.\nSo successful has been the system of education pursued by Mr. Brennan,\nthe head-master of the Cork School of Art, that two female students of\nhis school last year gained the gold and silver medals for their designs\nfor laces and crochets at the national competition which annually takes\nplace in London between all the Schools of Art in the United Kingdom. As\nfor the many lace-makers who were not connected either with the convents\nor with the art schools, in order to assist them, a committee of ladies\nand gentlemen interested in Irish lace-making raised subscriptions, and\noffered prizes to be competed for by designers generally. The best\ndesigns were then placed out with lace-makers, and carried into\nexecution. It is, of course, often said that the proper person to make\nthe design is the lace-maker. Mr. Cole, however, points out that from\nthe sixteenth century forward the patterns for ornamental laces have\nalways been designed by decorative artists having knowledge of the\ncomposition of ornament, and of the materials for which they were called\nupon to design. Lace pattern books were published in considerable\nquantity in Italy, France and Germany during the sixteenth and\nseventeenth centuries, and from these the lace-makers worked. Many lace-\nmakers would, no doubt, derive benefit from practice in drawing, in\ndiscriminating between well and badly shaped forms. But the skill they\nare primarily required to show and to develop is one of fine fingers in\nreproducing beautiful forms in threads. The conception, arrangement, and\ndrawing of beautiful forms for a design, have to be undertaken by\ndecorative artists acquainted with the limitations of those materials and\nmethods which the ultimate expression of the design involves.\n\nThis lovely Irish art of lace-making is very much indebted to Mr. Cole,\nwho has really re-created it, given it new life, and shown it the true\nartistic lines on which to progress. Hardly 20,000 pounds a year is\nspent by England upon Irish laces, and almost all of this goes upon the\ncheaper and commoner kinds. And yet, as Mr. Cole points out, it is\npossible to produce Irish laces of as high artistic quality as almost any\nforeign laces. The Queen, Lady Londonderry, Lady Dorothy Nevill, Mrs.\nAlfred Morrison, and others, have done much to encourage the Irish\nworkers, and it rests largely with the ladies of England whether this\nbeautiful art lives or dies. The real good of a piece of lace, says Mr.\nRuskin, is \'that it should show, first, that the designer of it had a\npretty fancy; next, that the maker of it had fine fingers; lastly, that\nthe wearer of it has worthiness or dignity enough to obtain what is\ndifficult to obtain, and common-sense enough not to wear it on all\noccasions.\'\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe High-Caste Hindu Woman is an interesting book. It is from the pen of\nthe Pundita Ramabai Sarasvati, and the introduction is written by Miss\nRachel Bodley, M.D., the Dean of the Woman\'s Medical College of\nPennsylvania. The story of the parentage of this learned lady is very\ncurious. A certain Hindu, being on a religious pilgrimage with his\nfamily, which consisted of his wife and two daughters, one nine and the\nother seven years of age, stopped in a town to rest for a day or two. One\nmorning the Hindu was bathing in the sacred river Godavari, near the\ntown, when he saw a fine-looking man coming there to bathe also. After\nthe ablution and the morning prayers were over, the father inquired of\nthe stranger who he was and whence he came. On learning his caste, and\nclan, and dwelling-place, and also that he was a widower, he offered him\nhis little daughter of nine in marriage. All things were settled in an\nhour or so; next day the marriage was concluded, and the little girl\nplaced in the possession of the stranger, who took her nearly nine\nhundred miles away from her home, and gave her into the charge of his\nmother. The stranger was the learned Ananta Shastri, a Brahman pundit,\nwho had very advanced views on the subject of woman\'s education, and he\ndetermined that he would teach his girl-wife Sanskrit, and give her the\nintellectual culture that had been always denied to women in India. Their\ndaughter was the Pundita Ramabai, who, after the death of her parents,\ntravelled all over India advocating the cause of female education, and to\nwhom seems to be due the first suggestion for the establishment of the\nprofession of women doctors. In 1866, Miss Mary Carpenter made a short\ntour in India for the purpose of finding out some way by which women\'s\ncondition in that country might be improved. She at once discovered that\nthe chief means by which the desired end could be accomplished was by\nfurnishing women teachers for the Hindu Zenanas. She suggested that the\nBritish Government should establish normal schools for training women\nteachers, and that scholarships should be awarded to girls in order to\nprolong their school-going period, and to assist indigent women who would\notherwise be unable to pursue their studies.\n\nIn response to Miss Carpenter\'s appeal, upon her return to England, the\nEnglish Government founded several schools for women in India, and a few\n\'Mary Carpenter Scholarships\' were endowed by benevolent persons. These\nschools were open to women of every caste; but while they have\nundoubtedly been of use, they have not realised the hopes of their\nfounders, chiefly through the impossibility of keeping caste rules in\nthem. Ramabai, in a very eloquent chapter, proposes to solve the problem\nin a different way. Her suggestion is that houses should be opened for\nthe young and high-caste child-widows, where they can take shelter\nwithout the fear of losing their caste, or of being disturbed in their\nreligious belief, and where they may have entire freedom of action as\nregards caste rules. The whole account given by the Pundita of the life\nof the high-caste Hindu lady is full of suggestion for the social\nreformer and the student of progress, and her book, which is wonderfully\nwell written, is likely to produce a radical change in the educational\nschemes that at present prevail in India.\n\n(1) Venetia Victrix. By Caroline Fitz Gerald. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(2) Darwinism and Politics. By David Ritchie, Jesus College, Oxford.\n(Swan Sonnenschein and Co.)\n\n(3) The High-Caste Hindu Woman. By the Pandita Ramabai Sarasvati. (Bell\nand Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nOUIDA\'S NEW NOVEL\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 17, 1889.)\n\nOuida is the last of the romantics. She belongs to the school of Bulwer\nLytton and George Sand, though she may lack the learning of the one and\nthe sincerity of the other. She tries to make passion, imagination, and\npoetry part of fiction. She still believes in heroes and in heroines.\nShe is florid and fervent and fanciful. Yet even she, the high priestess\nof the impossible, is affected by her age. Her last book, Guilderoy as\nshe calls it, is an elaborate psychological study of modern temperaments.\nFor her, it is realistic, and she has certainly caught much of the tone\nand temper of the society of our day. Her people move with ease and\ngrace and indolence. The book may be described as a study of the peerage\nfrom a poetical point of view. Those who are tired of mediocre young\ncurates who have doubts, of serious young ladies who have missions, and\nof the ordinary figureheads of most of the English fiction of our time,\nmight turn with pleasure, if not with profit, to this amazing romance. It\nis a resplendent picture of our aristocracy. No expense has been spared\nin gilding. For the comparatively small sum of 1 pound, 11s. 6d. one is\nintroduced to the best society. The central figures are exaggerated, but\nthe background is admirable. In spite of everything, it gives one a\nsense of something like life.\n\nWhat is the story? Well, we must admit that we have a faint suspicion\nthat Ouida has told it to us before. Lord Guilderoy, \'whose name was as\nold as the days of Knut,\' falls madly in love, or fancies that he falls\nmadly in love, with a rustic Perdita, a provincial Artemis who has \'a\nGainsborough face, with wide-opened questioning eyes and tumbled auburn\nhair.\' She is poor but well-born, being the only child of Mr. Vernon of\nLlanarth, a curious recluse, who is half a pedant and half Don Quixote.\nGuilderoy marries her and, tiring of her shyness, her lack of power to\nexpress herself, her want of knowledge of fashionable life, returns to an\nold passion for a wonderful creature called the Duchess of Soria. Lady\nGuilderoy becomes ice; the Duchess becomes fire; at the end of the book\nGuilderoy is a pitiable object. He has to submit to be forgiven by one\nwoman, and to endure to be forgotten by the other. He is thoroughly\nweak, thoroughly worthless, and the most fascinating person in the whole\nstory. Then there is his sister Lady Sunbury, who is very anxious for\nGuilderoy to marry, and is quite determined to hate his wife. She is\nreally a capital sketch. Ouida describes her as \'one of those admirably\nvirtuous women who are more likely to turn men away from the paths of\nvirtue than the wickedest of sirens.\' She irritates herself, alienates\nher children, and infuriates her husband:\n\n \'You are perfectly right; I know you are always right; I admit you\n are; but it is just that which makes you so damnably odious!\' said\n Lord Sunbury once, in a burst of rage, in his town house, speaking in\n such stentorian tones that the people passing up Grosvenor Street\n looked up at his open windows, and a crossing-sweeper said to a match-\n seller, \'My eye! ain\'t he giving it to the old gal like blazes.\'\n\nThe noblest character in the book is Lord Aubrey. As he is not a genius\nhe, naturally, behaves admirably on every occasion. He begins by pitying\nthe neglected Lady Guilderoy, and ends by loving her, but he makes the\ngreat renunciation with considerable effect, and, having induced Lady\nGuilderoy to receive back her husband, he accepts \'a distant and arduous\nViceroyalty.\' He is Ouida\'s ideal of the true politician, for Ouida has\napparently taken to the study of English politics. A great deal of her\nbook is devoted to political disquisitions. She believes that the proper\nrulers of a country like ours are the aristocrats. Oligarchy has great\nfascinations for her. She thinks meanly of the people and adores the\nHouse of Lords and Lord Salisbury. Here are some of her views. We will\nnot call them ideas:\n\n The House of Lords wants nothing of the nation, and therefore it is\n the only candid and disinterested guardian of the people\'s needs and\n resources. It has never withstood the real desire of the country: it\n has only stood between the country and its impetuous and evanescent\n follies.\n\n A democracy cannot understand honour; how should it? The Caucus is\n chiefly made up of men who sand their sugar, put alum in their bread,\n forge bayonets and girders which bend like willow-wands, send bad\n calico to India, and insure vessels at Lloyd\'s which they know will go\n to the bottom before they have been ten days at sea.\n\n Lord Salisbury has often been accused of arrogance; people have never\n seen that what they mistook for arrogance was the natural, candid\n consciousness of a great noble that he is more capable of leading the\n country than most men composing it would be.\n\n Democracy, after having made everything supremely hideous and\n uncomfortable for everybody, always ends by clinging to the coat tails\n of some successful general.\n\n The prosperous politician may be honest, but his honesty is at best a\n questionable quality. The moment that a thing is a metier, it is\n wholly absurd to talk about any disinterestedness in the pursuit of\n it. To the professional politician national affairs are a manufacture\n into which he puts his audacity and his time, and out of which he\n expects to make so much percentage for his lifetime.\n\n There is too great a tendency to govern the world by noise.\n\nOuida\'s aphorisms on women, love, and modern society are somewhat more\ncharacteristic:\n\n Women speak as though the heart were to be treated at will like a\n stone, or a bath.\n Half the passions of men die early, because they are expected to be\n eternal.\n It is the folly of life that lends charm to it.\n What is the cause of half the misery of women? That their love is so\n much more tenacious than the man\'s: it grows stronger as his grows\n weaker.\n To endure the country in England for long, one must have the rusticity\n of Wordsworth\'s mind, and boots and stockings as homely.\n It is because men feel the necessity to explain that they drop into\n the habit of saying what is not true. Wise is the woman who never\n insists on an explanation.\n Love can make its own world in a solitude a deux, but marriage cannot.\n Nominally monogamous, all cultured society is polygamous; often even\n polyandrous.\n Moralists say that a soul should resist passion. They might as well\n say that a house should resist an earthquake.\n The whole world is just now on its knees before the poorer classes:\n all the cardinal virtues are taken for granted in them, and it is only\n property of any kind which is the sinner.\n Men are not merciful to women\'s tears as a rule; and when it is a\n woman belonging to them who weeps, they only go out, and slam the door\n behind them.\n Men always consider women unjust to them, when they fail to deify\n their weaknesses.\n No passion, once broken, will ever bear renewal.\n Feeling loses its force and its delicacy if we put it under the\n microscope too often.\n Anything which is not flattery seems injustice to a woman.\n When society is aware that you think it a flock of geese, it revenges\n itself by hissing loudly behind your back.\n\nOf descriptions of scenery and art we have, of course, a large number,\nand it is impossible not to recognise the touch of the real Ouida manner\nin the following:\n\n It was an old palace: lofty, spacious, magnificent, and dull. Busts\n of dusky yellow marble, weird bronzes stretching out gaunt arms into\n the darkness, ivories brown with age, worn brocades with gold threads\n gleaming in them, and tapestries with strange and pallid figures of\n dead gods, were all half revealed and half obscured in the twilight.\n As he moved through them, a figure which looked almost as pale as the\n Adonis of the tapestry and was erect and motionless like the statue of\n the wounded Love, came before his sight out of the darkness. It was\n that of Gladys.\n\nIt is a manner full of exaggeration and overemphasis, but with some\nremarkable rhetorical qualities and a good deal of colour. Ouida is fond\nof airing a smattering of culture, but she has a certain intrinsic\ninsight into things and, though she is rarely true, she is never dull.\nGuilderoy, with all its faults, which are great, and its absurdities,\nwhich are greater, is a book to be read.\n\nGuilderoy. By Ouida. (Chatto and Windus.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES--VI\n\n\n(Woman\'s World, June 1889.)\n\nA writer in the Quarterly Review for January 1874 says:\n\n No literary event since the war has excited anything like such a\n sensation in Paris as the publication of the Lettres a une Inconnue.\n Even politics became a secondary consideration for the hour, and\n academicians or deputies of opposite parties might be seen eagerly\n accosting each other in the Chamber or the street to inquire who this\n fascinating and perplexing \'unknown\' could be. The statement in the\n Revue des Deux Mondes that she was an Englishwoman, moving in\n brilliant society, was not supported by evidence; and M. Blanchard,\n the painter, from whom the publisher received the manuscripts, died\n most provokingly at the very commencement of the inquiry, and made no\n sign. Some intimate friends of Merimee, rendered incredulous by\n wounded self-love at not having been admitted to his confidence,\n insisted that there was no secret to tell; their hypothesis being that\n the Inconnue was a myth, and the letters a romance, with which some\n petty details of actual life had been interwoven to keep up the\n mystification.\n\nBut an artist like Merimee would not have left his work in so unformed a\nstate, so defaced by repetitions, or with such a want of proportion\nbetween the parts. The Inconnue was undoubtedly a real person, and her\nletters in answer to those of Merimee have just been published by Messrs.\nMacmillan under the title of An Author\'s Love.\n\nHer letters? Well, they are such letters as she might have written. \'By\nthe tideless sea at Cannes on a summer day,\' says their anonymous author,\n\'I had fallen asleep, and the plashing of the waves upon the shore had\ndoubtless made me dream. When I awoke the yellow paper-covered volumes\nof Prosper Merimee\'s Lettres a une Inconnue lay beside me; I had been\nreading the book before I fell asleep, but the answers--had they ever\nbeen written, or had I only dreamed?\' The invention of the love-letters\nof a curious and unknown personality, the heroine of one of the great\nliterary flirtations of our age, was a clever idea, and certainly the\nauthor has carried out his scheme with wonderful success; with such\nsuccess indeed that it is said that one of our statesmen, whose name\noccurs more than once in the volume, was for a moment completely taken in\nby what is really a jeu-d\'esprit, the first serious joke perpetrated by\nMessrs. Macmillan in their publishing capacity. Perhaps it is too much\nto call it a joke. It is a fine, delicate piece of fiction, an\nimaginative attempt to complete a real romance. As we had the letters of\nthe academic Romeo, it was obviously right that we should pretend we had\nthe answers of the clever and somewhat mondaine Juliet. Or is it Juliet\nherself, in her little Paris boudoir, looking over these two volumes with\na sad, cynical smile? Well, to be put into fiction is always a tribute\nto one\'s reality.\n\nAs for extracts from these fascinating forgeries, the letters should be\nread in conjunction with those of Merimee himself. It is difficult to\njudge of them by samples. We find the Inconnue first in London, probably\nin 1840.\n\n Little (she writes) can you imagine the storm of indignation you\n aroused in me by your remark that your feelings for me were those\n suitable for a fourteen-year-old niece. Merci. Anything less like a\n respectable uncle than yourself I cannot well imagine. The role would\n never suit you, believe me, so do not try it.\n\n Now in return for your story of the phlegmatic musical animal who\n called forth such stormy devotion in a female breast, and who, himself\n cold and indifferent, was loved to the extent of a watery grave being\n sought by his inamorata as solace for his indifference, let _me_ ask\n the question why the women who torment men with their uncertain\n tempers, drive them wild with jealousy, laugh contemptuously at their\n humble entreaties, and fling their money to the winds, have twice the\n hold upon their affections that the patient, long-suffering, domestic,\n frugal Griseldas have, whose existences are one long penance of\n unsuccessful efforts to please? Answer this comprehensively, and you\n will have solved a riddle which has puzzled women since Eve asked\n questions in Paradise.\n\nLater on she writes:\n\n Why should all natures be alike? It would make the old saws useless\n if they were, and deprive us of one of the truest of them all,\n \'Variety is the spice of life.\' How terribly monotonous it would be\n if all the flowers were roses, every woman a queen, and each man a\n philosopher. My private opinion is that it takes at least six men\n such as one meets every day to make one really valuable one. I like\n so many men for one particular quality which they possess, and so few\n men for all. Comprenez-vous?\n\nIn another place:\n\n Is it not a trifle dangerous, this experiment we are trying of a\n friendship in pen and ink and paper? A letter. What thing on earth\n more dangerous to confide in? Written at blood heat, it may reach its\n destination when the recipient\'s mental thermometer counts zero, and\n the burning words and thrilling sentences may turn to ice and be\n congealed as they are read. . . . A letter; the most uncertain thing\n in a world of uncertainties, the best or the worst thing devised by\n mortals.\n\nAgain:\n\n Surely it was for you, mon cher, that the description given of a\n friend of mine was originally intended. He is a trifle cynical, this\n friend, and decidedly pessimistic, and of him it was reported that he\n never believed in anything until he saw it, and then he was convinced\n that it was an optical illusion. The accuracy of the description\n struck me.\n\nThey seem to have loved each other best when they were parted.\n\n I think I cannot bear it much longer, this incessant quarrelling when\n we meet, and your unkindness during the short time that you are with\n me. Why not let it all end? it would be better for both of us. I do\n not love you less when I write these words; if you could know the\n sadness which they echo in my heart you would believe this. No, I\n think I love you more, but I cannot understand you. As you have often\n said, our natures must be very different, entirely different; if so,\n what is this curious bond between them? To me you seem possessed with\n some strange restlessness and morbid melancholy which utterly spoils\n your life, and in return you never see me without overwhelming me with\n reproaches, if not for one thing, for another. I tell you I cannot,\n will not, bear it longer. If you love me, then in God\'s name cease\n tormenting me as well as yourself with these wretched doubts and\n questionings and complaints. I have been ill, seriously ill, and\n there is nothing to account for my illness save the misery of this\n apparently hopeless state of things existing between us. You have\n made me weep bitter tears of alternate self-reproach and indignation,\n and finally of complete miserable bewilderment as to this unhappy\n condition of affairs. Believe me, tears like these are not good to\n mingle with love, they are too bitter, too scorching, they blister\n love\'s wings and fall too heavily on love\'s heart. I feel worn out\n with a dreary sort of hopelessness; if you know a cure for pain like\n this send it to me quickly.\n\nYet, in the very next letter, she says to him:\n\n Although I said good-bye to you less than an hour ago, I cannot\n refrain from writing to tell you that a happy calm which seems to\n penetrate my whole being seems also to have wiped out all remembrance\n of the misery and unhappiness which has overwhelmed me lately. Why\n cannot it always be so, or would life perhaps be then too blessed, too\n wholly happy for it to be life? I know that you are free to-night,\n will you not write to me, that the first words my eyes fall upon to-\n morrow shall prove that to-day has not been a dream? Yes, write to\n me.\n\nThe letter that immediately follows is one of six words only:\n\n Let me dream--Let me dream.\n\nIn the following there are interesting touches of actuality:\n\n Did you ever try a cup of tea (the national beverage, by the way) at\n an English railway station? If you have not, I would advise you, as a\n friend, to continue to abstain! The names of the American drinks are\n rather against them, the straws are, I think, about the best part of\n them. You do not tell me what you think of Mr. Disraeli. I once met\n him at a ball at the Duke of Sutherland\'s in the long picture gallery\n of Stafford House. I was walking with Lord Shrewsbury, and without a\n word of warning he stopped and introduced him, mentioning with\n reckless mendacity that I had read every book he had written and\n admired them all, then he coolly walked off and left me standing face\n to face with the great statesman. He talked to me for some time, and\n I studied him carefully. I should say he was a man with one steady\n aim: endless patience, untiring perseverance, iron concentration;\n marking out one straight line before him so unbending that despite\n themselves men stand aside as it is drawn straightly and steadily on.\n A man who believes that determination brings strength, strength brings\n endurance, and endurance brings success. You know how often in his\n novels he speaks of the influence of women, socially, morally, and\n politically, yet his manner was the least interested or deferential in\n talking that I have ever met with in a man of his class. He certainly\n thought this particular woman of singularly small account, or else the\n brusque and tactless allusion to his books may perhaps have annoyed\n him as it did me; but whatever the cause, when he promptly left me at\n the first approach of a mutual acquaintance, I felt distinctly\n snubbed. Of the two men, Mr. Gladstone was infinitely more agreeable\n in his manner, he left one with the pleasant feeling of measuring a\n little higher in cubic inches than one did before, than which I know\n no more delightful sensation. A Paris, bientot.\n\nElsewhere, we find cleverly-written descriptions of life in Italy, in\nAlgiers, at Hombourg, at French boarding-houses; stories about Napoleon\nIII., Guizot, Prince Gortschakoff, Montalembert, and others; political\nspeculations, literary criticisms, and witty social scandal; and\neverywhere a keen sense of humour, a wonderful power of observation. As\nreconstructed in these letters, the Inconnue seems to have been not\nunlike Merimee himself. She had the same restless, unyielding,\nindependent character. Each desired to analyse the other. Each, being a\ncritic, was better fitted for friendship than for love. \'We are so\ndifferent,\' said Merimee once to her, \'that we can hardly understand each\nother.\' But it was because they were so alike that each remained a\nmystery to the other. Yet they ultimately attained to a high altitude of\nloyal and faithful friendship, and from a purely literary point of view\nthese fictitious letters give the finishing touch to the strange romance\nthat so stirred Paris fifteen years ago. Perhaps the real letters will\nbe published some day. When they are, how interesting to compare them!\n\nThe Bird-Bride, by Graham R. Tomson, is a collection of romantic ballads,\ndelicate sonnets, and metrical studies in foreign fanciful forms. The\npoem that gives its title to the book is the lament of an Eskimo hunter\nover the loss of his wife and children.\n\n Years agone, on the flat white strand,\n I won my sweet sea-girl:\n Wrapped in my coat of the snow-white fur,\n I watched the wild birds settle and stir,\n The grey gulls gather and whirl.\n\n One, the greatest of all the flock,\n Perched on an ice-floe bare,\n Called and cried as her heart were broke,\n And straight they were changed, that fleet bird-folk,\n To women young and fair.\n\n Swift I sprang from my hiding-place\n And held the fairest fast;\n I held her fast, the sweet, strange thing:\n Her comrades skirled, but they all took wing,\n And smote me as they passed.\n\n I bore her safe to my warm snow house;\n Full sweetly there she smiled;\n And yet, whenever the shrill winds blew,\n She would beat her long white arms anew,\n And her eyes glanced quick and wild.\n\n But I took her to wife, and clothed her warm\n With skins of the gleaming seal;\n Her wandering glances sank to rest\n When she held a babe to her fair, warm breast,\n And she loved me dear and leal.\n\n Together we tracked the fox and the seal,\n And at her behest I swore\n That bird and beast my bow might slay\n For meat and for raiment, day by day,\n But never a grey gull more.\n\nFamine comes upon the land, and the hunter, forgetting his oath, slays\nfour sea-gulls for food. The bird-wife \'shrilled out in a woful cry,\'\nand taking the plumage of the dead birds, she makes wings for her\nchildren and for herself, and flies away with them.\n\n \'Babes of mine, of the wild wind\'s kin,\n Feather ye quick, nor stay.\n Oh, oho! but the wild winds blow!\n Babes of mine, it is time to go:\n Up, dear hearts, and away!\'\n\n And lo! the grey plumes covered them all,\n Shoulder and breast and brow.\n I felt the wind of their whirling flight:\n Was it sea or sky? was it day or night?\n It is always night-time now.\n\n Dear, will you never relent, come back?\n I loved you long and true.\n O winged white wife, and our children three,\n Of the wild wind\'s kin though you surely be,\n Are ye not of my kin too?\n\n Ay, ye once were mine, and, till I forget,\n Ye are mine forever and aye,\n Mine, wherever your wild wings go,\n While shrill winds whistle across the snow\n And the skies are blear and grey.\n\nSome powerful and strong ballads follow, many of which, such as The Cruel\nPriest, Deid Folks\' Ferry, and Marchen, are in that curious combination\nof Scotch and Border dialect so much affected now by our modern poets.\nCertainly dialect is dramatic. It is a vivid method of re-creating a\npast that never existed. It is something between \'A Return to Nature\'\nand \'A Return to the Glossary.\' It is so artificial that it is really\nnaive. From the point of view of mere music, much may be said for it.\nWonderful diminutives lend new notes of tenderness to the song. There\nare possibilities of fresh rhymes, and in search for a fresh rhyme poets\nmay be excused if they wander from the broad highroad of classical\nutterance into devious byways and less-trodden paths. Sometimes one is\ntempted to look on dialect as expressing simply the pathos of\nprovincialisms, but there is more in it than mere mispronunciations. With\nthe revival of an antique form, often comes the revival of an antique\nspirit. Through limitations that are sometimes uncouth, and always\nnarrow, comes Tragedy herself; and though she may stammer in her\nutterance, and deck herself in cast-off weeds and trammelling raiment,\nstill we must hold ourselves in readiness to accept her, so rare are her\nvisits to us now, so rare her presence in an age that demands a happy\nending from every play, and that sees in the theatre merely a source of\namusement. The form, too, of the ballad--how perfect it is in its\ndramatic unity! It is so perfect that we must forgive it its dialect, if\nit happens to speak in that strange tongue.\n\n Then by cam\' the bride\'s company\n Wi\' torches burning bright.\n \'Tak\' up, tak\' up your bonny bride\n A\' in the mirk midnight!\'\n\n Oh, wan, wan was the bridegroom\'s face\n And wan, wan was the bride,\n But clay-cauld was the young mess-priest\n That stood them twa beside!\n\n Says, \'Rax me out your hand, Sir Knight,\n And wed her wi\' this ring\';\n And the deid bride\'s hand it was as cauld\n As ony earthly thing.\n\n The priest he touched that lady\'s hand,\n And never a word he said;\n The priest he touched that lady\'s hand,\n And his ain was wet and red.\n\n The priest he lifted his ain right hand,\n And the red blood dripped and fell.\n Says, \'I loved ye, lady, and ye loved me;\n Sae I took your life mysel\'.\'\n\n . . . . .\n\n Oh! red, red was the dawn o\' day,\n And tall was the gallows-tree:\n The Southland lord to his ain has fled\n And the mess-priest\'s hangit hie!\n\nOf the sonnets, this To Herodotus is worth quoting:\n\n Far-travelled coaster of the midland seas,\n What marvels did those curious eyes behold!\n Winged snakes, and carven labyrinths of old;\n The emerald column raised to Heracles;\n King Perseus\' shrine upon the Chemmian leas;\n Four-footed fishes, decked with gems and gold:\n But thou didst leave some secrets yet untold,\n And veiled the dread Osirian mysteries.\n\n And now the golden asphodels among\n Thy footsteps fare, and to the lordly dead\n Thou tellest all the stories left unsaid\n Of secret rites and runes forgotten long,\n Of that dark folk who ate the Lotus-bread\n And sang the melancholy Linus-song.\n\nMrs. Tomson has certainly a very refined sense of form. Her verse,\nespecially in the series entitled New Words to Old Tunes, has grace and\ndistinction. Some of the shorter poems are, to use a phrase made\nclassical by Mr. Pater, \'little carved ivories of speech.\' She is one of\nour most artistic workers in poetry, and treats language as a fine\nmaterial.\n\n(1) An Author\'s Love: Being the Unpublished Letters of Prosper Merimee\'s\n\'Inconnue.\' (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(2) The Bird-Bride: A Volume of Ballads and Sonnets. By Graham R.\nTomson. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA THOUGHT-READER\'S NOVEL\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, June 5, 1889.)\n\nThere is a great deal to be said in favour of reading a novel backwards.\nThe last page is, as a rule, the most interesting, and when one begins\nwith the catastrophe or the denoument one feels on pleasant terms of\nequality with the author. It is like going behind the scenes of a\ntheatre. One is no longer taken in, and the hairbreadth escapes of the\nhero and the wild agonies of the heroine leave one absolutely unmoved.\nOne knows the jealously-guarded secret, and one can afford to smile at\nthe quite unnecessary anxiety that the puppets of fiction always consider\nit their duty to display. In the case of Mr. Stuart Cumberland\'s novel,\nThe Vasty Deep, as he calls it, the last page is certainly thrilling and\nmakes us curious to know more about \'Brown, the medium.\'\n\nScene, a padded room in a mad-house in the United States.\n\nA gibbering lunatic discovered dashing wildly about the chamber as if in\nthe act of chasing invisible forms.\n\n\'This is our worst case,\' says a doctor opening the cell to one of the\nvisitors in lunacy. \'He was a spirit medium and he is hourly haunted by\nthe creations of his fancy. We have to carefully watch him, for he has\ndeveloped suicidal tendencies.\'\n\nThe lunatic makes a dash at the retreating form of his visitors, and, as\nthe door closes upon him, sinks with a yell upon the floor.\n\nA week later the lifeless body of Brown, the medium, is found suspended\nfrom the gas bracket in his cell.\n\nHow clearly one sees it all! How forcible and direct the style is! And\nwhat a thrilling touch of actuality the simple mention of the \'gas\nbracket\' gives us! Certainly The Vasty Deep is a book to be read.\n\nAnd we have read it; read it with great care. Though it is largely\nautobiographical, it is none the less a work of fiction and, though some\nof us may think that there is very little use in exposing what is already\nexposed and revealing the secrets of Polichinelle, no doubt there are\nmany who will be interested to hear of the tricks and deceptions of\ncrafty mediums, of their gauze masks, telescopic rods and invisible silk\nthreads, and of the marvellous raps they can produce simply by displacing\nthe peroneus longus muscle! The book opens with a description of the\nscene by the death-bed of Alderman Parkinson. Dr. Josiah Brown, the\neminent medium, is in attendance and tries to comfort the honest merchant\nby producing noises on the bedpost. Mr. Parkinson, however, being\nextremely anxious to revisit Mrs. Parkinson, in a materialised form after\ndeath, will not be satisfied till he has received from his wife a solemn\npromise that she will not marry again, such a marriage being, in his\neyes, nothing more nor less than bigamy. Having received an assurance to\nthis effect from her, Mr. Parkinson dies, his soul, according to the\nmedium, being escorted to the spheres by \'a band of white-robed spirits.\'\nThis is the prologue. The next chapter is entitled \'Five Years After.\'\nViolet Parkinson, the Alderman\'s only child, is in love with Jack Alston,\nwho is \'poor, but clever.\' Mrs. Parkinson, however, will not hear of any\nmarriage till the deceased Alderman has materialised himself and given\nhis formal consent. A seance is held at which Jack Alston unmasks the\nmedium and shows Dr. Josiah Brown to be an impostor--a foolish act, on\nhis part, as he is at once ordered to leave the house by the infuriated\nMrs. Parkinson, whose faith in the Doctor is not in the least shaken by\nthe unfortunate exposure.\n\nThe lovers are consequently parted. Jack sails for Newfoundland, is\nshipwrecked and carefully, somewhat too carefully, tended by \'La-ki-wa,\nor the Star that shines,\' a lovely Indian maiden who belongs to the tribe\nof the Micmacs. She is a fascinating creature who wears \'a necklace\ncomposed of thirteen nuggets of pure gold,\' a blanket of English\nmanufacture and trousers of tanned leather. In fact, as Mr. Stuart\nCumberland observes, she looks \'the embodiment of fresh dewy morn.\' When\nJack, on recovering his senses, sees her, he naturally inquires who she\nis. She answers, in the simple utterance endeared to us by Fenimore\nCooper, \'I am La-ki-wa. I am the only child of my father, Tall Pine,\nchief of the Dildoos.\' She talks, Mr. Cumberland informs us, very good\nEnglish. Jack at once entrusts her with the following telegram which he\nwrites on the back of a five-pound note:--\n\n Miss Violet Parkinson, Hotel Kronprinz, Franzensbad, Austria.--Safe.\n JACK.\n\nBut La-ki-wa, we regret to say, says to herself, \'He belongs to Tall\nPine, to the Dildoos, and to me,\' and never sends the telegram.\nSubsequently, La-ki-wa proposes to Jack who promptly rejects her and,\nwith the usual callousness of men, offers her a brother\'s love. La-ki-wa,\nnaturally, regrets the premature disclosure of her passion and weeps. \'My\nbrother,\' she remarks, \'will think that I have the timid heart of a deer\nwith the crying voice of a papoose. I, the daughter of Tall Pine--I a\nMicmac, to show the grief that is in my heart. O, my brother, I am\nashamed.\' Jack comforts her with the hollow sophistries of a civilised\nbeing and gives her his photograph. As he is on his way to the steamer\nhe receives from Big Deer a soiled piece of a biscuit bag. On it is\nwritten La-ki-wa\'s confession of her disgraceful behaviour about the\ntelegram. \'His thoughts,\' Mr. Cumberland tells us, \'were bitter towards\nLa-ki-wa, but they gradually softened when he remembered what he owed\nher.\'\n\nEverything ends happily. Jack arrives in England just in time to prevent\nDr. Josiah Brown from mesmerising Violet whom the cunning doctor is\nanxious to marry, and he hurls his rival out of the window. The victim\nis discovered \'bruised and bleeding among the broken flower-pots\' by a\ncomic policeman. Mrs. Parkinson still believes in spiritualism, but\nrefuses to have anything to do with Brown as she discovers that the\ndeceased Alderman\'s \'materialised beard\' was made only of \'horrid, coarse\nhorsehair.\' Jack and Violet are married at last and Jack is horrid\nenough to send to \'La-ki-wa\' another photograph. The end of Dr. Brown is\nchronicled above. Had we not known what was in store for him we should\nhardly have got through the book. There is a great deal too much padding\nin it about Dr. Slade and Dr. Bartram and other mediums, and the\ndisquisitions on the commercial future of Newfoundland seem endless and\nare intolerable. However, there are many publics, and Mr. Stuart\nCumberland is always sure of an audience. His chief fault is a tendency\nto low comedy; but some people like low comedy in fiction.\n\nThe Vasty Deep: A Strange Story of To-day. By Stuart Cumberland.\n(Sampson Low and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETS\' CORNER--X\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, June 24, 1889.)\n\nIs Mr. Alfred Austin among the Socialists? Has somebody converted the\nrespectable editor of the respectable National Review? Has even dulness\nbecome revolutionary? From a poem in Mr. Austin\'s last volume this would\nseem to be the case. It is perhaps unfair to take our rhymers too\nseriously. Between the casual fancies of a poet and the callous facts of\nprose there is, or at least there should be, a wide difference. But\nsince the poem in question, Two Visions, as Mr. Austin calls it, was\nbegun in 1863 and revised in 1889 we may regard it as fully\nrepresentative of Mr. Austin\'s mature views. He gives us, at any rate,\nin its somewhat lumbering and pedestrian verses, his conception of the\nperfect state:\n\n Fearless, unveiled, and unattended\n Strolled maidens to and fro:\n Youths looked respect, but never bended\n Obsequiously low.\n\n And each with other, sans condition,\n Held parley brief or long,\n Without provoking _coarse suspicion\n Of marriage_, or of wrong.\n\n All were well clad, and none were better,\n And gems beheld I none,\n Save where there hung a jewelled fetter,\n Symbolic, in the sun.\n\n I saw a noble-looking maiden\n Close Dante\'s solemn book,\n And go, with crate of linen laden\n And wash it in the brook.\n\n Anon, a broad-browed _poet, dragging\n A load of logs along_,\n To warm his hearth, withal not flagging\n In current of his song.\n\n Each one some handicraft attempted\n Or helped to till the soil:\n None but the aged were exempted\n From communistic toil.\n\nSuch an expression as \'coarse suspicion of marriage\' is not very\nfortunate; the log-rolling poet of the fifth stanza is an ideal that we\nhave already realised and one in which we had but little comfort, and the\nfourth stanza leaves us in doubt whether Mr. Austin means that\nwasherwomen are to take to reading Dante, or that students of Italian\nliterature are to wash their own clothes. But, on the whole, though Mr.\nAustin\'s vision of the citta divina of the future is not very\ninspiriting, it is certainly extremely interesting as a sign of the\ntimes, and it is evident from the two concluding lines of the following\nstanzas that there will be no danger of the intellect being overworked:\n\n Age lorded not, nor rose the hectic\n Up to the cheek of youth;\n But reigned throughout their dialectic\n Sobriety of truth.\n\n And if a long-held contest tended\n To ill-defined result,\n _It was by calm consent suspended\n As over-difficult_.\n\nMr. Austin, however, has other moods, and, perhaps, he is at his best\nwhen he is writing about flowers. Occasionally he wearies the reader by\ntedious enumerations of plants, lacking indeed reticence and tact and\nselection in many of his descriptions, but, as a rule, he is very\npleasant when he is babbling of green fields. How pretty these stanzas\nfrom the dedication are!\n\n When vines, just newly burgeoned, link\n Their hands to join the dance of Spring,\n Green lizards glisten from cleft and chink,\n And almond blossoms rosy pink\n Cluster and perch, ere taking wing;\n\n Where over strips of emerald wheat\n Glimmer red peach and snowy pear,\n And nightingales all day long repeat\n Their love-song, not less glad than sweet\n They chant in sorrow and gloom elsewhere;\n\n Where purple iris-banners scale\n Defending walls and crumbling ledge,\n And virgin windflowers, lithe and frail,\n Now mantling red, now trembling pale,\n Peep out from furrow and hide in hedge.\n\nSome of the sonnets also (notably, one entitled When Acorns Fall) are\nvery charming, and though, as a whole, Love\'s Widowhood is tedious and\nprolix, still it contains some very felicitous touches. We wish,\nhowever, that Mr. Austin would not write such lines as\n\n Pippins of every sort, and _codlins manifold_.\n\n\'Codlins manifold\' is a monstrous expression.\n\nMr. W. J. Linton\'s fame as a wood-engraver has somewhat obscured the\nmerits of his poetry. His Claribel and Other Poems, published in 1865,\nis now a scarce book, and far more scarce is the collection of lyrics\nwhich he printed in 1887 at his own press and brought out under the title\nof Love-Lore. The large and handsome volume that now lies before us\ncontains nearly all these later poems as well as a selection from\nClaribel and many renderings, in the original metre, of French poems\nranging from the thirteenth century to our own day. A portrait of Mr.\nLinton is prefixed, and the book is dedicated \'To William Bell Scott, my\nfriend for nearly fifty years.\' As a poet Mr. Linton is always fanciful\nwith a studied fancifulness, and often felicitous with a chance felicity.\nHe is fascinated by our seventeenth-century singers, and has, here and\nthere, succeeded in catching something of their quaintness and not a\nlittle of their charm. There is a pleasant flavour about his verse. It\nis entirely free from violence and from vagueness, those two besetting\nsins of so much modern poetry. It is clear in outline and restrained in\nform, and, at its best, has much that is light and lovely about it. How\ngraceful, for instance, this is!\n\n BARE FEET\n\n O fair white feet! O dawn-white feet\n Of Her my hope may claim!\n Bare-footed through the dew she came\n Her Love to meet.\n\n Star-glancing feet, the windflowers sweet\n Might envy, without shame,\n As through the grass they lightly came,\n Her Love to meet.\n\n O Maiden sweet, with flower-kiss\'d feet!\n My heart your footstool name!\n Bare-footed through the dew she came,\n Her Love to meet.\n\n\'Vindicate Gemma!\' was Longfellow\'s advice to Miss Heloise Durant when\nshe proposed to write a play about Dante. Longfellow, it may be\nremarked, was always on the side of domesticity. It was the secret of\nhis popularity. We cannot say, however, that Miss Durant has made us\nlike Gemma better. She is not exactly the Xantippe whom Boccaccio\ndescribes, but she is very boring, for all that:\n\n GEMMA. The more thou meditat\'st, more mad art thou.\n Clowns, with their love, can cheer poor wives\' hearts more\n O\'er black bread and goat\'s cheese than thou canst mine\n O\'er red Vernaccia, spite of all thy learning!\n Care I how tortured spirits feel in hell?\n DANTE. Thou tortur\'st mine.\n GEMMA. Or how souls sing in heaven?\n DANTE. Would I were there.\n GEMMA. All folly, naught but folly.\n DANTE. Thou canst not understand the mandates given\n To poets by their goddess Poesy. . . .\n GEMMA. Canst ne\'er speak prose? Why daily clothe thy thoughts\n In strangest garb, as if thy wits played fool\n At masquerade, where no man knows a maid\n From matron? Fie on poets\' mutterings!\n DANTE (to himself). If, then, the soul absorbed at last to whole--\n GEMMA. Fie! fie! I say. Art thou bewitched?\n DANTE. O! peace.\n GEMMA. Dost thou deem me deaf and dumb?\n DANTE. O! that thou wert.\n\nDante is certainly rude, but Gemma is dreadful. The play is well meant\nbut it is lumbering and heavy, and the blank verse has absolutely no\nmerit.\n\nFather O\'Flynn and Other Irish Lyrics, by Mr. A. P. Graves, is a\ncollection of poems in the style of Lover. Most of them are written in\ndialect, and, for the benefit of English readers, notes are appended in\nwhich the uninitiated are informed that \'brogue\' means a boot, that\n\'mavourneen\' means my dear, and that \'astore\' is a term of affection.\nHere is a specimen of Mr. Graves\'s work:\n\n \'Have you e\'er a new song,\n My Limerick Poet,\n To help us along\n Wid this terrible boat,\n Away over to Tork?\'\n \'Arrah I understand;\n For all of your work,\n \'Twill tighten you, boys,\n To cargo that sand\n To the overside strand,\n Wid the current so strong\n Unless you\'ve a song--\n A song to lighten and brighten you, boys. . . . \'\n\nIt is a very dreary production and does not \'lighten and brighten\' us a\nbit. The whole volume should be called The Lucubrations of a Stage\nIrishman.\n\nThe anonymous author of The Judgment of the City is a sort of bad Blake.\nSo at least his prelude seems to suggest:\n\n Time, the old viol-player,\n For ever thrills his ancient strings\n With the flying bow of Fate, and thence\n Much discord, but some music, brings.\n\n His ancient strings are truth,\n Love, hate, hope, fear;\n And his choicest melody\n Is the song of the faithful seer.\n\nAs he progresses, however, he develops into a kind of inferior Clough and\nwrites heavy hexameters upon modern subjects:\n\n Here for a moment stands in the light at the door of a playhouse,\n One who is dignified, masterly, hard in the pride of his station;\n Here too, the stateliest of matrons, sour in the pride of her station;\n With them their daughter, sad-faced and listless, half-crushed to\n their likeness.\n\nHe has every form of sincerity except the sincerity of the artist, a\ndefect that he shares with most of our popular writers.\n\n(1) Love\'s Widowhood and Other Poems. By Alfred Austin. (Macmillan and\nCo.)\n\n(2) Poems and Translations. By W. J. Linton. (Nimmo.)\n\n(3) Dante: a Dramatic Poem. By Heloise Durant. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n(4) Father O\'Flynn and Other Irish Lyrics. By A. P. Graves. (Swan\nSonnenschein and Co.)\n\n(5) The Judgment of the City and Other Poems. (Swan Sonnenschein and\nCo.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. SWINBURNE\'S LAST VOLUME\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, June 27, 1889.)\n\nMr. Swinburne once set his age on fire by a volume of very perfect and\nvery poisonous poetry. Then he became revolutionary and pantheistic, and\ncried out against those that sit in high places both in heaven and on\nearth. Then he invented Marie Stuart and laid upon us the heavy burden\nof Bothwell. Then he retired to the nursery and wrote poems about\nchildren of a somewhat over-subtle character. He is now extremely\npatriotic, and manages to combine with his patriotism a strong affection\nfor the Tory party. He has always been a great poet. But he has his\nlimitations, the chief of which is, curiously enough, the entire lack of\nany sense of limit. His song is nearly always too loud for his subject.\nHis magnificent rhetoric, nowhere more magnificent than in the volume\nthat now lies before us, conceals rather than reveals. It has been said\nof him, and with truth, that he is a master of language, but with still\ngreater truth it may be said that Language is his master. Words seem to\ndominate him. Alliteration tyrannises over him. Mere sound often\nbecomes his lord. He is so eloquent that whatever he touches becomes\nunreal.\n\nLet us turn to the poem on the Armada:\n\n The wings of the south-west wind are widened; the breath of his\n fervent lips,\n More keen than a sword\'s edge, fiercer than fire, falls full on the\n plunging ships.\n The pilot is he of the northward flight, their stay and their\n steersman he;\n A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength to\n constrain the sea.\n And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand as a\n bird in the toils;\n For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are mightier than man\'s,\n whom he slays and spoils.\n And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labour of wavering will,\n The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star\n shine still.\n\nSomehow we seem to have heard all this before. Does it come from the\nfact that of all the poets who ever lived Mr. Swinburne is the one who is\nthe most limited in imagery? It must be admitted that he is so. He has\nwearied us with his monotony. \'Fire\' and the \'Sea\' are the two words\never on his lips. We must confess also that this shrill\nsinging--marvellous as it is--leaves us out of breath. Here is a passage\nfrom a poem called A Word with the Wind:\n\n Be the sunshine bared or veiled, the sky superb or shrouded,\n Still the waters, lax and languid, chafed and foiled,\n Keen and thwarted, pale and patient, clothed with fire or clouded,\n Vex their heart in vain, or sleep like serpents coiled.\n Thee they look for, blind and baffled, wan with wrath and weary,\n Blown for ever back by winds that rock the bird:\n Winds that seamews breast subdue the sea, and bid the dreary\n Waves be weak as hearts made sick with hope deferred.\n Let the clarion sound from westward, let the south bear token\n How the glories of thy godhead sound and shine:\n Bid the land rejoice to see the land-wind\'s broad wings broken,\n Bid the sea take comfort, bid the world be thine.\n\nVerse of this kind may be justly praised for the sustained strength and\nvigour of its metrical scheme. Its purely technical excellence is\nextraordinary. But is it more than an oratorical tour de force? Does it\nreally convey much? Does it charm? Could we return to it again and\nagain with renewed pleasure? We think not. It seems to us empty.\n\nOf course, we must not look to these poems for any revelation of human\nlife. To be at one with the elements seems to be Mr. Swinburne\'s aim. He\nseeks to speak with the breath of wind and wave. The roar of the fire is\never in his ears. He puts his clarion to the lips of Spring and bids her\nblow, and the Earth wakes from her dreams and tells him her secret. He\nis the first lyric poet who has tried to make an absolute surrender of\nhis own personality, and he has succeeded. We hear the song, but we\nnever know the singer. We never even get near to him. Out of the\nthunder and splendour of words he himself says nothing. We have often\nhad man\'s interpretation of Nature; now we have Nature\'s interpretation\nof man, and she has curiously little to say. Force and Freedom form her\nvague message. She deafens us with her clangours.\n\nBut Mr. Swinburne is not always riding the whirlwind and calling out of\nthe depths of the sea. Romantic ballads in Border dialect have not lost\ntheir fascination for him, and this last volume contains some very\nsplendid examples of this curious artificial kind of poetry. The amount\nof pleasure one gets out of dialect is a matter entirely of temperament.\nTo say \'mither\' instead of \'mother\' seems to many the acme of romance.\nThere are others who are not quite so ready to believe in the pathos of\nprovincialisms. There is, however, no doubt of Mr. Swinburne\'s mastery\nover the form, whether the form be quite legitimate or not. The Weary\nWedding has the concentration and colour of a great drama, and the\nquaintness of its style lends it something of the power of a grotesque.\nThe ballad of The Witch-Mother, a mediaeval Medea who slays her children\nbecause her lord is faithless, is worth reading on account of its\nhorrible simplicity. The Bride\'s Tragedy, with its strange refrain of\n\n In, in, out and in,\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin:\n\nThe Jacobite\'s Exile--\n\n O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,\n And loud the dark Durance:\n But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne\n Than a\' the fields of France;\n And the waves of Till that speak sae still\n Gleam goodlier where they glance:\n\nThe Tyneside Widow and A Reiver\'s Neck-verse are all poems of fine\nimaginative power, and some of them are terrible in their fierce\nintensity of passion. There is no danger of English poetry narrowing\nitself to a form so limited as the romantic ballad in dialect. It is of\ntoo vital a growth for that. So we may welcome Mr. Swinburne\'s masterly\nexperiments with the hope that things which are inimitable will not be\nimitated. The collection is completed by a few poems on children, some\nsonnets, a threnody on John William Inchbold, and a lovely lyric entitled\nThe Interpreters.\n\n In human thought have all things habitation;\n Our days\n Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no station\n That stays.\n But thought and faith are mightier things than time\n Can wrong,\n Made splendid once by speech, or made sublime\n By song.\n Remembrance, though the tide of change that rolls\n Wax hoary,\n Gives earth and heaven, for song\'s sake and the soul\'s,\n Their glory.\n\nCertainly, \'for song\'s sake\' we should love Mr. Swinburne\'s work, cannot,\nindeed, help loving it, so marvellous a music-maker is he. But what of\nthe soul? For the soul we must go elsewhere.\n\nPoems and Ballads. Third Series. By Algernon Charles Swinburne. (Chatto\nand Windus.)\n\n\n\n\nTHREE NEW POETS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, July 12, 1889.)\n\nBooks of poetry by young writers are usually promissory notes that are\nnever met. Now and then, however, one comes across a volume that is so\nfar above the average that one can hardly resist the fascinating\ntemptation of recklessly prophesying a fine future for its author. Such\na book Mr. Yeats\'s Wanderings of Oisin certainly is. Here we find\nnobility of treatment and nobility of subject-matter, delicacy of poetic\ninstinct and richness of imaginative resource. Unequal and uneven much\nof the work must be admitted to be. Mr. Yeats does not try to \'out-baby\'\nWordsworth, we are glad to say; but he occasionally succeeds in\n\'out-glittering\' Keats, and, here and there, in his book we come across\nstrange crudities and irritating conceits. But when he is at his best he\nis very good. If he has not the grand simplicity of epic treatment, he\nhas at least something of the largeness of vision that belongs to the\nepical temper. He does not rob of their stature the great heroes of\nCeltic mythology. He is very naive and very primitive and speaks of his\ngiants with the air of a child. Here is a characteristic passage from\nthe account of Oisin\'s return from the Island of Forgetfulness:\n\n And I rode by the plains of the sea\'s edge, where all is barren and\n grey,\n Grey sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,\n Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away\n Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.\n\n Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast,\n Snatching the bird in secret, nor knew I, embosomed apart,\n When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast,\n For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my\n heart.\n\n Till fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay\n Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down;\n Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,\n From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-winds\n brown.\n\n If I were as I once was, the gold hooves crushing the sand and the\n shells,\n Coming forth from the sea like the morning with red lips murmuring a\n song,\n Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the\n bells,\n I would leave no Saint\'s head on his body, though spacious his lands\n were and strong.\n\n Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path,\n Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattle and woodwork made,\n Thy bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the\n earth,\n And a small and feeble populace stooping with mattock and spade.\n\nIn one or two places the music is faulty, the construction is sometimes\ntoo involved, and the word \'populace\' in the last line is rather\ninfelicitous; but, when all is said, it is impossible not to feel in\nthese stanzas the presence of the true poetic spirit.\n\nA young lady who seeks for a \'song surpassing sense,\' and tries to\nreproduce Mr. Browning\'s mode of verse for our edification, may seem to\nbe in a somewhat parlous state. But Miss Caroline Fitz Gerald\'s work is\nbetter than her aim. Venetia Victrix is in many respects a fine poem. It\nshows vigour, intellectual strength, and courage. The story is a strange\none. A certain Venetian, hating one of the Ten who had wronged him and\nidentifying his enemy with Venice herself, abandons his native city and\nmakes a vow that, rather than lift a hand for her good, he will give his\nsoul to Hell. As he is sailing down the Adriatic at night, his ship is\nsuddenly becalmed and he sees a huge galley\n\n where sate\n Like counsellors on high, exempt, elate,\n The fiends triumphant in their fiery state,\n\non their way to Venice. He has to choose between his own ruin and the\nruin of his city. After a struggle, he determines to sacrifice himself\nto his rash oath.\n\n I climbed aloft. My brain had grown one thought,\n One hope, one purpose. And I heard the hiss\n Of raging disappointment, loth to miss\n Its prey--I heard the lapping of the flame,\n That through the blenched figures went and came,\n Darting in frenzy to the devils\' yell.\n I set that cross on high, and cried: \'To hell\n My soul for ever, and my deed to God!\n Once Venice guarded safe, let this vile clod\n Drift where fate will!\'\n And then (the hideous laugh\n Of fiends in full possession, keen to quaff\n The wine of one new soul not weak with tears,\n Pealing like ruinous thunder in mine ears)\n I fell, and heard no more. The pale day broke\n Through lazar-windows, when once more I woke,\n Remembering I might no more dare to pray.\n\nVenetia Victrix is followed by Ophelion, a curious lyrical play whose\ndramatis personae consist of Night, Death, Dawn and a Scholar. It is\nintricate rather than musical, but some of the songs are graceful--notably\none beginning\n\n Lady of heaven most pure and holy,\n Artemis, fleet as the flying deer,\n Glide through the dusk like a silver shadow,\n Mirror thy brow in the lonely mere.\n\nMiss Fitz Gerald\'s volume is certainly worth reading.\n\nMr. Richard Le Gallienne\'s little book, Volumes in Folio as he quaintly\ncalls it, is full of dainty verse and delicate fancy. Lines such as\n\n And lo! the white face of the dawn\n Yearned like a ghost\'s against the pane,\n A sobbing ghost amid the rain;\n Or like a chill and pallid rose\n Slowly upclimbing from the lawn,\n\nstrike, with their fantastic choice of metaphors, a pleasing note. At\npresent Mr. Le Gallienne\'s muse seems to devote herself entirely to the\nworship of books, and Mr. Le Gallienne himself is steeped in literary\ntraditions, making Keats his model and seeking to reproduce something of\nKeats\'s richness and affluence of imagery. He is keenly conscious how\nderivative his inspiration is:\n\n Verse of my own! why ask so poor a thing,\n When I might gather from the garden-ways\n Of sunny memory fragrant offering\n Of deathless blooms and white unwithering sprays?\n\n Shakspeare had given me an English rose,\n And honeysuckle Spenser sweet as dew,\n Or I had brought you from that dreamy close\n Keats\' passion-blossom, or the mystic blue\n\n Star-flower of Shelley\'s song, or shaken gold\n From lilies of the Blessed Damosel,\n Or stolen fire from out the scarlet fold\n Of Swinburne\'s poppies. . . .\n\nYet now that he has played his prelude with so sensitive and so graceful\na touch, we have no doubt that he will pass to larger themes and nobler\nsubject-matter, and fulfil the hope he expresses in this sextet:\n\n For if perchance some music should be mine,\n I would fling forth its notes like a fierce sea,\n To wash away the piles of tyranny,\n To make love free and faith unbound of creed.\n O for some power to fill my shrunken line,\n And make a trumpet of my oaten reed.\n\n(1) The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems. By W. B. Yeats. (Kegan\nPaul.)\n\n(2) Venetia Victrix. By Caroline Fitz Gerald. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n(3) Volumes in Folio. By Richard Le Gallienne. (Elkin Mathews.)\n\n\n\n\nA CHINESE SAGE\n\n\n(Speaker, February 8, 1890.)\n\nA eminent Oxford theologian once remarked that his only objection to\nmodern progress was that it progressed forward instead of backward--a\nview that so fascinated a certain artistic undergraduate that he promptly\nwrote an essay upon some unnoticed analogies between the development of\nideas and the movements of the common sea-crab. I feel sure the Speaker\nwill not be suspected even by its most enthusiastic friends of holding\nthis dangerous heresy of retrogression. But I must candidly admit that I\nhave come to the conclusion that the most caustic criticism of modern\nlife I have met with for some time is that contained in the writings of\nthe learned Chuang Tzu, recently translated into the vulgar tongue by Mr.\nHerbert Giles, Her Majesty\'s Consul at Tamsui.\n\nThe spread of popular education has no doubt made the name of this great\nthinker quite familiar to the general public, but, for the sake of the\nfew and the over-cultured, I feel it my duty to state definitely who he\nwas, and to give a brief outline of the character of his philosophy.\n\nChuang Tzu, whose name must carefully be pronounced as it is not written,\nwas born in the fourth century before Christ, by the banks of the Yellow\nRiver, in the Flowery Land; and portraits of the wonderful sage seated on\nthe flying dragon of contemplation may still be found on the simple tea-\ntrays and pleasing screens of many of our most respectable suburban\nhouseholds. The honest ratepayer and his healthy family have no doubt\noften mocked at the dome-like forehead of the philosopher, and laughed\nover the strange perspective of the landscape that lies beneath him. If\nthey really knew who he was, they would tremble. For Chuang Tzu spent\nhis life in preaching the great creed of Inaction, and in pointing out\nthe uselessness of all useful things. \'Do nothing, and everything will\nbe done,\' was the doctrine which he inherited from his great master Lao\nTzu. To resolve action into thought, and thought into abstraction, was\nhis wicked transcendental aim. Like the obscure philosopher of early\nGreek speculation, he believed in the identity of contraries; like Plato,\nhe was an idealist, and had all the idealist\'s contempt for utilitarian\nsystems; he was a mystic like Dionysius, and Scotus Erigena, and Jacob\nBohme, and held, with them and with Philo, that the object of life was to\nget rid of self-consciousness, and to become the unconscious vehicle of a\nhigher illumination. In fact, Chuang Tzu may be said to have summed up\nin himself almost every mood of European metaphysical or mystical\nthought, from Heraclitus down to Hegel. There was something in him of\nthe Quietist also; and in his worship of Nothing he may be said to have\nin some measure anticipated those strange dreamers of mediaeval days who,\nlike Tauler and Master Eckhart, adored the purum nihil and the Abyss. The\ngreat middle classes of this country, to whom, as we all know, our\nprosperity, if not our civilisation, is entirely due, may shrug their\nshoulders over all this and ask, with a certain amount of reason, what is\nthe identity of contraries to them, and why they should get rid of that\nself-consciousness which is their chief characteristic. But Chuang Tzu\nwas something more than a metaphysician and an illuminist. He sought to\ndestroy society, as we know it, as the middle classes know it; and the\nsad thing is that he combines with the passionate eloquence of a Rousseau\nthe scientific reasoning of a Herbert Spencer. There is nothing of the\nsentimentalist in him. He pities the rich more than the poor, if he ever\npities at all, and prosperity seems to him as tragic a thing as\nsuffering. He has nothing of the modern sympathy with failures, nor does\nhe propose that the prizes should always be given on moral grounds to\nthose who come in last in the race. It is the race itself that he\nobjects to; and as for active sympathy, which has become the profession\nof so many worthy people in our own day, he thinks that trying to make\nothers good is as silly an occupation as \'beating a drum in a forest in\norder to find a fugitive.\' It is a mere waste of energy. That is all.\nWhile, as for a thoroughly sympathetic man, he is, in the eyes of Chuang\nTzu, simply a man who is always trying to be somebody else, and so misses\nthe only possible excuse for his own existence.\n\nYes; incredible as it may seem, this curious thinker looked back with a\nsigh of regret to a certain Golden Age when there were no competitive\nexaminations, no wearisome educational systems, no missionaries, no penny\ndinners for the people, no Established Churches, no Humanitarian\nSocieties, no dull lectures about one\'s duty to one\'s neighbour, and no\ntedious sermons about any subject at all. In those ideal days, he tells\nus, people loved each other without being conscious of charity, or\nwriting to the newspapers about it. They were upright, and yet they\nnever published books upon Altruism. As every man kept his knowledge to\nhimself, the world escaped the curse of scepticism; and as every man kept\nhis virtues to himself, nobody meddled in other people\'s business. They\nlived simple and peaceful lives, and were contented with such food and\nraiment as they could get. Neighbouring districts were in sight, and\n\'the cocks and dogs of one could be heard in the other,\' yet the people\ngrew old and died without ever interchanging visits. There was no\nchattering about clever men, and no laudation of good men. The\nintolerable sense of obligation was unknown. The deeds of humanity left\nno trace, and their affairs were not made a burden for posterity by\nfoolish historians.\n\nIn an evil moment the Philanthropist made his appearance, and brought\nwith him the mischievous idea of Government. \'There is such a thing,\'\nsays Chuang Tzu, \'as leaving mankind alone: there has never been such a\nthing as governing mankind.\' All modes of government are wrong. They\nare unscientific, because they seek to alter the natural environment of\nman; they are immoral because, by interfering with the individual, they\nproduce the most aggressive forms of egotism; they are ignorant, because\nthey try to spread education; they are self-destructive, because they\nengender anarchy. \'Of old,\' he tells us, \'the Yellow Emperor first\ncaused charity and duty to one\'s neighbour to interfere with the natural\ngoodness of the heart of man. In consequence of this, Yao and Shun wore\nthe hair off their legs in endeavouring to feed their people. They\ndisturbed their internal economy in order to find room for artificial\nvirtues. They exhausted their energies in framing laws, and they were\nfailures.\' Man\'s heart, our philosopher goes on to say, may be \'forced\ndown or stirred up,\' and in either case the issue is fatal. Yao made the\npeople too happy, so they were not satisfied. Chieh made them too\nwretched, so they grew discontented. Then every one began to argue about\nthe best way of tinkering up society. \'It is quite clear that something\nmust be done,\' they said to each other, and there was a general rush for\nknowledge. The results were so dreadful that the Government of the day\nhad to bring in Coercion, and as a consequence of this \'virtuous men\nsought refuge in mountain caves, while rulers of state sat trembling in\nancestral halls.\' Then, when everything was in a state of perfect chaos,\nthe Social Reformers got up on platforms, and preached salvation from the\nills that they and their system had caused. The poor Social Reformers!\n\'They know not shame, nor what it is to blush,\' is the verdict of Chuang\nTzuu upon them.\n\nThe economic question, also, is discussed by this almond-eyed sage at\ngreat length, and he writes about the curse of capital as eloquently as\nMr. Hyndman. The accumulation of wealth is to him the origin of evil. It\nmakes the strong violent, and the weak dishonest. It creates the petty\nthief, and puts him in a bamboo cage. It creates the big thief, and sets\nhim on a throne of white jade. It is the father of competition, and\ncompetition is the waste, as well as the destruction, of energy. The\norder of nature is rest, repetition, and peace. Weariness and war are\nthe results of an artificial society based upon capital; and the richer\nthis society gets, the more thoroughly bankrupt it really is, for it has\nneither sufficient rewards for the good nor sufficient punishments for\nthe wicked. There is also this to be remembered--that the prizes of the\nworld degrade a man as much as the world\'s punishments. The age is\nrotten with its worship of success. As for education, true wisdom can\nneither be learnt nor taught. It is a spiritual state, to which he who\nlives in harmony with nature attains. Knowledge is shallow if we compare\nit with the extent of the unknown, and only the unknowable is of value.\nSociety produces rogues, and education makes one rogue cleverer than\nanother. That is the only result of School Boards. Besides, of what\npossible philosophic importance can education be, when it serves simply\nto make each man differ from his neighbour? We arrive ultimately at a\nchaos of opinions, doubt everything, and fall into the vulgar habit of\narguing; and it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Look at\nHui Tzu. \'He was a man of many ideas. His works would fill five carts.\nBut his doctrines were paradoxical.\' He said that there were feathers in\nan egg, because there were feathers on a chicken; that a dog could be a\nsheep, because all names were arbitrary; that there was a moment when a\nswiftly-flying arrow was neither moving nor at rest; that if you took a\nstick a foot long, and cut it in half every day, you would never come to\nthe end of it; and that a bay horse and a dun cow were three, because\ntaken separately they were two, and taken together they were one, and one\nand two made up three. \'He was like a man running a race with his own\nshadow, and making a noise in order to drown the echo. He was a clever\ngadfly, that was all. What was the use of him?\'\n\nMorality is, of course, a different thing. It went out of fashion, says\nChuang Tzu, when people began to moralise. Men ceased then to be\nspontaneous and to act on intuition. They became priggish and\nartificial, and were so blind as to have a definite purpose in life. Then\ncame Governments and Philanthropists, those two pests of the age. The\nformer tried to coerce people into being good, and so destroyed the\nnatural goodness of man. The latter were a set of aggressive busybodies\nwho caused confusion wherever they went. They were stupid enough to have\nprinciples, and unfortunate enough to act up to them. They all came to\nbad ends, and showed that universal altruism is as bad in its results as\nuniversal egotism. They \'tripped people up over charity, and fettered\nthem with duties to their neighbours.\' They gushed over music, and\nfussed over ceremonies. As a consequence of all this, the world lost its\nequilibrium, and has been staggering ever since.\n\nWho, then, according to Chuang Tzu, is the perfect man? And what is his\nmanner of life? The perfect man does nothing beyond gazing at the\nuniverse. He adopts no absolute position. \'In motion, he is like water.\nAt rest, he is like a mirror. And, like Echo, he answers only when he is\ncalled upon.\' He lets externals take care of themselves. Nothing\nmaterial injures him; nothing spiritual punishes him. His mental\nequilibrium gives him the empire of the world. He is never the slave of\nobjective existences. He knows that, \'just as the best language is that\nwhich is never spoken, so the best action is that which is never done.\'\nHe is passive, and accepts the laws of life. He rests in inactivity, and\nsees the world become virtuous of itself. He does not try to \'bring\nabout his own good deeds.\' He never wastes himself on effort. He is not\ntroubled about moral distinctions. He knows that things are what they\nare, and that their consequences will be what they will be. His mind is\nthe \'speculum of creation,\' and he is ever at peace.\n\nAll this is of course excessively dangerous, but we must remember that\nChuang Tzu lived more than two thousand years ago, and never had the\nopportunity of seeing our unrivalled civilisation. And yet it is\npossible that, were he to come back to earth and visit us, he might have\nsomething to say to Mr. Balfour about his coercion and active\nmisgovernment in Ireland; he might smile at some of our philanthropic\nardours, and shake his head over many of our organised charities; the\nSchool Board might not impress him, nor our race for wealth stir his\nadmiration; he might wonder at our ideals, and grow sad over what we have\nrealised. Perhaps it is well that Chuang Tzu cannot return.\n\nMeanwhile, thanks to Mr. Giles and Mr. Quaritch, we have his book to\nconsole us, and certainly it is a most fascinating and delightful volume.\nChuang Tzu is one of the Darwinians before Darwin. He traces man from\nthe germ, and sees his unity with nature. As an anthropologist he is\nexcessively interesting, and he describes our primitive arboreal ancestor\nliving in trees through his terror of animals stronger than himself, and\nknowing only one parent, the mother, with all the accuracy of a lecturer\nat the Royal Society. Like Plato, he adopts the dialogue as his mode of\nexpression, \'putting words into other people\'s mouths,\' he tells us, \'in\norder to gain breadth of view.\' As a story-teller he is charming. The\naccount of the visit of the respectable Confucius to the great Robber Che\nis most vivid and brilliant, and it is impossible not to laugh over the\nultimate discomfiture of the sage, the barrenness of whose moral\nplatitudes is ruthlessly exposed by the successful brigand. Even in his\nmetaphysics, Chuang Tzu is intensely humorous. He personifies his\nabstractions, and makes them act plays before us. The Spirit of the\nClouds, when passing eastward through the expanse of air, happened to\nfall in with the Vital Principle. The latter was slapping his ribs and\nhopping about: whereupon the Spirit of the Clouds said, \'Who are you, old\nman, and what are you doing?\' \'Strolling!\' replied the Vital Principle,\nwithout stopping, for all activities are ceaseless. \'I want to _know_\nsomething,\' continued the Spirit of the Clouds. \'Ah!\' cried the Vital\nPrinciple, in a tone of disapprobation, and a marvellous conversation\nfollows, that is not unlike the dialogue between the Sphinx and the\nChimera in Flaubert\'s curious drama. Talking animals, also, have their\nplace in Chuang Tzu\'s parables and stories, and through myth and poetry\nand fancy his strange philosophy finds musical utterance.\n\nOf course it is sad to be told that it is immoral to be consciously good,\nand that doing anything is the worst form of idleness. Thousands of\nexcellent and really earnest philanthropists would be absolutely thrown\nupon the rates if we adopted the view that nobody should be allowed to\nmeddle in what does not concern him. The doctrine of the uselessness of\nall useful things would not merely endanger our commercial supremacy as a\nnation, but might bring discredit upon many prosperous and serious-minded\nmembers of the shop-keeping classes. What would become of our popular\npreachers, our Exeter Hall orators, our drawing-room evangelists, if we\nsaid to them, in the words of Chuang Tzu, \'Mosquitoes will keep a man\nawake all night with their biting, and just in the same way this talk of\ncharity and duty to one\'s neighbour drives us nearly crazy. Sirs, strive\nto keep the world to its own original simplicity, and, as the wind\nbloweth where it listeth, so let Virtue establish itself. Wherefore this\nundue energy?\' And what would be the fate of governments and\nprofessional politicians if we came to the conclusion that there is no\nsuch thing as governing mankind at all? It is clear that Chuang Tzu is a\nvery dangerous writer, and the publication of his book in English, two\nthousand years after his death, is obviously premature, and may cause a\ngreat deal of pain to many thoroughly respectable and industrious\npersons. It may be true that the ideal of self-culture and\nself-development, which is the aim of his scheme of life, and the basis\nof his scheme of philosophy, is an ideal somewhat needed by an age like\nours, in which most people are so anxious to educate their neighbours\nthat they have actually no time left in which to educate themselves. But\nwould it be wise to say so? It seems to me that if we once admitted the\nforce of any one of Chuang Tzu\'s destructive criticisms we should have to\nput some check on our national habit of self-glorification; and the only\nthing that ever consoles man for the stupid things he does is the praise\nhe always gives himself for doing them. There may, however, be a few who\nhave grown wearied of that strange modern tendency that sets enthusiasm\nto do the work of the intellect. To these, and such as these, Chuang Tzu\nwill be welcome. But let them only read him. Let them not talk about\nhim. He would be disturbing at dinner-parties, and impossible at\nafternoon teas, and his whole life was a protest against platform\nspeaking. \'The perfect man ignores self; the divine man ignores action;\nthe true sage ignores reputation.\' These are the principles of Chuang\nTzu.\n\nChuang Tzu: Mystic, Moralist, and Social Reformer. Translated from the\nChinese by Herbert A. Giles, H.B.M.\'s Consul at Tamsui. (Bernard\nQuaritch.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. PATER\'S LAST VOLUME\n\n\n(Speaker, March 22, 1890.)\n\nWhen I first had the privilege--and I count it a very high one--of\nmeeting Mr. Walter Pater, he said to me, smiling, \'Why do you always\nwrite poetry? Why do you not write prose? Prose is so much more\ndifficult.\'\n\nIt was during my undergraduate days at Oxford; days of lyrical ardour and\nof studious sonnet-writing; days when one loved the exquisite intricacy\nand musical repetitions of the ballade, and the villanelle with its\nlinked long-drawn echoes and its curious completeness; days when one\nsolemnly sought to discover the proper temper in which a triolet should\nbe written; delightful days, in which, I am glad to say, there was far\nmore rhyme than reason.\n\nI may frankly confess now that at the time I did not quite comprehend\nwhat Mr. Pater really meant; and it was not till I had carefully studied\nhis beautiful and suggestive essays on the Renaissance that I fully\nrealised what a wonderful self-conscious art the art of English prose-\nwriting really is, or may be made to be. Carlyle\'s stormy rhetoric,\nRuskin\'s winged and passionate eloquence, had seemed to me to spring from\nenthusiasm rather than from art. I do not think I knew then that even\nprophets correct their proofs. As for Jacobean prose, I thought it too\nexuberant; and Queen Anne prose appeared to me terribly bald, and\nirritatingly rational. But Mr. Pater\'s essays became to me \'the golden\nbook of spirit and sense, the holy writ of beauty.\' They are still this\nto me. It is possible, of course, that I may exaggerate about them. I\ncertainly hope that I do; for where there is no exaggeration there is no\nlove, and where there is no love there is no understanding. It is only\nabout things that do not interest one, that one can give a really\nunbiassed opinion; and this is no doubt the reason why an unbiassed\nopinion is always valueless.\n\nBut I must not allow this brief notice of Mr. Pater\'s new volume to\ndegenerate into an autobiography. I remember being told in America that\nwhenever Margaret Fuller wrote an essay upon Emerson the printers had\nalways to send out to borrow some additional capital \'I\'s,\' and I feel it\nright to accept this transatlantic warning.\n\nAppreciations, in the fine Latin sense of the word, is the title given by\nMr. Pater to his book, which is an exquisite collection of exquisite\nessays, of delicately wrought works of art--some of them being almost\nGreek in their purity of outline and perfection of form, others mediaeval\nin their strangeness of colour and passionate suggestion, and all of them\nabsolutely modern, in the true meaning of the term modernity. For he to\nwhom the present is the only thing that is present, knows nothing of the\nage in which he lives. To realise the nineteenth century one must\nrealise every century that has preceded it, and that has contributed to\nits making. To know anything about oneself, one must know all about\nothers. There must be no mood with which one cannot sympathise, no dead\nmode of life that one cannot make alive. The legacies of heredity may\nmake us alter our views of moral responsibility, but they cannot but\nintensify our sense of the value of Criticism; for the true critic is he\nwho bears within himself the dreams and ideas and feelings of myriad\ngenerations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional\nimpulse obscure.\n\nPerhaps the most interesting, and certainly the least successful, of the\nessays contained in the present volume is that on Style. It is the most\ninteresting because it is the work of one who speaks with the high\nauthority that comes from the noble realisation of things nobly\nconceived. It is the least successful, because the subject is too\nabstract. A true artist like Mr. Pater is most felicitous when he deals\nwith the concrete, whose very limitations give him finer freedom, while\nthey necessitate more intense vision. And yet what a high ideal is\ncontained in these few pages! How good it is for us, in these days of\npopular education and facile journalism, to be reminded of the real\nscholarship that is essential to the perfect writer, who, \'being a true\nlover of words for their own sake, a minute and constant observer of\ntheir physiognomy,\' will avoid what is mere rhetoric, or ostentatious\nornament, or negligent misuse of terms, or ineffective surplusage, and\nwill be known by his tact of omission, by his skilful economy of means,\nby his selection and self-restraint, and perhaps above all by that\nconscious artistic structure which is the expression of mind in style. I\nthink I have been wrong in saying that the subject is too abstract. In\nMr. Pater\'s hands it becomes very real to us indeed, and he shows us how,\nbehind the perfection of a man\'s style, must lie the passion of a man\'s\nsoul.\n\nAs one passes to the rest of the volume, one finds essays on Wordsworth\nand on Coleridge, on Charles Lamb and on Sir Thomas Browne, on some of\nShakespeare\'s plays and on the English kings that Shakespeare fashioned,\non Dante Rossetti, and on William Morris. As that on Wordsworth seems to\nbe Mr. Pater\'s last work, so that on the singer of the Defence of\nGuenevere is certainly his earliest, or almost his earliest, and it is\ninteresting to mark the change that has taken place in his style. This\nchange is, perhaps, at first sight not very apparent. In 1868 we find\nMr. Pater writing with the same exquisite care for words, with the same\nstudied music, with the same temper, and something of the same mode of\ntreatment. But, as he goes on, the architecture of the style becomes\nricher and more complex, the epithet more precise and intellectual.\nOccasionally one may be inclined to think that there is, here and there,\na sentence which is somewhat long, and possibly, if one may venture to\nsay so, a little heavy and cumbersome in movement. But if this be so, it\ncomes from those side-issues suddenly suggested by the idea in its\nprogress, and really revealing the idea more perfectly; or from those\nfelicitous after-thoughts that give a fuller completeness to the central\nscheme, and yet convey something of the charm of chance; or from a desire\nto suggest the secondary shades of meaning with all their accumulating\neffect, and to avoid, it may be, the violence and harshness of too\ndefinite and exclusive an opinion. For in matters of art, at any rate,\nthought is inevitably coloured by emotion, and so is fluid rather than\nfixed, and, recognising its dependence upon moods and upon the passion of\nfine moments, will not accept the rigidity of a scientific formula or a\ntheological dogma. The critical pleasure, too, that we receive from\ntracing, through what may seem the intricacies of a sentence, the working\nof the constructive intelligence, must not be overlooked. As soon as we\nhave realised the design, everything appears clear and simple. After a\ntime, these long sentences of Mr. Pater\'s come to have the charm of an\nelaborate piece of music, and the unity of such music also.\n\nI have suggested that the essay on Wordsworth is probably the most recent\nbit of work contained in this volume. If one might choose between so\nmuch that is good, I should be inclined to say it is the finest also. The\nessay on Lamb is curiously suggestive; suggestive, indeed, of a somewhat\nmore tragic, more sombre figure, than men have been wont to think of in\nconnection with the author of the Essays of Elia. It is an interesting\naspect under which to regard Lamb, but perhaps he himself would have had\nsome difficulty in recognising the portrait given of him. He had,\nundoubtedly, great sorrows, or motives for sorrow, but he could console\nhimself at a moment\'s notice for the real tragedies of life by reading\nany one of the Elizabethan tragedies, provided it was in a folio edition.\nThe essay on Sir Thomas Browne is delightful, and has the strange,\npersonal, fanciful charm of the author of the Religio Medici, Mr. Pater\noften catching the colour and accent and tone of whatever artist, or work\nof art, he deals with. That on Coleridge, with its insistence on the\nnecessity of the cultivation of the relative, as opposed to the absolute\nspirit in philosophy and in ethics, and its high appreciation of the\npoet\'s true position in our literature, is in style and substance a very\nblameless work. Grace of expression and delicate subtlety of thought and\nphrase, characterise the essays on Shakespeare. But the essay on\nWordsworth has a spiritual beauty of its own. It appeals, not to the\nordinary Wordsworthian with his uncritical temper, and his gross\nconfusion of ethical and aesthetical problems, but rather to those who\ndesire to separate the gold from the dross, and to reach at the true\nWordsworth through the mass of tedious and prosaic work that bears his\nname, and that serves often to conceal him from us. The presence of an\nalien element in Wordsworth\'s art is, of course, recognised by Mr. Pater,\nbut he touches on it merely from the psychological point of view,\npointing out how this quality of higher and lower moods gives the effect\nin his poetry \'of a power not altogether his own, or under his control\';\na power which comes and goes when it wills, \'so that the old fancy which\nmade the poet\'s art an enthusiasm, a form of divine possession, seems\nalmost true of him.\' Mr. Pater\'s earlier essays had their purpurei\npanni, so eminently suitable for quotation, such as the famous passage on\nMona Lisa, and that other in which Botticelli\'s strange conception of the\nVirgin is so strangely set forth. From the present volume it is\ndifficult to select any one passage in preference to another as specially\ncharacteristic of Mr. Pater\'s treatment. This, however, is worth quoting\nat length. It contains a truth eminently suitable for our age:\n\n That the end of life is not action but contemplation--_being_ as\n distinct from _doing_--a certain disposition of the mind: is, in some\n shape or other, the principle of all the higher morality. In poetry,\n in art, if you enter into their true spirit at all, you touch this\n principle in a measure; these, by their sterility, are a type of\n beholding for the mere joy of beholding. To treat life in the spirit\n of art is to make life a thing in which means and ends are identified:\n to encourage such treatment, the true moral significance of art and\n poetry. Wordsworth, and other poets who have been like him in ancient\n or more recent times, are the masters, the experts, in this art of\n impassioned contemplation. Their work is not to teach lessons, or\n enforce rules, or even to stimulate us to noble ends, but to withdraw\n the thoughts for a while from the mere machinery of life, to fix them,\n with appropriate emotions, on the spectacle of those great facts in\n man\'s existence which no machinery affects, \'on the great and\n universal passions of men, the most general and interesting of their\n occupations, and the entire world of nature\'--on \'the operations of\n the elements and the appearances of the visible universe, on storm and\n sunshine, on the revolutions of the seasons, on cold and heat, on loss\n of friends and kindred, on injuries and resentments, on gratitude and\n hope, on fear and sorrow.\' To witness this spectacle with appropriate\n emotions is the aim of all culture; and of these emotions poetry like\n Wordsworth\'s is a great nourisher and stimulant. He sees nature full\n of sentiment and excitement; he sees men and women as parts of nature,\n passionate, excited, in strange grouping and connection with the\n grandeur and beauty of the natural world:--images, in his own words,\n \'of men suffering, amid awful forms and powers.\'\n\nCertainly the real secret of Wordsworth has never been better expressed.\nAfter having read and reread Mr. Pater\'s essay--for it requires\nre-reading--one returns to the poet\'s work with a new sense of joy and\nwonder, and with something of eager and impassioned expectation. And\nperhaps this might be roughly taken as the test or touchstone of the\nfinest criticism.\n\nFinally, one cannot help noticing the delicate instinct that has gone to\nfashion the brief epilogue that ends this delightful volume. The\ndifference between the classical and romantic spirits in art has often,\nand with much over-emphasis, been discussed. But with what a light sure\ntouch does Mr. Pater write of it! How subtle and certain are his\ndistinctions! If imaginative prose be really the special art of this\ncentury, Mr. Pater must rank amongst our century\'s most characteristic\nartists. In certain things he stands almost alone. The age has produced\nwonderful prose styles, turbid with individualism, and violent with\nexcess of rhetoric. But in Mr. Pater, as in Cardinal Newman, we find the\nunion of personality with perfection. He has no rival in his own sphere,\nand he has escaped disciples. And this, not because he has not been\nimitated, but because in art so fine as his there is something that, in\nits essence, is inimitable.\n\nAppreciations, with an Essay on Style. By Walter Pater, Fellow of\nBrasenose College. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nPRIMAVERA\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, May 24, 1890.)\n\nIn the summer term Oxford teaches the exquisite art of idleness, one of\nthe most important things that any University can teach, and possibly as\nthe first-fruits of the dreaming in grey cloister and silent garden,\nwhich either makes or mars a man, there has just appeared in that lovely\ncity a dainty and delightful volume of poems by four friends. These new\nyoung singers are Mr. Laurence Binyon, who has just gained the Newdigate;\nMr. Manmohan Ghose, a young Indian of brilliant scholarship and high\nliterary attainments who gives some culture to Christ Church; Mr. Stephen\nPhillips, whose recent performance of the Ghost in Hamlet at the Globe\nTheatre was so admirable in its dignity and elocution; and Mr. Arthur\nCripps, of Trinity. Particular interest attaches naturally to Mr.\nGhose\'s work. Born in India, of purely Indian parentage, he has been\nbrought up entirely in England, and was educated at St. Paul\'s School,\nand his verses show us how quick and subtle are the intellectual\nsympathies of the Oriental mind, and suggest how close is the bond of\nunion that may some day bind India to us by other methods than those of\ncommerce and military strength.\n\nThere is something charming in finding a young Indian using our language\nwith such care for music and words as Mr. Ghose does. Here is one of his\nsongs:\n\n Over thy head, in joyful wanderings\n Through heaven\'s wide spaces, free,\n Birds fly with music in their wings;\n _And from the blue, rough sea\n The fishes flash and leap_;\n There is a life of loveliest things\n O\'er thee, so fast asleep.\n\n In the deep West the heavens grow heavenlier,\n Eve after eve; _and still\n The glorious stars remember to appear_;\n The roses on the hill\n Are fragrant as before:\n Only thy face, of all that\'s dear,\n I shall see nevermore!\n\nIt has its faults. It has a great many faults. But the lines we have\nset in italics are lovely. The temper of Keats, the moods of Matthew\nArnold, have influenced Mr. Ghose, and what better influence could a\nbeginner have? Here are some stanzas from another of Mr. Ghose\'s poems:\n\n Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet\n In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;\n Forget the shining of the stars, forget\n The vernal visitation of the rose;\n And, far from all delights, prepare my heart\'s repose.\n\n \'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,\n Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep:\n Some birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure;\n And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep,\n And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.\n\n \'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays;\n Then follow, till around thee all be sere.\n Lose not a vision of her passing face;\n Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that here\n Sweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.\'\n\nThe second line is very beautiful, and the whole shows culture and taste\nand feeling. Mr. Ghose ought some day to make a name in our literature.\n\nMr. Stephen Phillips has a more solemn classical Muse. His best work is\nhis Orestes:\n\n Me in far lands did Justice call, cold queen\n Among the dead, who, after heat and haste\n At length have leisure for her steadfast voice,\n That gathers peace from the great deeps of hell.\n She call\'d me, saying: I heard a cry by night!\n Go thou, and question not; within thy halls\n My will awaits fulfilment.\n\n . . . . . .\n\n And she lies there,\n My mother! ay, my mother now; O hair\n That once I play\'d with in these halls! O eyes\n That for a moment knew me as I came,\n And lighten\'d up, and trembled into love;\n The next were darkened by my hand! Ah me!\n Ye will not look upon me in that world.\n Yet thou, perchance, art happier, if thou go\'st\n Into some land of wind and drifting leaves,\n To sleep without a star; but as for me,\n Hell hungers, and the restless Furies wait.\n\nMilton, and the method of Greek tragedy are Mr. Phillips\'s influences,\nand again we may say, what better influences could a young singer have?\nHis verse is dignified, and has distinction.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMr. Cripps is melodious at times, and Mr. Binyon, Oxford\'s latest\nLaureate, shows us in his lyrical ode on Youth that he can handle a\ndifficult metre dexterously, and in this sonnet that he can catch the\nsweet echoes that sleep in the sonnets of Shakespeare:\n\n I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep,\n But I am visited with thoughts of you;\n Slumber has no refreshment half so deep\n As the sweet morn, that wakes my heart anew.\n\n I cannot put away life\'s trivial care,\n But you straightway steal on me with delight:\n My purest moments are your mirror fair;\n My deepest thought finds you the truth most bright\n\n You are the lovely regent of my mind,\n The constant sky to the unresting sea;\n Yet, since \'tis you that rule me, I but find\n A finer freedom in such tyranny.\n\n Were the world\'s anxious kingdoms govern\'d so,\n Lost were their wrongs, and vanish\'d half their woe!\n\nOn the whole Primavera is a pleasant little book, and we are glad to\nwelcome it. It is charmingly \'got up,\' and undergraduates might read it\nwith advantage during lecture hours.\n\nPrimavera: Poems. By Four Authors. (Oxford: B. H. Blackwell.)\n\n\n\n\nINDEX OF AUTHORS AND BOOKS REVIEWED\n\n\nAITCHISON, JAMES: The Chronicle of Mites\n\nANONYMOUS: An Author\'s Love\nAnnals of the Life of Shakespeare\nMiss Bayle\'s Romance\nRachel\nSturm und Drang\nThe Cross and the Grail\nThe Judgment of the City\nWarring Angels\n\nARMSTRONG, GEORGE FRANCIS: Stories of Wicklow\n\nARNOLD, SIR EDWIN: With Sa\'di in the Garden\n\nASHBY-STERRY, J.: The Lazy Minstrel\n\nAUSTIN, ALFRED: Days of the Year\nLove\'s Widowhood\n\nAuthor of Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor: Ismay\'s Children\n\nAuthor of Lucy: Tiff\n\nAuthor of Mademoiselle Mori: A Child of the Revolution\nUnder a Cloud\n\nAuthor of The White Africans: AEonial\n\nBALZAC, HONORE DE: Cesar Birotteau\nThe Duchess of Langeais and Other Stories\n\nBARKER, JOHN THOMAS: The Pilgrimage of Memory\n\nBARR, AMELIA: A Daughter of Fife\n\nBARRETT, FRANK: The Great Hesper\n\nBAUCHE, EMILE: A Statesman\'s Love\n\nBAYLISS, WYKE: The Enchanted Island\n\nBEAUFORT, RAPHAEL LEDOS DE: Letters of George Sand\n\nBELLAIRS, LADY: Gossips with Girls and Maidens\n\nBLUNT, WILFRID SCAWEN: In Vinculis\n\nBOISSIER, GASTON: Nouvelles Promenades Archeologiques\n\nBOWEN, SIR CHARLES: Virgil in English Verse. Eclogues and AEneid I.-VI.\n\nBOWLING, E. W.: Sagittulae\n\nBRODIE, E. H.: Lyrics of the Sea\n\nBROUGHTON, RHODA: Betty\'s Visions\n\nBROWNE, PHYLLIS: Mrs. Somerville and Mary Carpenter\n\nBUCHAN, ALEXANDER: Joseph and His Brethren\n\nBUCHANAN, ROBERT: That Winter Night\n\nBURNS, DAWSON: Oliver Cromwell\n\nCAINE, HALL: Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge\n\nCAIRNS, WILLIAM: A Day after the Pair\n\nCALDECOTT, RANDOLPH: Gleanings from the Graphic\n\nCAMERON, MRS. HENRY LOVETT: A Life\'s Mistake\n\nCARNARVON, EARL OF: The Odyssey of Homer. Books I.-XII.\n\nCARPENTER, EDWARD: Chants of Labour\n\nCATTY, CHARLES: Poems in the Modern Spirit\n\nCESARESCO, COUNTESS EVELYN MARTINENGO: Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs\n\nCHAPMAN, ELIZABETH RACHEL: The New Purgatory\n\nCHETWYND, HON. MRS. HENRY: Mrs. Dorriman\n\nCHRISTIAN, H. R. H. PRINCESS: Memoirs of Wilhelmine, Margravine of\nBaireuth\n\nCOCKLE, J.: Guilt (Mullner)\n\nCOLE, ALAN: Embroidery and Lace (Ernest Lefebure)\n\nCOLERIDGE, HON. STEPHEN: Demetrius\n\nCOLLIER, HON. JOHN: A Manual of Oil Painting\n\nCOLVIN, SIDNEY: Keats\n\nCONWAY, HUGH: A Cardinal Sin\n\nCOOPER, ELISE: The Queen\'s Innocent\n\nCORKRAN, ALICE: Margery Morton\'s Girlhood\nMeg\'s Friend\n\nCRAIK, MRS.: Poems\n\nCRANE, WALTER: Flora\'s Feast\n\nCRAWFORD, JOHN MARTIN: The Kalevala, the Epic Poem of Finland\n\nCUMBERLAND, STUART: The Vasty Deep\n\nCURTIS, ELLA: A Game of Chance\n\nCURZON, G.: Delamere\n\nDALZIEL, GEORGE: Pictures in the Fire\n\nDAVIS, CORA M.: Immortelles\n\nDAY, RICHARD: Poems\n\nDENMAN, HON. G.: The Story of the Kings of Rome in Verse\n\nDENNING, JOHN RENTON: Poems and Songs\n\nDILKE, LADY: Art in the Modern State\n\nDIXON, CONSTANCE E.: The Chimneypiece of Bruges\n\nDOBELL, MRS. HORACE: In the Watches of the Night\n\nDOUDNEY, SARAH: Under False Colours\n\nDOVETON, F. B.: Sketches in Prose and Verse\n\nDUFFY, BELLA: Life of Madame de Stael\n\nDURANT, HELOISE: Dante: a Dramatic Poem\n\nDYER, REV. A. SAUNDERS: The Poems of Madame de la Mothe Guyon\n\nEDMONDS, E. M.: Greek Lays, Idylls, Legends, etc.\nMary Myles\n\nEVANS, W.: Caesar Borgia\n\nEVELYN, JOHN: Life of Mrs. Godolphin\n\nFANE, VIOLET: Helen Davenant\n\nFENN, GEORGE MANVILLE: A Bag of Diamonds\nThe Master of the Ceremonies\n\nFIELD, MICHAEL: Canute the Great\n\nFITZ GERALD, CAROLINE: Venetia Victrix\n\nFOSKET, EDWARD: Poems\n\nFOSTER, DAVID SKAATS: Rebecca the Witch\n\nFOUR AUTHORS: Primavera\n\nFROUDE, J, A.: The Two Chiefs of Dunboy\n\nFURLONG, ATHERTON: Echoes of Memory\n\nGALLENGA, A.: Jenny Jennet\n\nGIBERNE, AGNES: Ralph Hardcastle\'s Will\n\nGILES, HERBERT A: Chuang Tzu\n\nGLENESSA: The Discovery\n\nGOODCHILD, JOHN A.: Somnia Medici. Second Series\n\nGORDON, ADAM LINDSAY: Poems\n\nGRANT, JOHN CAMERON: Vanclin\n\nGRAVES, A. P.: Father O\'Flynn and Other Irish Lyrics\n\nGRIFFIN, EDWIN ELLIS: Vortigern and Rowena\n\nGRIFFITHS, WILLIAM: Sonnets and Other Poems\n\nHAMILTON, IAN: The Ballad of Hadji\n\nHARDINGE, W. M.: The Willow Garth\n\nHARDY, A. J.: How to be Happy Though Married\n\nHARRISON, CLIFFORD: In Hours of Leisure\n\nHARTE, BRET: Cressy\n\nHAYES, ALFRED: David Westren\n\nHEARTSEASE: God\'s Garden\n\nHENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST: A Book of Verses\n\nHEYWOOD, J. C.: Salome\n\nHOLE, W. G.: Procris\n\nHOPKINS, TIGHE: \'Twixt Love and Duty\n\nHOUSTON, MRS.: A Heart on Fire\n\nHUNT, MRS. ALFRED: That Other Person\n\nIRWIN, H. C.: Rhymes and Renderings\n\nKEENE, H. E.: Verses: Translated and Original\n\nKELLY, JAMES: Poems\n\nK. E. V.: The Circle of Saints\nThe Circle of Seasons\n\nKINGSFORD, DR. ANNA.: Dreams and Dream-Stories\n\nKNIGHT, JOSEPH: Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti\n\nKNIGHT, WILLIAM: Wordsworthiana\n\nLAFFAN, MRS. DE COURCY: A Song of Jubilee\n\nLANGRIDGE, REV. FREDERICK: Poor Folks\' Lives\n\nLAUDER, SIR THOMAS: The Wolfe of Badenoch\n\nLEE, MARGARET: Faithful and Unfaithful\n\nLE GALLIENNE, RICHARD: Volumes in Folio\n\nLEVY, AMY: The Romance of a Shop\n\nLINDSAY, LADY: Caroline\n\nLINTON, W. J.: Poems and Translations\n\nLLOYD, J. SALE: Scamp\n\nLYALL, EDNA: In the Golden Days\n\nMACEWEN, CONSTANCE: Soap\n\nMACK, ROBERT ELLICE: Treasures of Art and Song\n\nMACKENZIE, GEORGE: Highland Daydreams\n\nMACQUOID, KATHERINE S.: Louisa\n\nMAHAFFY, J. P.: Greek Life and Thought\nThe Principles of the Art of Conversation\n\nMARTIN, FRANCES: Life of Elizabeth Gilbert\n\nMARZIALS, FRANK T.: Life of Charles Dickens\n\nMASSON, GUSTAVE: George Sand (Elme Caro)\n\nMATTHEWS, BRANDER: Pen and Ink\n\nMCKIM, JOSEPH: Poems\n\nMOLESWORTH, MRS.: A Christmas Posy\nThe Third Miss St. Quentin\n\nMONTGOMERY, FLORENCE: The Fisherman\'s Daughter\n\nMORINE, GEORGE: Poems\n\nMORRIS, WILLIAM: A Tale of the House of the Wolfings\nThe Odyssey of Homer done into English Verse\n\nMOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER: Ourselves and Our Neighbours\n\nMULHOLLAND, ROSA: Gianetta\nMarcella Grace\n\nMUNSTER, LADY: Dorinda\n\nNADEN, CONSTANCE: A Modern Apostle\n\nNASH, CHARLES: The Story of the Cross\n\nNESBIT, E.: Lays and Legends\nLeaves of Life\n\nNOEL, HON. RODEN: Essays on Poetry and Poets\n\nNOEL, LADY AUGUSTA: Hithersea Mere\n\nOLIPHANT, MRS.: Makers of Venice\n\nOLIVER, PEN: All But\n\nOUIDA: Guilderoy\n\nOWEN, EVELYN: Driven Home\n\nOXONIENSIS: Juvenal in Piccadilly\n\nPATER, WALTER: Appreciations, with an Essay on Style\nImaginary Portraits\n\nPEACOCK, THOMAS BOWER: Poems of the Plain and Songs of the Solitudes\n\nPERKS, MRS. J. HARTLEY: From Heather Hills\n\nPFEIFFER, EMILY: Women and Work\n\nPHILLIMORE, MISS: Studies in Italian Literature\n\nPIERCE, J.: Stanzas and Sonnets\n\nPIMLICO, LORD: The Excellent Mystery\n\nPLEYDELL-BOUVERIE, EDWARD OLIVER: J. S.; or, Trivialities\n\nPRESTON, HARRIET WATERS: A Year in Eden\n\nPREVOST, FRANCIS: Fires of Green Wood\n\nQUILTER, HARRY: Sententiae Artis\n\nRAFFALOVICH, MARK ANDRE: Tuberose and Meadowsweet\n\nRISTORI, MADAME: Etudes et Souvenirs\n\nRITCHIE, DAVID: Darwinism and Politics\n\nROBERTSON, ERIC S.: Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow\nThe Children of the Poets\n\nROBERTSON, J. LOGIE: Poems by Allan Ramsay\n\nROBINS, G. M.: Keep My Secret\n\nROBINSON, A. MARY F.: Poems, Ballads, and a Garden Play\n\nROBINSON, MABEL: The Plan of Campaign\n\nRODD, RENNELL: The Unknown Madonna\n\nROSS, JAMES: Seymour\'s Inheritance\nThe Wind and Six Sonnets\n\nROSS, JANET: Three Generations of English Women\n\nROSSETTI, WILLIAM MICHAEL: Life of John Keats\n\nRUETE, PRINCESS EMILY: Memoirs of an Arabian Princess\n\nSAFFORD, MARY J.: Aphrodite (Ernst Eckstein)\n\nSAINTSBURY, GEORGE: George Borrow\n\nSARASVATI, PUNDITA RAMABAI: The High-Caste Hindu Woman\n\nSCHWARTZ, J. M. W.: Nivalis\n\nSHARP, ISAAC: Saul of Tarsus\n\nSHARP, MRS. WILLIAM: Women\'s Voices\n\nSHARP, WILLIAM: Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy\n\nSHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY: Here\'s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen\n\nSHORE, ARABELLA: Dante for Beginners\n\nSKIPSEY, JOSEPH: Carols from the Coal Fields\n\nSLADEN, DOUGLAS B. W.: Australian Poets, 1788-1888\n\nSMITH, ALEXANDER SKENE: Holiday Recreations\n\nSOMERSET, LORD HENRY: Songs of Adieu\n\nSPEIGHT, T. W.: A Barren Title\n\nSTAPFER, PAUL: Moliere et Shakespeare\n\nSTILLMAN, W. J.: On the Track of Ulysses\n\nSTOKES, MARGARET: Early Christian Art in Ireland\n\nSTREETS, FAUCET: A Marked Man\n\nSTUTFIELD, HUGH: El Magreb: Twelve Hundred Miles\' Ride through Morocco\n\nSWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES: Poems and Ballads. Third Series\n\nSYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON: Ben Jonson\nRenaissance in Italy: The Catholic Reaction\n\nTHORNTON, CYRUS: Voices of the Street\n\nTODHUNTER, JOHN: The Banshee\n\nTOMSON, GRAHAM R.: The Bird Bride\n\nTOYNBEE, WILLIAM: A Selection from the Songs of De Beranger in English\nVerse\n\nTURNER, C. GLADSTONE: Errata\n\nTWO TRAMPS: Low Down\n\nTYLOR, LOUIS: Chess: A Christmas Masque\n\nTYRRELL, CHRISTINA: Her Son (E. Werner)\n\nVEITCH, JOHN: The Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry\n\nVEITCH, SOPHIE: James Hepburn\n\nVON LAUER, BARONESS: The Master of Tanagra (Ernst von Wildenbruch)\n\nWALFORD, MRS.: Four Biographies from Blackwood\n\nWALWORTH, REV. CLARENCE A.: Andiatorochte\n\nWANDERER: Dinners and Dishes\n\nWHISHAW, FREDERICK: Injury and Insult (Fedor Dostoieffski)\n\nWHITMAN, WALT: November Boughs\n\nWILLIAMS, F. HARALD: Women Must Weep\n\nWILLIAMSON, DAVID R.: Poems of Nature and Life\n\nWILLIS, E. COOPER: Tales and Legends in Verse\n\nWILLS, W. G.: Melchior\n\nWILMOT, A.: The Poetry of South Africa\n\nWINTER, JOHN STRANGE: That Imp\n\nWOODS, MARGARET L.: A Village Tragedy\n\nWOTTON, MABEL: Word Portraits of Famous Writers\n\nYEATS, W. B.: Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry\n\nThe Wanderings of Oisin\n\nYONGE, CHARLOTTE M., and others: Astray\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{119} See A \'Jolly\' Art Critic, page 112.\n\n{189} Shairp was Professor of Poetry at Oxford in Wilde\'s undergraduate\ndays.\n\n{198} The Margravine of Baireuth and Voltaire. (David Stott, 1888.)\n\n{289} February 1888.\n\n{334a} September 1888.\n\n{334b} See The Picture of Dorian Gray, chapter XI., page 222.\n\n{374} The Queen, December 8, 1888.\n\n{411} From Lady Wilde\'s Ancient Legends of Ireland.\n\n{437} See page 406.\n\n{452} See Australian Poets, page 370.\n\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVIEWS***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 14240.txt or 14240.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/2/4/14240\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, A Critic in Pall Mall, by Oscar Wilde, Edited\nby E. V. Lucas\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: A Critic in Pall Mall\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nEditor: E. V. Lucas\n\nRelease Date: October 6, 2009 [eBook #30191]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CRITIC IN PALL MALL***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1919 Methuen & Co. Ltd. edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n A CRITIC\n IN PALL MALL\n\n\n BEING EXTRACTS FROM\n REVIEWS AND MISCELLANIES\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n * * * * *\n\n _First Published in 1919_\n\n * * * * *\n\n _This selection has been made by Mr._ E. V. LUCAS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\n\nTHE TOMB OF KEATS 1\nKEATS’S SONNET ON BLUE 4\nDINNERS AND DISHES 8\nSHAKESPEARE ON SCENERY 10\n‘HENRY THE FOURTH’ AT OXFORD 15\nA HANDBOOK TO MARRIAGE 18\nTO READ OR NOT TO READ 21\nTHE LETTERS OF A GREAT WOMAN 22\nBÉRANGER IN ENGLAND 27\nTHE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE 29\n‘THE CENCI’ 32\nBALZAC IN ENGLISH 34\nBEN JONSON 37\nMR. SYMONDS’ HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE 39\nMR. MORRIS’S ‘ODYSSEY’ 44\nRUSSIAN NOVELISTS 48\nMR. PATER’S ‘IMAGINARY PORTRAITS’ 51\nA GERMAN PRINCESS 55\n‘A VILLAGE TRAGEDY’ 63\nMR. MORRIS’S COMPLETION OF THE ‘ODYSSEY’ 65\nMRS. SOMERVILLE 70\nARISTOTLE AT AFTERNOON TEA 76\nEARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND 81\nMADAME RISTORI 85\nENGLISH POETESSES 91\nVENUS OR VICTORY 101\nM. CARO ON GEORGE SAND 105\nA FASCINATING BOOK 108\nHENLEY’S POEMS 123\nSOME LITERARY LADIES 129\nPOETRY AND PRISON 143\nTHE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO WALT WHITMAN 146\nIRISH FAIRY TALES 152\nMR. W. B. YEATS 158\nMR. YEATS’S ‘WANDERINGS OF OISIN’ 160\nMR. WILLIAM MORRIS’S LAST BOOK 162\nSOME LITERARY NOTES 167\nMR. SWINBURNE’S ‘POEMS AND BALLADS’ (Third Series) 173\nA CHINESE SAGE 177\nMR. PATER’S ‘APPRECIATIONS’ 187\nSENTENTIAE 194\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOMB OF KEATS\n(_Irish Monthly_, July 1877.)\n\n\nAs one enters Rome from the Via Ostiensis by the Porta San Paolo, the\nfirst object that meets the eye is a marble pyramid which stands close at\nhand on the left.\n\nThere are many Egyptian obelisks in Rome—tall, snakelike spires of red\nsandstone, mottled with strange writings, which remind us of the pillars\nof flame which led the children of Israel through the desert away from\nthe land of the Pharaohs; but more wonderful than these to look upon is\nthis gaunt, wedge-shaped pyramid standing here in this Italian city,\nunshattered amid the ruins and wrecks of time, looking older than the\nEternal City itself, like terrible impassiveness turned to stone. And so\nin the Middle Ages men supposed this to be the sepulchre of Remus, who\nwas slain by his own brother at the founding of the city, so ancient and\nmysterious it appears; but we have now, perhaps unfortunately, more\naccurate information about it, and know that it is the tomb of one Caius\nCestius, a Roman gentleman of small note, who died about 30 B.C.\n\nYet though we cannot care much for the dead man who lies in lonely state\nbeneath it, and who is only known to the world through his sepulchre,\nstill this pyramid will be ever dear to the eyes of all English-speaking\npeople, because at evening its shadows fall on the tomb of one who walks\nwith Spenser, and Shakespeare, and Byron, and Shelley, and Elizabeth\nBarrett Browning in the great procession of the sweet singers of England.\n\nFor at its foot there is a green sunny slope, known as the Old Protestant\nCemetery, and on this a common-looking grave, which bears the following\ninscription:\n\n This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who\n on his deathbed, in the bitterness of his heart, desired these words\n to be engraven on his tombstone: HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN\n WATER. February 24, 1821.\n\nAnd the name of the young English poet is John Keats.\n\nLord Houghton calls this cemetery ‘one of the most beautiful spots on\nwhich the eye and heart of man can rest,’ and Shelley speaks of it as\nmaking one ‘in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so\nsweet a place’; and indeed when I saw the violets and the daisies and the\npoppies that overgrow the tomb, I remembered how the dead poet had once\ntold his friend that he thought the ‘intensest pleasure he had received\nin life was in watching the growth of flowers,’ and how another time,\nafter lying a while quite still, he murmured in some strange prescience\nof early death, ‘I feel the flowers growing over me.’\n\nBut this time-worn stone and these wildflowers are but poor memorials {2}\nof one so great as Keats; most of all, too, in this city of Rome, which\npays such honour to her dead; where popes, and emperors, and saints, and\ncardinals lie hidden in ‘porphyry wombs,’ or couched in baths of jasper\nand chalcedony and malachite, ablaze with precious stones and metals, and\ntended with continual service. For very noble is the site, and worthy of\na noble monument; behind looms the grey pyramid, symbol of the world’s\nage, and filled with memories of the sphinx, and the lotus leaf, and the\nglories of old Nile; in front is the Monte Testaccio, built, it is said,\nwith the broken fragments of the vessels in which all the nations of the\nEast and the West brought their tribute to Rome; and a little distance\noff, along the slope of the hill under the Aurelian wall, some tall gaunt\ncypresses rise, like burnt-out funeral torches, to mark the spot where\nShelley’s heart (that ‘heart of hearts’!) lies in the earth; and, above\nall, the soil on which we tread is very Rome!\n\nAs I stood beside the mean grave of this divine boy, I thought of him as\nof a Priest of Beauty slain before his time; and the vision of Guido’s\nSt. Sebastian came before my eyes as I saw him at Genoa, a lovely brown\nboy, with crisp, clustering hair and red lips, bound by his evil enemies\nto a tree, and though pierced by arrows, raising his eyes with divine,\nimpassioned gaze towards the Eternal Beauty of the opening heavens. And\nthus my thoughts shaped themselves to rhyme:\n\n HEU MISERANDE PUER\n\n Rid of the world’s injustice and its pain,\n He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue;\n Taken from life while life and love were new\n The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,\n Fair as Sebastian and as foully slain.\n No cypress shades his grave, nor funeral yew,\n But red-lipped daisies, violets drenched with dew,\n And sleepy poppies, catch the evening rain.\n\n O proudest heart that broke for misery!\n O saddest poet that the world hath seen!\n O sweetest singer of the English land!\n Thy name was writ in water on the sand,\n But our tears shall keep thy memory green,\n And make it flourish like a Basil-tree.\n\n _Rome_, 1877.\n\n_Note_.—A later version of this sonnet, under the title of ‘The Grave of\nKeats,’ is given in the _Poems_, page 157.\n\n\n\n\nKEATS’S SONNET ON BLUE\n(_Century Guild Hobby Horse_, July 1886.)\n\n\nDuring my tour in America I happened one evening to find myself in\nLouisville, Kentucky. The subject I had selected to speak on was the\nMission of Art in the Nineteenth Century, and in the course of my lecture\nI had occasion to quote Keats’s Sonnet on Blue as an example of the\npoet’s delicate sense of colour-harmonies. When my lecture was concluded\nthere came round to see me a lady of middle age, with a sweet gentle\nmanner and a most musical voice. She introduced herself to me as Mrs.\nSpeed, the daughter of George Keats, and invited me to come and examine\nthe Keats manuscripts in her possession. I spent most of the next day\nwith her, reading the letters of Keats to her father, some of which were\nat that time unpublished, poring over torn yellow leaves and faded scraps\nof paper, and wondering at the little Dante in which Keats had written\nthose marvellous notes on Milton. Some months afterwards, when I was in\nCalifornia, I received a letter from Mrs. Speed asking my acceptance of\nthe original manuscript of the sonnet which I had quoted in my lecture.\nThis manuscript I have had reproduced here, as it seems to me to possess\nmuch psychological interest. It shows us the conditions that preceded\nthe perfected form, the gradual growth, not of the conception but of the\nexpression, and the workings of that spirit of selection which is the\nsecret of style. In the case of poetry, as in the case of the other\narts, what may appear to be simply technicalities of method are in their\nessence spiritual not mechanical, and although, in all lovely work, what\nconcerns us is the ultimate form, not the conditions that necessitate\nthat form, yet the preference that precedes perfection, the evolution of\nthe beauty, and the mere making of the music, have, if not their artistic\nvalue, at least their value to the artist.\n\nIt will be remembered that this sonnet was first published in 1848 by\nLord Houghton in his _Life_, _Letters_, _and Literary Remains of John\nKeats_. Lord Houghton does not definitely state where he found it, but\nit was probably among the Keats manuscripts belonging to Mr. Charles\nBrown. It is evidently taken from a version later than that in my\npossession, as it accepts all the corrections, and makes three\nvariations. As in my manuscript the first line is torn away, I give the\nsonnet here as it appears in Lord Houghton’s edition.\n\n ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:\n\n Dark eyes are dearer far\n Than those that make the hyacinthine bell. {5}\n\n By J. H. REYNOLDS.\n\n Blue! ’Tis the life of heaven,—the domain\n Of Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,—\n The tent of Hesperus and all his train,—\n The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun.\n Blue! ’Tis the life of waters—ocean\n And all its vassal streams: pools numberless\n May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can\n Subside if not to dark-blue nativeness.\n Blue! gentle cousin of the forest green,\n Married to green in all the sweetest flowers,\n Forget-me-not,—the blue-bell,—and, that queen\n Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers\n Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,\n When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!\n\n _Feb._ 1818.\n\nIn the _Athenæum_ of the 3rd of June 1876 appeared a letter from Mr. A.\nJ. Horwood, stating that he had in his possession a copy of _The Garden\nof Florence_ in which this sonnet was transcribed. Mr. Horwood, who was\nunaware that the sonnet had been already published by Lord Houghton,\ngives the transcript at length. His version reads _hue_ for _life_ in\nthe first line, and _bright_ for _wide_ in the second, and gives the\nsixth line thus:\n\n With all his tributary streams, pools numberless,\n\na foot too long: it also reads _to_ for _of_ in the ninth line. Mr.\nBuxton Forman is of opinion that these variations are decidedly genuine,\nbut indicative of an earlier state of the poem than that adopted in Lord\nHoughton’s edition. However, now that we have before us Keats’s first\ndraft of his sonnet, it is difficult to believe that the sixth line in\nMr. Horwood’s version is really a genuine variation. Keats may have\nwritten,\n\n Ocean\n His tributary streams, pools numberless,\n\nand the transcript may have been carelessly made, but having got his line\nright in his first draft, Keats probably did not spoil it in his second.\nThe _Athenæum_ version inserts a comma after _art_ in the last line,\nwhich seems to me a decided improvement, and eminently characteristic of\nKeats’s method. I am glad to see that Mr. Buxton Forman has adopted it.\n\nAs for the corrections that Lord Houghton’s version shows Keats to have\nmade in the eighth and ninth lines of this sonnet, it is evident that\nthey sprang from Keats’s reluctance to repeat the same word in\nconsecutive lines, except in cases where a word’s music or meaning was to\nbe emphasized. The substitution of ‘its’ for ‘his’ in the sixth line is\nmore difficult of explanation. It was due probably to a desire on\nKeats’s part not to mar by any echo the fine personification of Hesperus.\n\nIt may be noticed that Keats’s own eyes were brown, and not blue, as\nstated by Mrs. Proctor to Lord Houghton. Mrs. Speed showed me a note to\nthat effect written by Mrs. George Keats on the margin of the page in\nLord Houghton’s _Life_ (p. 100, vol. i.), where Mrs. Proctor’s\ndescription is given. Cowden Clarke made a similar correction in his\n_Recollections_, and in some of the later editions of Lord Houghton’s\nbook the word ‘blue’ is struck out. In Severn’s portraits of Keats also\nthe eyes are given as brown.\n\nThe exquisite sense of colour expressed in the ninth and tenth lines may\nbe paralleled by\n\n The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,\n\nof the sonnet to George Keats.\n\n\n\n\nDINNERS AND DISHES\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, March 7, 1885.)\n\n\nA man can live for three days without bread, but no man can live for one\nday without poetry, was an aphorism of Baudelaire. You can live without\npictures and music but you cannot live without eating, says the author of\n_Dinners and Dishes_; and this latter view is, no doubt, the more\npopular. Who, indeed, in these degenerate days would hesitate between an\node and an omelette, a sonnet and a salmis? Yet the position is not\nentirely Philistine; cookery is an art; are not its principles the\nsubject of South Kensington lectures, and does not the Royal Academy give\na banquet once a year? Besides, as the coming democracy will, no doubt,\ninsist on feeding us all on penny dinners, it is well that the laws of\ncookery should be explained: for were the national meal burned, or badly\nseasoned, or served up with the wrong sauce a dreadful revolution might\nfollow.\n\nUnder these circumstances we strongly recommend _Dinners and Dishes_ to\nevery one: it is brief and concise and makes no attempt at eloquence,\nwhich is extremely fortunate. For even on ortolans who could endure\noratory? It also has the advantage of not being illustrated. The\nsubject of a work of art has, of course, nothing to do with its beauty,\nbut still there is always something depressing about the coloured\nlithograph of a leg of mutton.\n\nAs regards the author’s particular views, we entirely agree with him on\nthe important question of macaroni. ‘Never,’ he says, ‘ask me to back a\nbill for a man who has given me a macaroni pudding.’ Macaroni is\nessentially a savoury dish and may be served with cheese or tomatoes but\nnever with sugar and milk. There is also a useful description of how to\ncook risotto—a delightful dish too rarely seen in England; an excellent\nchapter on the different kinds of salads, which should be carefully\nstudied by those many hostesses whose imaginations never pass beyond\nlettuce and beetroot; and actually a recipe for making Brussels sprouts\neatable. The last is, of course, a masterpiece.\n\nThe real difficulty that we all have to face in life is not so much the\nscience of cookery as the stupidity of cooks. And in this little\nhandbook to practical Epicureanism the tyrant of the English kitchen is\nshown in her proper light. Her entire ignorance of herbs, her passion\nfor extracts and essences, her total inability to make a soup which is\nanything more than a combination of pepper and gravy, her inveterate\nhabit of sending up bread poultices with pheasants,—all these sins and\nmany others are ruthlessly unmasked by the author. Ruthlessly and\nrightly. For the British cook is a foolish woman who should be turned\nfor her iniquities into a pillar of salt which she never knows how to\nuse.\n\nBut our author is not local merely. He has been in many lands; he has\neaten back-hendl at Vienna and kulibatsch at St. Petersburg; he has had\nthe courage to face the buffalo veal of Roumania and to dine with a\nGerman family at one o’clock; he has serious views on the right method of\ncooking those famous white truffles of Turin of which Alexandre Dumas was\nso fond; and, in the face of the Oriental Club, declares that Bombay\ncurry is better than the curry of Bengal. In fact he seems to have had\nexperience of almost every kind of meal except the ‘square meal’ of the\nAmericans. This he should study at once; there is a great field for the\nphilosophic epicure in the United States. Boston beans may be dismissed\nat once as delusions, but soft-shell crabs, terrapin, canvas-back ducks,\nblue fish and the pompono of New Orleans are all wonderful delicacies,\nparticularly when one gets them at Delmonico’s. Indeed, the two most\nremarkable bits of scenery in the States are undoubtedly Delmonico’s and\nthe Yosemité Valley; and the former place has done more to promote a good\nfeeling between England and America than anything else has in this\ncentury.\n\nWe hope the ‘Wanderer’ will go there soon and add a chapter to _Dinners\nand Dishes_, and that his book will have in England the influence it\ndeserves. There are twenty ways of cooking a potato and three hundred\nand sixty-five ways of cooking an egg, yet the British cook, up to the\npresent moment, knows only three methods of sending up either one or the\nother.\n\n_Dinners and Dishes_. By ‘Wanderer.’ (Simpkin and Marshall.)\n\n\n\n\nSHAKESPEARE ON SCENERY\n(_Dramatic Review_, March 14, 1885.)\n\n\nI have often heard people wonder what Shakespeare would say, could he see\nMr. Irving’s production of his _Much Ado About Nothing_, or Mr. Wilson\nBarrett’s setting of his _Hamlet_. Would he take pleasure in the glory\nof the scenery and the marvel of the colour? Would he be interested in\nthe Cathedral of Messina, and the battlements of Elsinore? Or would he\nbe indifferent, and say the play, and the play only, is the thing?\n\nSpeculations like these are always pleasurable, and in the present case\nhappen to be profitable also. For it is not difficult to see what\nShakespeare’s attitude would be; not difficult, that is to say, if one\nreads Shakespeare himself, instead of reading merely what is written\nabout him.\n\nSpeaking, for instance, directly, as the manager of a London theatre,\nthrough the lips of the chorus in _Henry V._, he complains of the\nsmallness of the stage on which he has to produce the pageant of a big\nhistorical play, and of the want of scenery which obliges him to cut out\nmany of its most picturesque incidents, apologises for the scanty number\nof supers who had to play the soldiers, and for the shabbiness of the\nproperties, and, finally, expresses his regret at being unable to bring\non real horses.\n\nIn the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, again, he gives us a most amusing\npicture of the straits to which theatrical managers of his day were\nreduced by the want of proper scenery. In fact, it is impossible to read\nhim without seeing that he is constantly protesting against the two\nspecial limitations of the Elizabethan stage—the lack of suitable\nscenery, and the fashion of men playing women’s parts, just as he\nprotests against other difficulties with which managers of theatres have\nstill to contend, such as actors who do not understand their words;\nactors who miss their cues; actors who overact their parts; actors who\nmouth; actors who gag; actors who play to the gallery, and amateur\nactors.\n\nAnd, indeed, a great dramatist, as he was, could not but have felt very\nmuch hampered at being obliged continually to interrupt the progress of a\nplay in order to send on some one to explain to the audience that the\nscene was to be changed to a particular place on the entrance of a\nparticular character, and after his exit to somewhere else; that the\nstage was to represent the deck of a ship in a storm, or the interior of\na Greek temple, or the streets of a certain town, to all of which\ninartistic devices Shakespeare is reduced, and for which he always amply\napologizes. Besides this clumsy method, Shakespeare had two other\nsubstitutes for scenery—the hanging out of a placard, and his\ndescriptions. The first of these could hardly have satisfied his passion\nfor picturesqueness and his feeling for beauty, and certainly did not\nsatisfy the dramatic critic of his day. But as regards the description,\nto those of us who look on Shakespeare not merely as a playwright but as\na poet, and who enjoy reading him at home just as much as we enjoy seeing\nhim acted, it may be a matter of congratulation that he had not at his\ncommand such skilled machinists as are in use now at the Princess’s and\nat the Lyceum. For had Cleopatra’s barge, for instance, been a structure\nof canvas and Dutch metal, it would probably have been painted over or\nbroken up after the withdrawal of the piece, and, even had it survived to\nour own day, would, I am afraid, have become extremely shabby by this\ntime. Whereas now the beaten gold of its poop is still bright, and the\npurple of its sails still beautiful; its silver oars are not tired of\nkeeping time to the music of the flutes they follow, nor the Nereid’s\nflower-soft hands of touching its silken tackle; the mermaid still lies\nat its helm, and still on its deck stand the boys with their coloured\nfans. Yet lovely as all Shakespeare’s descriptive passages are, a\ndescription is in its essence undramatic. Theatrical audiences are far\nmore impressed by what they look at than by what they listen to; and the\nmodern dramatist, in having the surroundings of his play visibly\npresented to the audience when the curtain rises, enjoys an advantage for\nwhich Shakespeare often expresses his desire. It is true that\nShakespeare’s descriptions are not what descriptions are in modern\nplays—accounts of what the audience can observe for themselves; they are\nthe imaginative method by which he creates in the mind of the spectators\nthe image of that which he desires them to see. Still, the quality of\nthe drama is action. It is always dangerous to pause for\npicturesqueness. And the introduction of self-explanatory scenery\nenables the modern method to be far more direct, while the loveliness of\nform and colour which it gives us, seems to me often to create an\nartistic temperament in the audience, and to produce that joy in beauty\nfor beauty’s sake, without which the great masterpieces of art can never\nbe understood, to which, and to which only, are they ever revealed.\n\nTo talk of the passion of a play being hidden by the paint, and of\nsentiment being killed by scenery, is mere emptiness and folly of words.\nA noble play, nobly mounted, gives us double artistic pleasure. The eye\nas well as the ear is gratified, and the whole nature is made exquisitely\nreceptive of the influence of imaginative work. And as regards a bad\nplay, have we not all seen large audiences lured by the loveliness of\nscenic effect into listening to rhetoric posing as poetry, and to\nvulgarity doing duty for realism? Whether this be good or evil for the\npublic I will not here discuss, but it is evident that the playwright, at\nany rate, never suffers.\n\nIndeed, the artist who really has suffered through the modern mounting of\nplays is not the dramatist at all, but the scene-painter proper. He is\nrapidly being displaced by the stage-carpenter. Now and then, at Drury\nLane, I have seen beautiful old front cloths let down, as perfect as\npictures some of them, and pure painter’s work, and there are many which\nwe all remember at other theatres, in front of which some dialogue was\nreduced to graceful dumb-show through the hammer and tin-tacks behind.\nBut as a rule the stage is overcrowded with enormous properties, which\nare not merely far more expensive and cumbersome than scene-paintings,\nbut far less beautiful, and far less true. Properties kill perspective.\nA painted door is more like a real door than a real door is itself, for\nthe proper conditions of light and shade can be given to it; and the\nexcessive use of built-up structures always makes the stage too glaring,\nfor as they have to be lit from behind, as well as from the front, the\ngas-jets become the absolute light of the scene instead of the means\nmerely by which we perceive the conditions of light and shadow which the\npainter has desired to show us.\n\nSo, instead of bemoaning the position of the playwright, it were better\nfor the critics to exert whatever influence they may possess towards\nrestoring the scene-painter to his proper position as an artist, and not\nallowing him to be built over by the property man, or hammered to death\nby the carpenter. I have never seen any reason myself why such artists\nas Mr. Beverley, Mr. Walter Hann, and Mr. Telbin should not be entitled\nto become Academicians. They have certainly as good a claim as have many\nof those R.A.’s whose total inability to paint we can see every May for a\nshilling.\n\nAnd lastly, let those critics who hold up for our admiration the\nsimplicity of the Elizabethan stage remember that they are lauding a\ncondition of things against which Shakespeare himself, in the spirit of a\ntrue artist, always strongly protested.\n\n\n\n\n_HENRY THE FOURTH_ AT OXFORD\n(_Dramatic Review_, May 23, 1885.)\n\n\nI have been told that the ambition of every Dramatic Club is to act\n_Henry IV_. I am not surprised. The spirit of comedy is as fervent in\nthis play as is the spirit of chivalry; it is an heroic pageant as well\nas an heroic poem, and like most of Shakespeare’s historical dramas it\ncontains an extraordinary number of thoroughly good acting parts, each of\nwhich is absolutely individual in character, and each of which\ncontributes to the evolution of the plot.\n\nTo Oxford belongs the honour of having been the first to present on the\nstage this noble play, and the production which I saw last week was in\nevery way worthy of that lovely town, that mother of sweetness and of\nlight. For, in spite of the roaring of the young lions at the Union, and\nthe screaming of the rabbits in the home of the vivisector, in spite of\nKeble College, and the tramways, and the sporting prints, Oxford still\nremains the most beautiful thing in England, and nowhere else are life\nand art so exquisitely blended, so perfectly made one. Indeed, in most\nother towns art has often to present herself in the form of a reaction\nagainst the sordid ugliness of ignoble lives, but at Oxford she comes to\nus as an exquisite flower born of the beauty of life and expressive of\nlife’s joy. She finds her home by the Isis as once she did by the\nIlissus; the Magdalen walks and the Magdalen cloisters are as dear to her\nas were ever the silver olives of Colonus and the golden gateway of the\nhouse of Pallas: she covers with fanlike tracery the vaulted entrance to\nChrist Church Hall, and looks out from the windows of Merton; her feet\nhave stirred the Cumnor cowslips, and she gathers fritillaries in the\nriver-fields. To her the clamour of the schools and the dullness of the\nlecture-room are a weariness and a vexation of spirit; she seeks not to\ndefine virtue, and cares little for the categories; she smiles on the\nswift athlete whose plastic grace has pleased her, and rejoices in the\nyoung Barbarians at their games; she watches the rowers from the reedy\nbank and gives myrtle to her lovers, and laurels to her poets, and rue to\nthose who talk wisely in the street; she makes the earth lovely to all\nwho dream with Keats; she opens high heaven to all who soar with Shelley;\nand turning away her head from pedant, proctor and Philistine, she has\nwelcomed to her shrine a band of youthful actors, knowing that they have\nsought with much ardour for the stern secret of Melpomene, and caught\nwith much gladness the sweet laughter of Thalia. And to me this ardour\nand this gladness were the two most fascinating qualities of the Oxford\nperformance, as indeed they are qualities which are necessary to any fine\ndramatic production. For without quick and imaginative observation of\nlife the most beautiful play becomes dull in presentation, and what is\nnot conceived in delight by the actor can give no delight at all to\nothers.\n\nI know that there are many who consider that Shakespeare is more for the\nstudy than for the stage. With this view I do not for a moment agree.\nShakespeare wrote the plays to be acted, and we have no right to alter\nthe form which he himself selected for the full expression of his work.\nIndeed, many of the beauties of that work can be adequately conveyed to\nus only through the actor’s art. As I sat in the Town Hall of Oxford the\nother night, the majesty of the mighty lines of the play seemed to me to\ngain new music from the clear young voices that uttered them, and the\nideal grandeur of the heroism to be made more real to the spectators by\nthe chivalrous bearing, the noble gesture and the fine passion of its\nexponents. Even the dresses had their dramatic value. Their\narchæological accuracy gave us, immediately on the rise of the curtain, a\nperfect picture of the time. As the knights and nobles moved across the\nstage in the flowing robes of peace and in the burnished steel of battle,\nwe needed no dreary chorus to tell us in what age or land the play’s\naction was passing, for the fifteenth century in all the dignity and\ngrace of its apparel was living actually before us, and the delicate\nharmonies of colour struck from the first a dominant note of beauty which\nadded to the intellectual realism of archæology the sensuous charm of\nart.\n\nI have rarely seen a production better stage-managed. Indeed, I hope\nthat the University will take some official notice of this delightful\nwork of art. Why should not degrees be granted for good acting? Are\nthey not given to those who misunderstand Plato and who mistranslate\nAristotle? And should the artist be passed over? No. To Prince Hal,\nHotspur and Falstaff, D.C.L.’s should be gracefully offered. I feel sure\nthey would be gracefully accepted. To the rest of the company the\ncrimson or the sheepskin hood might be assigned _honoris causâ_ to the\neternal confusion of the Philistine, and the rage of the industrious and\nthe dull. Thus would Oxford confer honour on herself, and the artist be\nplaced in his proper position. However, whether or not Convocation\nrecognizes the claims of culture, I hope that the Oxford Dramatic Society\nwill produce every summer for us some noble play like _Henry IV_. For,\nin plays of this kind, plays which deal with bygone times, there is\nalways this peculiar charm, that they combine in one exquisite\npresentation the passions that are living with the picturesqueness that\nis dead. And when we have the modern spirit given to us in an antique\nform, the very remoteness of that form can be made a method of increased\nrealism. This was Shakespeare’s own attitude towards the ancient world,\nthis is the attitude we in this century should adopt towards his plays,\nand with a feeling akin to this it seemed to me that these brilliant\nyoung Oxonians were working. If it was so, their aim is the right one.\nFor while we look to the dramatist to give romance to realism, we ask of\nthe actor to give realism to romance.\n\n\n\n\nA HANDBOOK TO MARRIAGE\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, November 18, 1885.)\n\n\nIn spite of its somewhat alarming title this book may be highly\nrecommended to every one. As for the authorities the author quotes, they\nare almost numberless, and range from Socrates down to Artemus Ward. He\ntells us of the wicked bachelor who spoke of marriage as ‘a very harmless\namusement’ and advised a young friend of his to ‘marry early and marry\noften’; of Dr. Johnson who proposed that marriage should be arranged by\nthe Lord Chancellor, without the parties concerned having any choice in\nthe matter; of the Sussex labourer who asked, ‘Why should I give a woman\nhalf my victuals for cooking the other half?’ and of Lord Verulam who\nthought that unmarried men did the best public work. And, indeed,\nmarriage is the one subject on which all women agree and all men\ndisagree. Our author, however, is clearly of the same opinion as the\nScotch lassie who, on her father warning her what a solemn thing it was\nto get married, answered, ‘I ken that, father, but it’s a great deal\nsolemner to be single.’ He may be regarded as the champion of the\nmarried life. Indeed, he has a most interesting chapter on marriage-made\nmen, and though he dissents, and we think rightly, from the view recently\nput forward by a lady or two on the Women’s Rights platform that Solomon\nowed all his wisdom to the number of his wives, still he appeals to\nBismarck, John Stuart Mill, Mahommed, and Lord Beaconsfield, as instances\nof men whose success can be traced to the influence of the women they\nmarried. Archbishop Whately once defined woman as ‘a creature that does\nnot reason and pokes the fire from the top,’ but since his day the higher\neducation of women has considerably altered their position. Women have\nalways had an emotional sympathy with those they love; Girton and Newnham\nhave rendered intellectual sympathy also possible. In our day it is best\nfor a man to be married, and men must give up the tyranny in married life\nwhich was once so dear to them, and which, we are afraid, lingers still,\nhere and there.\n\n‘Do you wish to be my wife, Mabel?’ said a little boy. ‘Yes,’\nincautiously answered Mabel. ‘Then pull off my boots.’\n\nOn marriage vows our author has, too, very sensible views and very\namusing stories. He tells of a nervous bridegroom who, confusing the\nbaptismal and marriage ceremonies, replied when asked if he consented to\ntake the bride for his wife: ‘I renounce them all’; of a Hampshire rustic\nwho, when giving the ring, said solemnly to the bride: ‘With my body I\nthee wash up, and with all my hurdle goods I thee and thou’; of another\nwho when asked whether he would take his partner to be his wedded wife,\nreplied with shameful indecision: ‘Yes, I’m willin’; but I’d a sight\nrather have her sister’; and of a Scotch lady who, on the occasion of her\ndaughter’s wedding, was asked by an old friend whether she might\ncongratulate her on the event, and answered: ‘Yes, yes, upon the whole it\nis very satisfactory; it is true Jeannie hates her gudeman, but then\nthere’s always a something!’ Indeed, the good stories contained in this\nbook are quite endless and make it very pleasant reading, while the good\nadvice is on all points admirable.\n\nMost young married people nowadays start in life with a dreadful\ncollection of ormolu inkstands covered with sham onyxes, or with a\nperfect museum of salt-cellars. We strongly recommend this book as one\nof the best of wedding presents. It is a complete handbook to an earthly\nParadise, and its author may be regarded as the Murray of matrimony and\nthe Baedeker of bliss.\n\n_How to be Happy though Married_: _Being a Handbook to Marriage_. By a\nGraduate in the University of Matrimony. (T. Fisher Unwin.)\n\n\n\n\nTO READ OR NOT TO READ\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, February 8, 1886.)\n\n\nBooks, I fancy, may be conveniently divided into three classes:\n\n1. Books to read, such as Cicero’s _Letters_, Suetonius, Vasari’s _Lives\nof the Painters_, the _Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini_, Sir John\nMandeville, Marco Polo, St. Simon’s _Memoirs_, Mommsen, and (till we get\na better one) Grote’s _History of Greece_.\n\n2. Books to re-read, such as Plato and Keats: in the sphere of poetry,\nthe masters not the minstrels; in the sphere of philosophy, the seers not\nthe _savants_.\n\n3. Books not to read at all, such as Thomson’s _Seasons_, Rogers’s\n_Italy_, Paley’s _Evidences_, all the Fathers except St. Augustine, all\nJohn Stuart Mill except the essay on _Liberty_, all Voltaire’s plays\nwithout any exception, Butler’s _Analogy_, Grant’s _Aristotle_, Hume’s\n_England_, Lewes’s _History of Philosophy_, all argumentative books and\nall books that try to prove anything.\n\nThe third class is by far the most important. To tell people what to\nread is, as a rule, either useless or harmful; for, the appreciation of\nliterature is a question of temperament not of teaching; to Parnassus\nthere is no primer and nothing that one can learn is ever worth learning.\nBut to tell people what not to read is a very different matter, and I\nventure to recommend it as a mission to the University Extension Scheme.\n\nIndeed, it is one that is eminently needed in this age of ours, an age\nthat reads so much, that it has no time to admire, and writes so much,\nthat it has no time to think. Whoever will select out of the chaos of\nour modern curricula ‘The Worst Hundred Books,’ and publish a list of\nthem, will confer on the rising generation a real and lasting benefit.\n\nAfter expressing these views I suppose I should not offer any suggestions\nat all with regard to ‘The Best Hundred Books,’ but I hope you will allow\nme the pleasure of being inconsistent, as I am anxious to put in a claim\nfor a book that has been strangely omitted by most of the excellent\njudges who have contributed to your columns. I mean the _Greek\nAnthology_. The beautiful poems contained in this collection seem to me\nto hold the same position with regard to Greek dramatic literature as do\nthe delicate little figurines of Tanagra to the Phidian marbles, and to\nbe quite as necessary for the complete understanding of the Greek spirit.\n\nI am also amazed to find that Edgar Allan Poe has been passed over.\nSurely this marvellous lord of rhythmic expression deserves a place? If,\nin order to make room for him, it be necessary to elbow out some one\nelse, I should elbow out Southey, and I think that Baudelaire might be\nmost advantageously substituted for Keble.\n\nNo doubt, both in the _Curse of Kehama_ and in the _Christian Year_ there\nare poetic qualities of a certain kind, but absolute catholicity of taste\nis not without its dangers. It is only an auctioneer who should admire\nall schools of art.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LETTERS OF A GREAT WOMAN\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, March 6, 1886.)\n\n\nOf the many collections of letters that have appeared in this century\nfew, if any, can rival for fascination of style and variety of incident\nthe letters of George Sand which have recently been translated into\nEnglish by M. Ledos de Beaufort. They extend over a space of more than\nsixty years, from 1812 to 1876, in fact, and comprise the first letters\nof Aurore Dupin, a child of eight years old, as well as the last letters\nof George Sand, a woman of seventy-two. The very early letters, those of\nthe child and of the young married woman, possess, of course, merely a\npsychological interest; but from 1831, the date of Madame Dudevant’s\nseparation from her husband and her first entry into Paris life, the\ninterest becomes universal, and the literary and political history of\nFrance is mirrored in every page.\n\nFor George Sand was an indefatigable correspondent; she longs in one of\nher letters, it is true, for ‘a planet where reading and writing are\nabsolutely unknown,’ but still she had a real pleasure in letter-writing.\nHer greatest delight was the communication of ideas, and she is always in\nthe heart of the battle. She discusses pauperism with Louis Napoleon in\nhis prison at Ham, and liberty with Armand Barbes in his dungeon at\nVincennes; she writes to Lamennais on philosophy, to Mazzini on\nsocialism, to Lamartine on democracy, and to Ledru-Rollin on justice.\nHer letters reveal to us not merely the life of a great novelist but the\nsoul of a great woman, of a woman who was one with all the noblest\nmovements of her day and whose sympathy with humanity was boundless\nabsolutely. For the aristocracy of intellect she had always the deepest\nveneration, but the democracy of suffering touched her more. She\npreached the regeneration of mankind, not with the noisy ardour of the\npaid advocate, but with the enthusiasm of the true evangelist. Of all\nthe artists of this century she was the most altruistic; she felt every\none’s misfortunes except her own. Her faith never left her; to the end\nof her life, as she tells us, she was able to believe without illusions.\nBut the people disappointed her a little. She saw that they followed\npersons not principles, and for ‘the great man theory’ George Sand had no\nrespect. ‘Proper names are the enemies of principles’ is one of her\naphorisms.\n\nSo from 1850 her letters are more distinctly literary. She discusses\nmodern realism with Flaubert, and play-writing with Dumas _fils_; and\nprotests with passionate vehemence against the doctrine of _L’art pour\nl’art_. ‘Art for the sake of itself is an idle sentence,’ she writes;\n‘art for the sake of truth, for the sake of what is beautiful and good,\nthat is the creed I seek.’ And in a delightful letter to M. Charles\nPoncy she repeats the same idea very charmingly. ‘People say that birds\nsing for the sake of singing, but I doubt it. They sing their loves and\nhappiness, and in that they are in keeping with nature. But man must do\nsomething more, and poets only sing in order to move people and to make\nthem think.’ She wanted M. Poncy to be the poet of the people and, if\ngood advice were all that had been needed, he would certainly have been\nthe Burns of the workshop. She drew out a delightful scheme for a volume\nto be called _Songs of all Trades_ and saw the possibilities of making\nhandicrafts poetic. Perhaps she valued good intentions in art a little\ntoo much, and she hardly understood that art for art’s sake is not meant\nto express the final cause of art but is merely a formula of creation;\nbut, as she herself had scaled Parnassus, we must not quarrel at her\nbringing Proletarianism with her. For George Sand must be ranked among\nour poetic geniuses. She regarded the novel as still within the domain\nof poetry. Her heroes are not dead photographs; they are great\npossibilities. Modern novels are dissections; hers are dreams. ‘I make\npopular types,’ she writes, ‘such as I do no longer see, but such as they\nshould and might be.’ For realism, in M. Zola’s acceptation of the word,\nshe had no admiration. Art to her was a mirror that transfigured truths\nbut did not represent realities. Hence she could not understand art\nwithout personality. ‘I am aware,’ she writes to Flaubert, ‘that you are\nopposed to the exposition of personal doctrine in literature. Are you\nright? Does not your opposition proceed rather from a want of conviction\nthan from a principle of æsthetics? If we have any philosophy in our\nbrain it must needs break forth in our writings. But you, as soon as you\nhandle literature, you seem anxious, I know not why, to be another man,\nthe one who must disappear, who annihilates himself and is no more. What\na singular mania! What a deficient taste! The worth of our productions\ndepends entirely on our own. Besides, if we withhold our own opinions\nrespecting the personages we create, we naturally leave the reader in\nuncertainty as to the opinion he should himself form of them. That\namounts to wishing not to be understood, and the result of this is that\nthe reader gets weary of us and leaves us.’\n\nShe herself, however, may be said to have suffered from too dominant a\npersonality, and this was the reason of the failure of most of her plays.\n\nOf the drama in the sense of disinterested presentation she had no idea,\nand what is the strength and life-blood of her novels is the weakness of\nher dramatic works. But in the main she was right. Art without\npersonality is impossible. And yet the aim of art is not to reveal\npersonality, but to please. This she hardly recognized in her æsthetics,\nthough she realized it in her work. On literary style she has some\nexcellent remarks. She dislikes the extravagances of the romantic school\nand sees the beauty of simplicity. ‘Simplicity,’ she writes, ‘is the\nmost difficult thing to secure in this world: it is the last limit of\nexperience and the last effort of genius.’ She hated the slang and\n_argot_ of Paris life, and loved the words used by the peasants in the\nprovinces. ‘The provinces,’ she remarks, ‘preserve the tradition of the\noriginal tongue and create but few new words. I feel much respect for\nthe language of the peasantry; in my estimation it is the more correct.’\n\nShe thought Flaubert too much preoccupied with the sense of form, and\nmakes these excellent observations to him—perhaps her best piece of\nliterary criticism. ‘You consider the form as the aim, whereas it is but\nthe effect. Happy expressions are only the outcome of emotion and\nemotion itself proceeds from a conviction. We are only moved by that\nwhich we ardently believe in.’ Literary schools she distrusted.\nIndividualism was to her the keystone of art as well as of life. ‘Do not\nbelong to any school: do not imitate any model,’ is her advice. Yet she\nnever encouraged eccentricity. ‘Be correct,’ she writes to Eugène\nPelletan, ‘that is rarer than being eccentric, as the time goes. It is\nmuch more common to please by bad taste than to receive the cross of\nhonour.’\n\nOn the whole, her literary advice is sound and healthy. She never\nshrieks and she never sneers. She is the incarnation of good sense. And\nthe whole collection of her letters is a perfect treasure-house of\nsuggestions both on art and on politics.\n\n_Letters of George Sand_. Translated and edited by Raphael Ledos de\nBeaufort. (Ward and Downey.)\n\n\n\n\nBÉRANGER IN ENGLAND\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, April 21, 1886.)\n\n\nA philosophic politician once remarked that the best possible form of\ngovernment is an absolute monarchy tempered by street ballads.\n\nWithout at all agreeing with this aphorism we still cannot but regret\nthat the new democracy does not use poetry as a means for the expression\nof political opinion. The Socialists, it is true, have been heard\nsinging the later poems of Mr. William Morris, but the street ballad is\nreally dead in England. The fact is that most modern poetry is so\nartificial in its form, so individual in its essence and so literary in\nits style, that the people as a body are little moved by it, and when\nthey have grievances against the capitalist or the aristocrat they prefer\nstrikes to sonnets and rioting to rondels.\n\nPossibly, Mr. William Toynbee’s pleasant little volume of translations\nfrom Béranger may be the herald of a new school. Béranger had all the\nqualifications for a popular poet. He wrote to be sung more than to be\nread; he preferred the Pont Neuf to Parnassus; he was patriotic as well\nas romantic, and humorous as well as humane. Translations of poetry as a\nrule are merely misrepresentations, but the muse of Béranger is so simple\nand naïve that she can wear our English dress with ease and grace, and\nMr. Toynbee has kept much of the mirth and music of the original. Here\nand there, undoubtedly, the translation could be improved upon; ‘rapiers’\nfor instance is an abominable rhyme to ‘forefathers’; ‘the hated arms of\nAlbion’ in the same poem is a very feeble rendering of ‘le léopard de\nl’Anglais,’ and such a verse as\n\n ’Mid France’s miracles of art,\n Rare trophies won from art’s own land,\n I’ve lived to see with burning heart\n The fog-bred poor triumphant stand,\n\nreproduces very inadequately the charm of the original:\n\n Dans nos palais, où, près de la victoire,\n Brillaient les arts, doux fruits des beaux climats,\n J’ai vu du Nord les peuplades sans gloire,\n De leurs manteaux secouer les frimas.\n\nOn the whole, however, Mr. Toynbee’s work is good; _Les Champs_, for\nexample, is very well translated, and so are the two delightful poems\n_Rosette_ and _Ma République_; and there is a good deal of spirit in _Le\nMarquis de Carabas_:\n\n Whom have we here in conqueror’s _rôle_?\n Our grand old marquis, bless his soul!\n Whose grand old charger (mark his bone!)\n Has borne him back to claim his own.\n Note, if you please, the grand old style\n In which he nears his grand old pile;\n With what an air of grand old state\n He waves that blade immaculate!\n Hats off, hats off, for my lord to pass,\n The grand old Marquis of Carabas!—\n\nthough ‘that blade immaculate’ has hardly got the sting of ‘un sabre\ninnocent’; and in the fourth verse of the same poem, ‘Marquise, you’ll\nhave the bed-chamber’ does not very clearly convey the sense of the line\n‘La Marquise a le tabouret.’ Béranger is not nearly well enough known in\nEngland, and though it is always better to read a poet in the original,\nstill translations have their value as echoes have their music.\n\n_A Selection from the Songs of De Béranger in English Verse_. By William\nToynbee. (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, May 13, 1886.)\n\n\nThe Countess Martinengo deserves well of all poets, peasants and\npublishers. Folk-lore is so often treated nowadays merely from the point\nof view of the comparative mythologist, that it is really delightful to\ncome across a book that deals with the subject simply as literature. For\nthe Folk-tale is the father of all fiction as the Folk-song is the mother\nof all poetry; and in the games, the tales and the ballads of primitive\npeople it is easy to see the germs of such perfected forms of art as the\ndrama, the novel and the epic. It is, of course, true that the highest\nexpression of life is to be found not in the popular songs, however\npoetical, of any nation, but in the great masterpieces of self-conscious\nArt; yet it is pleasant sometimes to leave the summit of Parnassus to\nlook at the wildflowers in the valley, and to turn from the lyre of\nApollo to listen to the reed of Pan. We can still listen to it. To this\nday, the vineyard dressers of Calabria will mock the passer-by with\nsatirical verses as they used to do in the old pagan days, and the\npeasants of the olive woods of Provence answer each other in amœbæan\nstrains. The Sicilian shepherd has not yet thrown his pipe aside, and\nthe children of modern Greece sing the swallow-song through the villages\nin spring-time, though Theognis is more than two thousand years dead.\nNor is this popular poetry merely the rhythmic expression of joy and\nsorrow; it is in the highest degree imaginative; and taking its\ninspiration directly from nature it abounds in realistic metaphor and in\npicturesque and fantastic imagery. It must, of course, be admitted that\nthere is a conventionality of nature as there is a conventionality of\nart, and that certain forms of utterance are apt to become stereotyped by\ntoo constant use; yet, on the whole, it is impossible not to recognize in\nthe Folk-songs that the Countess Martinengo has brought together one\nstrong dominant note of fervent and flawless sincerity. Indeed, it is\nonly in the more terrible dramas of the Elizabethan age that we can find\nany parallel to the Corsican _voceri_ with their shrill intensity of\npassion, their awful frenzies of grief and hate. And yet, ardent as the\nfeeling is, the form is nearly always beautiful. Now and then, in the\npoems of the extreme South one meets with a curious crudity of realism,\nbut, as a rule, the sense of beauty prevails.\n\nSome of the Folk-poems in this book have all the lightness and loveliness\nof lyrics, all of them have that sweet simplicity of pure song by which\nmirth finds its own melody and mourning its own music, and even where\nthere are conceits of thought and expression they are conceits born of\nfancy not of affectation. Herrick himself might have envied that\nwonderful love-song of Provence:\n\n If thou wilt be the falling dew\n And fall on me alway,\n Then I will be the white, white rose\n On yonder thorny spray.\n If thou wilt be the white, white rose\n On yonder thorny spray,\n Then I will be the honey-bee\n And kiss thee all the day.\n\n If thou wilt be the honey-bee\n And kiss me all the day,\n Then I will be in yonder heaven\n The star of brightest ray.\n If thou wilt be in yonder heaven\n The star of brightest ray,\n Then I will be the dawn, and we\n Shall meet at break of day.\n\nHow charming also is this lullaby by which the Corsican mother sings her\nbabe to sleep!\n\n Gold and pearls my vessel lade,\n Silk and cloth the cargo be,\n All the sails are of brocade\n Coming from beyond the sea;\n And the helm of finest gold,\n Made a wonder to behold.\n Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n After you were born full soon,\n You were christened all aright;\n Godmother she was the moon,\n Godfather the sun so bright.\n All the stars in heaven told\n Wore their necklaces of gold.\n Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\nOr this from Roumania:\n\n Sleep, my daughter, sleep an hour;\n Mother’s darling gilliflower.\n Mother rocks thee, standing near,\n She will wash thee in the clear\n Waters that from fountains run,\n To protect thee from the sun.\n\n Sleep, my darling, sleep an hour,\n Grow thou as the gilliflower.\n As a tear-drop be thou white,\n As a willow tall and slight;\n Gentle as the ring-doves are,\n And be lovely as a star!\n\nWe hardly know what poems are sung to English babies, but we hope they\nare as beautiful as these two. Blake might have written them.\n\nThe Countess Martinengo has certainly given us a most fascinating book.\nIn a volume of moderate dimensions, not too long to be tiresome nor too\nbrief to be disappointing, she has collected together the best examples\nof modern Folk-songs, and with her as a guide the lazy reader lounging in\nhis armchair may wander from the melancholy pine-forests of the North to\nSicily’s orange-groves and the pomegranate gardens of Armenia, and listen\nto the singing of those to whom poetry is a passion, not a profession,\nand whose art, coming from inspiration and not from schools, if it has\nthe limitations, at least has also the loveliness of its origin, and is\none with blowing grasses and the flowers of the field.\n\n_Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs_. By the Countess Evelyn Martinengo\nCésaresco. (Redway.)\n\n\n\n\n_THE CENCI_\n(_Dramatic Review_, May 15, 1886.)\n\n\nThe production of _The Cenci_ last week at the Grand Theatre, Islington,\nmay be said to have been an era in the literary history of this century,\nand the Shelley Society deserves the highest praise and warmest thanks of\nall for having given us an opportunity of seeing Shelley’s play under the\nconditions he himself desired for it. For _The Cenci_ was written\nabsolutely with a view to theatric presentation, and had Shelley’s own\nwishes been carried out it would have been produced during his lifetime\nat Covent Garden, with Edmund Kean and Miss O’Neill in the principal\nparts. In working out his conception, Shelley had studied very carefully\nthe æsthetics of dramatic art. He saw that the essence of the drama is\ndisinterested presentation, and that the characters must not be merely\nmouthpieces for splendid poetry but must be living subjects for terror\nand for pity. ‘I have endeavoured,’ he says, ‘as nearly as possible to\nrepresent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid\nthe error of making them actuated by my own conception of right or wrong,\nfalse or true: thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the\nsixteenth century into cold impersonations of my own mind. . . .\n\n‘I have avoided with great care the introduction of what is commonly\ncalled mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached\nsimile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice’s description of\nthe chasm appointed for her father’s murder should be judged to be of\nthat nature.’\n\nHe recognized that a dramatist must be allowed far greater freedom of\nexpression than what is conceded to a poet. ‘In a dramatic composition,’\nto use his own words, ‘the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate\none another, the former being reserved simply for the full development\nand illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which\nshould assume flesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is thus\nthat the most remote and the most familiar imagery may alike be fit for\ndramatic purposes when employed in the illustration of strong feeling,\nwhich raises what is low, and levels to the apprehension that which is\nlofty, casting over all the shadow of its own greatness. In other\nrespects I have written more carelessly, that is, without an\nover-fastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect I entirely\nagree with those modern critics who assert that in order to move men to\ntrue sympathy we must use the familiar language of men.’\n\nHe knew that if the dramatist is to teach at all it must be by example,\nnot by precept.\n\n‘The highest moral purpose,’ he remarks, ‘aimed at in the highest species\nof the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies and\nantipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to the possession of\nwhich knowledge every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and\nkind. If dogmas can do more it is well: but a drama is no fit place for\nthe enforcement of them.’ He fully realizes that it is by a conflict\nbetween our artistic sympathies and our moral judgment that the greatest\ndramatic effects are produced. ‘It is in the restless and anatomizing\ncasuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrice, yet feel\nthat she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitious\nhorror with which they contemplate alike her wrongs and their revenge,\nthat the dramatic character of what she did and suffered consists.’\n\nIn fact no one has more clearly understood than Shelley the mission of\nthe dramatist and the meaning of the drama.\n\n\n\n\nBALZAC IN ENGLISH\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, September 13, 1886.)\n\n\nMany years ago, in a number of _All the Year Round_, Charles Dickens\ncomplained that Balzac was very little read in England, and although\nsince then the public has become more familiar with the great\nmasterpieces of French fiction, still it may be doubted whether the\n_Comédie Humaine_ is at all appreciated or understood by the general run\nof novel readers. It is really the greatest monument that literature has\nproduced in our century, and M. Taine hardly exaggerates when he says\nthat, after Shakespeare, Balzac is our most important magazine of\ndocuments on human nature. Balzac’s aim, in fact, was to do for humanity\nwhat Buffon had done for the animal creation. As the naturalist studied\nlions and tigers, so the novelist studied men and women. Yet he was no\nmere reporter. Photography and _procès-verbal_ were not the essentials\nof his method. Observation gave him the facts of life, but his genius\nconverted facts into truths, and truths into truth. He was, in a word, a\nmarvellous combination of the artistic temperament with the scientific\nspirit. The latter he bequeathed to his disciples; the former was\nentirely his own. The distinction between such a book as M. Zola’s\n_L’Assommoir_ and such a book as Balzac’s _Illusions Perdues_ is the\ndistinction between unimaginative realism and imaginative reality. ‘All\nBalzac’s characters,’ said Baudelaire, ‘are gifted with the same ardour\nof life that animated himself. All his fictions are as deeply coloured\nas dreams. Every mind is a weapon loaded to the muzzle with will. The\nvery scullions have genius.’ He was, of course, accused of being\nimmoral. Few writers who deal directly with life escape that charge.\nHis answer to the accusation was characteristic and conclusive. ‘Whoever\ncontributes his stone to the edifice of ideas,’ he wrote, ‘whoever\nproclaims an abuse, whoever sets his mark upon an evil to be abolished,\nalways passes for immoral. If you are true in your portraits, if, by\ndint of daily and nightly toil, you succeed in writing the most difficult\nlanguage in the world, the word immoral is thrown in your face.’ The\nmorals of the personages of the _Comédie Humaine_ are simply the morals\nof the world around us. They are part of the artist’s subject-matter;\nthey are not part of his method. If there be any need of censure it is\nto life, not to literature, that it should be given. Balzac, besides, is\nessentially universal. He sees life from every point of view. He has no\npreferences and no prejudices. He does not try to prove anything. He\nfeels that the spectacle of life contains its own secret. ‘Il crée un\nmonde et se tait.’\n\nAnd what a world it is! What a panorama of passions! What a pell-mell\nof men and women! It was said of Trollope that he increased the number\nof our acquaintances without adding to our visiting list; but after the\n_Comédie Humaine_ one begins to believe that the only real people are the\npeople who never existed. Lucien de Rubempré, le Père Goriot, Ursule\nMirouët, Marguerite Claës, the Baron Hulot, Madame Marneffe, le Cousin\nPons, De Marsay—all bring with them a kind of contagious illusion of\nlife. They have a fierce vitality about them: their existence is fervent\nand fiery-coloured; we not merely feel for them but we see them—they\ndominate our fancy and defy scepticism. A steady course of Balzac\nreduces our living friends to shadows, and our acquaintances to the\nshadows of shades. Who would care to go out to an evening party to meet\nTomkins, the friend of one’s boyhood, when one can sit at home with\nLucien de Rubempré? It is pleasanter to have the entrée to Balzac’s\nsociety than to receive cards from all the duchesses in Mayfair.\n\nIn spite of this, there are many people who have declared the _Comédie\nHumaine_ to be indigestible. Perhaps it is: but then what about\ntruffles? Balzac’s publisher refused to be disturbed by any such\ncriticism as that. ‘Indigestible, is it?’ he exclaimed with what, for a\npublisher, was rare good sense. ‘Well, I should hope so; who ever thinks\nof a dinner that isn’t?’\n\nBalzac’s Novels in English. _The Duchesse de Langeais and Other\nStories_; _César Birotteau_. (Routledge and Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nBEN JONSON\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, September 20, 1886.)\n\n\nAs for Mr. Symonds’ estimate of Jonson’s genius, it is in many points\nquite excellent. He ranks him with the giants rather than with the gods,\nwith those who compel our admiration by their untiring energy and huge\nstrength of intellectual muscle, not with those ‘who share the divine\ngifts of creative imagination and inevitable instinct.’ Here he is\nright. Pelion more than Parnassus was Jonson’s home. His art has too\nmuch effort about it, too much definite intention. His style lacks the\ncharm of chance. Mr. Symonds is right also in the stress he lays on the\nextraordinary combination in Jonson’s work of the most concentrated\nrealism with encyclopædic erudition. In Jonson’s comedies London slang\nand learned scholarship go hand in hand. Literature was as living a\nthing to him as life itself. He used his classical lore not merely to\ngive form to his verse, but to give flesh and blood to the persons of his\nplays. He could build up a breathing creature out of quotations. He\nmade the poets of Greece and Rome terribly modern, and introduced them to\nthe oddest company. His very culture is an element in his coarseness.\nThere are moments when one is tempted to liken him to a beast that has\nfed off books.\n\nWe cannot, however, agree with Mr. Symonds when he says that Jonson\n‘rarely touched more than the outside of character,’ that his men and\nwomen are ‘the incarnations of abstract properties rather than living\nhuman beings,’ that they are in fact mere ‘masqueraders and mechanical\npuppets.’ Eloquence is a beautiful thing but rhetoric ruins many a\ncritic, and Mr. Symonds is essentially rhetorical. When, for instance,\nhe tells us that ‘Jonson made masks,’ while ‘Dekker and Heywood created\nsouls,’ we feel that he is asking us to accept a crude judgment for the\nsake of a smart antithesis. It is, of course, true that we do not find\nin Jonson the same growth of character that we find in Shakespeare, and\nwe may admit that most of the characters in Jonson’s plays are, so to\nspeak, ready-made. But a ready-made character is not necessarily either\nmechanical or wooden, two epithets Mr. Symonds uses constantly in his\ncriticism.\n\nWe cannot tell, and Shakespeare himself does not tell us, why Iago is\nevil, why Regan and Goneril have hard hearts, or why Sir Andrew Aguecheek\nis a fool. It is sufficient that they are what they are, and that nature\ngives warrant for their existence. If a character in a play is lifelike,\nif we recognize it as true to nature, we have no right to insist on the\nauthor explaining its genesis to us. We must accept it as it is: and in\nthe hands of a good dramatist mere presentation can take the place of\nanalysis, and indeed is often a more dramatic method, because a more\ndirect one. And Jonson’s characters are true to nature. They are in no\nsense abstractions; they are types. Captain Bobadil and Captain Tucca,\nSir John Daw and Sir Amorous La Foole, Volpone and Mosca, Subtle and Sir\nEpicure Mammon, Mrs. Purecraft and the Rabbi Busy are all creatures of\nflesh and blood, none the less lifelike because they are labelled. In\nthis point Mr. Symonds seems to us unjust towards Jonson.\n\nWe think, also, that a special chapter might have been devoted to Jonson\nas a literary critic. The creative activity of the English Renaissance\nis so great that its achievements in the sphere of criticism are often\noverlooked by the student. Then, for the first time, was language\ntreated as an art. The laws of expression and composition were\ninvestigated and formularized. The importance of words was recognized.\nRomanticism, Realism and Classicism fought their first battles. The\ndramatists are full of literary and art criticisms, and amused the public\nwith slashing articles on one another in the form of plays.\n\n‘English Worthies.’ Edited by Andrew Lang. _Ben Jonson_. By John\nAddington Symonds. (Longmans, Green and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. SYMONDS’ HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, November 10, 1886.)\n\n\nMr. Symonds has at last finished his history of the Italian Renaissance.\nThe two volumes just published deal with the intellectual and moral\nconditions in Italy during the seventy years of the sixteenth century\nwhich followed the coronation of Charles the Fifth at Bologna, an era to\nwhich Mr. Symonds gives the name of the Catholic Reaction, and they\ncontain a most interesting and valuable account of the position of Spain\nin the Italian peninsula, the conduct of the Tridentine Council, the\nspecific organization of the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus, and\nthe state of society upon which those forces were brought to bear. In\nhis previous volumes Mr. Symonds had regarded the past rather as a\npicture to be painted than as a problem to be solved. In these two last\nvolumes, however, he shows a clearer appreciation of the office of\nhistory. The art of the picturesque chronicler is completed by something\nlike the science of the true historian, the critical spirit begins to\nmanifest itself, and life is not treated as a mere spectacle, but the\nlaws of its evolution and progress are investigated also. We admit that\nthe desire to represent life at all costs under dramatic conditions still\naccompanies Mr. Symonds, and that he hardly realizes that what seems\nromance to us was harsh reality to those who were engaged in it. Like\nmost dramatists, also, he is more interested in the psychological\nexceptions than in the general rule. He has something of Shakespeare’s\nsovereign contempt of the masses. The people stir him very little, but\nhe is fascinated by great personalities. Yet it is only fair to remember\nthat the age itself was one of exaggerated individualism, and that\nliterature had not yet become a mouthpiece for the utterances of\nhumanity. Men appreciated the aristocracy of intellect, but with the\ndemocracy of suffering they had no sympathy. The cry from the\nbrickfields had still to be heard. Mr. Symonds’ style, too, has much\nimproved. Here and there, it is true, we come across traces of the old\nmanner, as in the apocalyptic vision of the seven devils that entered\nItaly with the Spaniard, and the description of the Inquisition as a\nBelial-Moloch, a ‘hideous idol whose face was blackened with soot from\nburning human flesh.’ Such a sentence, also, as ‘over the Dead Sea of\nsocial putrefaction floated the sickening oil of Jesuitical hypocrisy,’\nreminds us that rhetoric has not yet lost its charms for Mr. Symonds.\nStill, on the whole, the style shows far more reserve, balance and\nsobriety, than can be found in the earlier volumes where violent\nantithesis forms the predominant characteristic, and accuracy is often\nsacrificed to an adjective.\n\nAmongst the most interesting chapters of the book are those on the\nInquisition, on Sarpi, the great champion of the severance of Church from\nState, and on Giordano Bruno. Indeed, the story of Bruno’s life, from\nhis visit to London and Oxford, his sojourn in Paris and wanderings\nthrough Germany, down to his betrayal at Venice and martyrdom at Rome, is\nmost powerfully told, and the estimate of the value of his philosophy and\nthe relation he holds to modern science, is at once just and\nappreciative. The account also of Ignatius Loyola and the rise of the\nSociety of Jesus is extremely interesting, though we cannot think that\nMr. Symonds is very happy in his comparison of the Jesuits to ‘fanatics\nlaying stones upon a railway’ or ‘dynamiters blowing up an emperor or a\ncorner of Westminster Hall.’ Such a judgment is harsh and crude in\nexpression and more suitable to the clamour of the Protestant Union than\nto the dignity of the true historian. Mr. Symonds, however, is rarely\ndeliberately unfair, and there is no doubt but that his work on the\nCatholic Reaction is a most valuable contribution to modern history—so\nvaluable, indeed, that in the account he gives of the Inquisition in\nVenice it would be well worth his while to bring the picturesque fiction\nof the text into some harmony with the plain facts of the footnote.\n\nOn the poetry of the sixteenth century Mr. Symonds has, of course, a\ngreat deal to say, and on such subjects he always writes with ease,\ngrace, and delicacy of perception. We admit that we weary sometimes of\nthe continual application to literature of epithets appropriate to\nplastic and pictorial art. The conception of the unity of the arts is\ncertainly of great value, but in the present condition of criticism it\nseems to us that it would be more useful to emphasize the fact that each\nart has its separate method of expression. The essay on Tasso, however,\nis delightful reading, and the position the poet holds towards modern\nmusic and modern sentiment is analysed with much subtlety. The essay on\nMarino also is full of interest. We have often wondered whether those\nwho talk so glibly of Euphuism and Marinism in literature have ever read\neither _Euphues_ or the _Adone_. To the latter they can have no better\nguide than Mr. Symonds, whose description of the poem is most\nfascinating. Marino, like many greater men, has suffered much from his\ndisciples, but he himself was a master of graceful fancy and of exquisite\nfelicity of phrase; not, of course, a great poet but certainly an artist\nin poetry and one to whom language is indebted. Even those conceits that\nMr. Symonds feels bound to censure have something charming about them.\nThe continual use of periphrases is undoubtedly a grave fault in style,\nyet who but a pedant would really quarrel with such periphrases as\n_sirena de’ boschi_ for the nightingale, or _il novello Edimione_ for\nGalileo?\n\nFrom the poets Mr. Symonds passes to the painters: not those great\nartists of Florence and Venice of whom he has already written, but the\nEclectics of Bologna, the Naturalists of Naples and Rome. This chapter\nis too polemical to be pleasant. The one on music is much better, and\nMr. Symonds gives us a most interesting description of the gradual steps\nby which the Italian genius passed from poetry and painting to melody and\nsong, till the whole of Europe thrilled with the marvel and mystery of\nthis new language of the soul. Some small details should perhaps be\nnoticed. It is hardly accurate, for instance, to say that Monteverde’s\n_Orfeo_ was the first form of the recitative-Opera, as Peri’s _Dafne_ and\n_Euridice_ and Cavaliere’s _Rappresentazione_ preceded it by some years,\nand it is somewhat exaggerated to say that ‘under the regime of the\nCommonwealth the national growth of English music received a check from\nwhich it never afterwards recovered,’ as it was with Cromwell’s auspices\nthat the first English Opera was produced, thirteen years before any\nOpera was regularly established in Paris. The fact that England did not\nmake such development in music as Italy and Germany did, must be ascribed\nto other causes than ‘the prevalence of Puritan opinion.’\n\nThese, however, are minor points. Mr. Symonds is to be warmly\ncongratulated on the completion of his history of the Renaissance in\nItaly. It is a most wonderful monument of literary labour, and its value\nto the student of Humanism cannot be doubted. We have often had occasion\nto differ from Mr. Symonds on questions of detail, and we have more than\nonce felt it our duty to protest against the rhetoric and over-emphasis\nof his style, but we fully recognize the importance of his work and the\nimpetus he has given to the study of one of the vital periods of the\nworld’s history. Mr. Symonds’ learning has not made him a pedant; his\nculture has widened not narrowed his sympathies, and though he can hardly\nbe called a great historian, yet he will always occupy a place in English\nliterature as one of the remarkable men of letters in the nineteenth\ncentury.\n\n_Renaissance in Italy_: _The Catholic Reaction_. In Two Parts. By John\nAddington Symonds. (Smith, Elder and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. MORRIS’S _ODYSSEY_\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, April 26, 1887.)\n\n\nOf all our modern poets, Mr. William Morris is the one best qualified by\nnature and by art to translate for us the marvellous epic of the\nwanderings of Odysseus. For he is our only true story-singer since\nChaucer; if he is a Socialist, he is also a Saga-man; and there was a\ntime when he was never wearied of telling us strange legends of gods and\nmen, wonderful tales of chivalry and romance. Master as he is of\ndecorative and descriptive verse, he has all the Greek’s joy in the\nvisible aspect of things, all the Greek’s sense of delicate and\ndelightful detail, all the Greek’s pleasure in beautiful textures and\nexquisite materials and imaginative designs; nor can any one have a\nkeener sympathy with the Homeric admiration for the workers and the\ncraftsmen in the various arts, from the stainers in white ivory and the\nembroiderers in purple and gold, to the weaver sitting by the loom and\nthe dyer dipping in the vat, the chaser of shield and helmet, the carver\nof wood or stone. And to all this is added the true temper of high\nromance, the power to make the past as real to us as the present, the\nsubtle instinct to discern passion, the swift impulse to portray life.\n\nIt is no wonder the lovers of Greek literature have so eagerly looked\nforward to Mr. Morris’s version of the Odyssean epic, and now that the\nfirst volume has appeared, it is not extravagant to say that of all our\nEnglish translations this is the most perfect and the most satisfying.\nIn spite of Coleridge’s well-known views on the subject, we have always\nheld that Chapman’s _Odyssey_ is immeasurably inferior to his _Iliad_,\nthe mere difference of metre alone being sufficient to set the former in\na secondary place; Pope’s _Odyssey_, with its glittering rhetoric and\nsmart antithesis, has nothing of the grand manner of the original; Cowper\nis dull, and Bryant dreadful, and Worsley too full of Spenserian\nprettinesses; while excellent though Messrs. Butcher and Lang’s version\nundoubtedly is in many respects, still, on the whole, it gives us merely\nthe facts of the _Odyssey_ without providing anything of its artistic\neffect. Avia’s translation even, though better than almost all its\npredecessors in the same field, is not worthy of taking rank beside Mr.\nMorris’s, for here we have a true work of art, a rendering not merely of\nlanguage into language, but of poetry into poetry, and though the new\nspirit added in the transfusion may seem to many rather Norse than Greek,\nand, perhaps at times, more boisterous than beautiful, there is yet a\nvigour of life in every line, a splendid ardour through each canto, that\nstirs the blood while one reads like the sound of a trumpet, and that,\nproducing a physical as well as a spiritual delight, exults the senses no\nless than it exalts the soul. It may be admitted at once that, here and\nthere, Mr. Morris has missed something of the marvellous dignity of the\nHomeric verse, and that, in his desire for rushing and ringing metre, he\nhas occasionally sacrificed majesty to movement, and made stateliness\ngive place to speed; but it is really only in such blank verse as\nMilton’s that this effect of calm and lofty music can be attained, and in\nall other respects blank verse is the most inadequate medium for\nreproducing the full flow and fervour of the Greek hexameter. One merit,\nat any rate, Mr. Morris’s version entirely and absolutely possesses. It\nis, in no sense of the word, literary; it seems to deal immediately with\nlife itself, and to take from the reality of things its own form and\ncolour; it is always direct and simple, and at its best has something of\nthe ‘large utterance of the early gods.’\n\nAs for individual passages of beauty, nothing could be better than the\nwonderful description of the house of the Phœacian king, or the whole\ntelling of the lovely legend of Circe, or the manner in which the pageant\nof the pale phantoms in Hades is brought before our eyes. Perhaps the\nhuge epic humour of the escape from the Cyclops is hardly realized, but\nthere is always a linguistic difficulty about rendering this fascinating\nstory into English, and where we are given so much poetry we should not\ncomplain about losing a pun; and the exquisite idyll of the meeting and\nparting with the daughter of Alcinous is really delightfully told. How\ngood, for instance, is this passage taken at random from the Sixth Book:\n\n But therewith unto the handmaids goodly Odysseus spake:\n ‘Stand off I bid you, damsels, while the work in hand I take,\n And wash the brine from my shoulders, and sleek them all around.\n Since verily now this long while sweet oil they have not found.\n But before you nought will I wash me, for shame I have indeed,\n Amidst of fair-tressed damsels to be all bare of weed.’\n So he spake and aloof they gat them, and thereof they told the may,\n But Odysseus with the river from his body washed away\n The brine from his back and shoulders wrought broad and mightily,\n And from his head was he wiping the foam of the untilled sea;\n But when he had thoroughly washed him, and the oil about him had\n shed,\n He did upon the raiment the gift of the maid unwed.\n But Athene, Zeus-begotten, dealt with him in such wise\n That bigger yet was his seeming, and mightier to all eyes,\n With the hair on his head crisp curling as the bloom of the daffodil.\n And as when the silver with gold is o’erlaid by a man of skill,\n Yea, a craftsman whom Hephæstus and Pallas Athene have taught\n To be master over masters, and lovely work he hath wrought;\n So she round his head and his shoulders shed grace abundantly.\n\nIt may be objected by some that the line\n\n With the hair on his head crisp curling as the bloom of the daffodil,\n\nis a rather fanciful version of\n\n ουλας ηκε κόμας, ύακινθίνω ανθει όμοιασ\n\nand it certainly seems probable that the allusion is to the dark colour\nof the hero’s hair; still, the point is not one of much importance,\nthough it may be worth noting that a similar expression occurs in\nOgilby’s superbly illustrated translation of the _Odyssey_, published in\n1665, where Charles II.’s Master of the Revels in Ireland gives the\npassage thus:\n\n Minerva renders him more tall and fair,\n Curling in rings like daffodils his hair.\n\nNo anthology, however, can show the true merit of Mr. Morris’s\ntranslation, whose real merit does not depend on stray beauties, nor is\nrevealed by chance selections, but lies in the absolute rightness and\ncoherence of the whole, in its purity and justice of touch, its freedom\nfrom affectation and commonplace, its harmony of form and matter. It is\nsufficient to say that this is a poet’s version of a poet, and for such\nsurely we should be thankful. In these latter days of coarse and vulgar\nliterature, it is something to have made the great sea-epic of the South\nnative and natural to our northern isle, something to have shown that our\nEnglish speech may be a pipe through which Greek lips can blow, something\nto have taught Nausicaa to speak the same language as Perdita.\n\n_The Odyssey of Homer_. Done into English Verse by William Morris,\nauthor of _The Earthly Paradise_. In two volumes. Volume I. (Reeves\nand Turner.)\n\nFor review of Volume II. see _Mr. Morris’s Completion of the Odyssey_,\npage 65.\n\n\n\n\nRUSSIAN NOVELISTS\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, May 2, 1887.)\n\n\nOf the three great Russian novelists of our time Tourgenieff is by far\nthe finest artist. He has that spirit of exquisite selection, that\ndelicate choice of detail, which is the essence of style; his work is\nentirely free from any personal intention; and by taking existence at its\nmost fiery-coloured moments he can distil into a few pages of perfect\nprose the moods and passions of many lives.\n\nCount Tolstoi’s method is much larger, and his field of vision more\nextended. He reminds us sometimes of Paul Veronese, and, like that great\npainter, can crowd, without over-crowding, the giant canvas on which he\nworks. We may not at first gain from his works that artistic unity of\nimpression which is Tourgenieff’s chief charm, but once that we have\nmastered the details the whole seems to have the grandeur and the\nsimplicity of an epic. Dostoieffski differs widely from both his rivals.\nHe is not so fine an artist as Tourgenieff, for he deals more with the\nfacts than with the effects of life; nor has he Tolstoi’s largeness of\nvision and epic dignity; but he has qualities that are distinctively and\nabsolutely his own, such as a fierce intensity of passion and\nconcentration of impulse, a power of dealing with the deepest mysteries\nof psychology and the most hidden springs of life, and a realism that is\npitiless in its fidelity, and terrible because it is true. Some time ago\nwe had occasion to draw attention to his marvellous novel _Crime and\nPunishment_, where in the haunt of impurity and vice a harlot and an\nassassin meet together to read the story of Dives and Lazarus, and the\noutcast girl leads the sinner to make atonement for his sin; nor is the\nbook entitled _Injury and Insult_ at all inferior to that great\nmasterpiece. Mean and ordinary though the surroundings of the story may\nseem, the heroine Natasha is like one of the noble victims of Greek\ntragedy; she is Antigone with the passion of Phædra, and it is impossible\nto approach her without a feeling of awe. Greek also is the gloom of\nNemesis that hangs over each character, only it is a Nemesis that does\nnot stand outside of life, but is part of our own nature and of the same\nmaterial as life itself. Aleósha, the beautiful young lad whom Natasha\nfollows to her doom, is a second Tito Melema, and has all Tito’s charm\nand grace and fascination. Yet he is different. He would never have\ndenied Baldassare in the Square at Florence, nor lied to Romola about\nTessa. He has a magnificent, momentary sincerity, a boyish\nunconsciousness of all that life signifies, an ardent enthusiasm for all\nthat life cannot give. There is nothing calculating about him. He never\nthinks evil, he only does it. From a psychological point of view he is\none of the most interesting characters of modern fiction, as from an\nartistic he is one of the most attractive. As we grow to know him he\nstirs strange questions for us, and makes us feel that it is not the\nwicked only who do wrong, nor the bad alone who work evil.\n\nAnd by what a subtle objective method does Dostoieffski show us his\ncharacters! He never tickets them with a list nor labels them with a\ndescription. We grow to know them very gradually, as we know people whom\nwe meet in society, at first by little tricks of manner, personal\nappearance, fancies in dress, and the like; and afterwards by their deeds\nand words; and even then they constantly elude us, for though\nDostoieffski may lay bare for us the secrets of their nature, yet he\nnever explains his personages away; they are always surprising us by\nsomething that they say or do, and keep to the end the eternal mystery of\nlife.\n\nIrrespective of its value as a work of art, this novel possesses a deep\nautobiographical interest also, as the character of Vania, the poor\nstudent who loves Natasha through all her sin and shame, is\nDostoieffski’s study of himself. Goethe once had to delay the completion\nof one of his novels till experience had furnished him with new\nsituations, but almost before he had arrived at manhood Dostoieffski knew\nlife in its most real forms; poverty and suffering, pain and misery,\nprison, exile, and love, were soon familiar to him, and by the lips of\nVania he has told his own story. This note of personal feeling, this\nharsh reality of actual experience, undoubtedly gives the book something\nof its strange fervour and terrible passion, yet it has not made it\negotistic; we see things from every point of view, and we feel, not that\nfiction has been trammelled by fact, but that fact itself has become\nideal and imaginative. Pitiless, too, though Dostoieffski is in his\nmethod as an artist, as a man he is full of human pity for all, for those\nwho do evil as well as for those who suffer it, for the selfish no less\nthan for those whose lives are wrecked for others and whose sacrifice is\nin vain. Since _Adam Bede_ and _Le Père Goriot_ no more powerful novel\nhas been written than _Insult and Injury_.\n\n_Injury and Insult_. By Fedor Dostoieffski. Translated from the Russian\nby Frederick Whishaw. (Vizetelly and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. PATER’S _IMAGINARY PORTRAITS_\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, June 11, 1887.)\n\n\nTo convey ideas through the medium of images has always been the aim of\nthose who are artists as well as thinkers in literature, and it is to a\ndesire to give a sensuous environment to intellectual concepts that we\nowe Mr. Pater’s last volume. For these Imaginary or, as we should prefer\nto call them, Imaginative Portraits of his, form a series of philosophic\nstudies in which the philosophy is tempered by personality, and the\nthought shown under varying conditions of mood and manner, the very\npermanence of each principle gaining something through the change and\ncolour of the life through which it finds expression. The most\nfascinating of all these pictures is undoubtedly that of Sebastian Van\nStorck. The account of Watteau is perhaps a little too fanciful, and the\ndescription of him as one who was ‘always a seeker after something in the\nworld, that is there in no satisfying measure, or not at all,’ seems to\nus more applicable to him who saw Mona Lisa sitting among the rocks than\nthe gay and debonair _peintre des fêtes galantes_. But Sebastian, the\ngrave young Dutch philosopher, is charmingly drawn. From the first\nglimpse we get of him, skating over the water-meadows with his plume of\nsquirrel’s tail and his fur muff, in all the modest pleasantness of\nboyhood, down to his strange death in the desolate house amid the sands\nof the Helder, we seem to see him, to know him, almost to hear the low\nmusic of his voice. He is a dreamer, as the common phrase goes, and yet\nhe is poetical in this sense, that his theorems shape life for him,\ndirectly. Early in youth he is stirred by a fine saying of Spinoza, and\nsets himself to realize the ideal of an intellectual disinterestedness,\nseparating himself more and more from the transient world of sensation,\naccident and even affection, till what is finite and relative becomes of\nno interest to him, and he feels that as nature is but a thought of his,\nso he himself is but a passing thought of God. This conception, of the\npower of a mere metaphysical abstraction over the mind of one so\nfortunately endowed for the reception of the sensible world, is\nexceedingly delightful, and Mr. Pater has never written a more subtle\npsychological study, the fact that Sebastian dies in an attempt to save\nthe life of a little child giving to the whole story a touch of poignant\npathos and sad irony.\n\n_Denys l’Auxerrois_ is suggested by a figure found, or said to be found,\non some old tapestries in Auxerre, the figure of a ‘flaxen and flowery\ncreature, sometimes well-nigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes\nmuffled in skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of a monk, but\nalways with a strong impress of real character and incident from the\nveritable streets’ of the town itself. From this strange design Mr.\nPater has fashioned a curious mediæval myth of the return of Dionysus\namong men, a myth steeped in colour and passion and old romance, full of\nwonder and full of worship, Denys himself being half animal and half god,\nmaking the world mad with a new ecstasy of living, stirring the artists\nsimply by his visible presence, drawing the marvel of music from reed and\npipe, and slain at last in a stage-play by those who had loved him. In\nits rich affluence of imagery this story is like a picture by Mantegna,\nand indeed Mantegna might have suggested the description of the pageant\nin which Denys rides upon a gaily-painted chariot, in soft silken raiment\nand, for head-dress, a strange elephant scalp with gilded tusks.\n\nIf _Denys l’Auxerrois_ symbolizes the passion of the senses and\n_Sebastian Van Storck_ the philosophic passion, as they certainly seem to\ndo, though no mere formula or definition can adequately express the\nfreedom and variety of the life that they portray, the passion for the\nimaginative world of art is the basis of the story of _Duke Carl of\nRosenmold_. Duke Carl is not unlike the late King of Bavaria, in his\nlove of France, his admiration for the _Grand Monarque_ and his fantastic\ndesire to amaze and to bewilder, but the resemblance is possibly only a\nchance one. In fact Mr. Pater’s young hero is the precursor of the\n_Aufklärung_ of the last century, the German precursor of Herder and\nLessing and Goethe himself, and finds the forms of art ready to his hand\nwithout any national spirit to fill them or make them vital and\nresponsive. He too dies, trampled to death by the soldiers of the\ncountry he so much admired, on the night of his marriage with a peasant\ngirl, the very failure of his life lending him a certain melancholy grace\nand dramatic interest.\n\nOn the whole, then, this is a singularly attractive book. Mr. Pater is\nan intellectual impressionist. He does not weary us with any definite\ndoctrine or seek to suit life to any formal creed. He is always looking\nfor exquisite moments and, when he has found them, he analyses them with\ndelicate and delightful art and then passes on, often to the opposite\npole of thought or feeling, knowing that every mood has its own quality\nand charm and is justified by its mere existence. He has taken the\nsensationalism of Greek philosophy and made it a new method of art\ncriticism. As for his style, it is curiously ascetic. Now and then, we\ncome across phrases with a strange sensuousness of expression, as when he\ntells us how Denys l’Auxerrois, on his return from a long journey, ‘ate\nflesh for the first time, tearing the hot, red morsels with his delicate\nfingers in a kind of wild greed,’ but such passages are rare. Asceticism\nis the keynote of Mr. Pater’s prose; at times it is almost too severe in\nits self-control and makes us long for a little more freedom. For\nindeed, the danger of such prose as his is that it is apt to become\nsomewhat laborious. Here and there, one is tempted to say of Mr. Pater\nthat he is ‘a seeker after something in language, that is there in no\nsatisfying measure, or not at all.’ The continual preoccupation with\nphrase and epithet has its drawbacks as well as its virtues. And yet,\nwhen all is said, what wonderful prose it is, with its subtle\npreferences, its fastidious purity, its rejection of what is common or\nordinary! Mr. Pater has the true spirit of selection, the true art of\nomission. If he be not among the greatest prose writers of our\nliterature he is, at least, our greatest artist in prose; and though it\nmay be admitted that the best style is that which seems an unconscious\nresult rather than a conscious aim, still in these latter days when\nviolent rhetoric does duty for eloquence and vulgarity usurps the name of\nnature, we should be grateful for a style that deliberately aims at\nperfection of form, that seeks to produce its effect by artistic means\nand sets before itself an ideal of grave and chastened beauty.\n\n_Imaginary Portraits_. By Walter Pater, M.A., Fellow of Brasenose\nCollege, Oxford. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nA GERMAN PRINCESS\n(_Woman’s World_, November 1887.)\n\n\nThe Princess Christian’s translation of the _Memoirs of Wilhelmine_,\n_Margravine of Baireuth_, is a most fascinating and delightful book. The\nMargravine and her brother, Frederick the Great, were, as the Princess\nherself points out in an admirably written introduction, ‘among the first\nof those questioning minds that strove after spiritual freedom’ in the\nlast century. ‘They had studied,’ says the Princess, ‘the English\nphilosophers, Newton, Locke, and Shaftesbury, and were roused to\nenthusiasm by the writings of Voltaire and Rousseau. Their whole lives\nbore the impress of the influence of French thought on the burning\nquestions of the day. In the eighteenth century began that great\nstruggle of philosophy against tyranny and worn-out abuses which\nculminated in the French Revolution. The noblest minds were engaged in\nthe struggle, and, like most reformers, they pushed their conclusions to\nextremes, and too often lost sight of the need of a due proportion in\nthings. The Margravine’s influence on the intellectual development of\nher country is untold. She formed at Baireuth a centre of culture and\nlearning which had before been undreamt of in Germany.’\n\nThe historical value of these _Memoirs_ is, of course, well known.\nCarlyle speaks of them as being ‘by far the best authority’ on the early\nlife of Frederick the Great. But considered merely as the autobiography\nof a clever and charming woman, they are no less interesting, and even\nthose who care nothing for eighteenth-century politics, and look upon\nhistory itself as an unattractive form of fiction, cannot fail to be\nfascinated by the Margravine’s wit, vivacity and humour, by her keen\npowers of observation, and by her brilliant and assertive egotism. Not\nthat her life was by any means a happy one. Her father, to quote the\nPrincess Christian, ‘ruled his family with the same harsh despotism with\nwhich he ruled his country, taking pleasure in making his power felt by\nall in the most galling manner,’ and the Margravine and her brother ‘had\nmuch to suffer, not only from his ungovernable temper, but also from the\nreal privations to which they were subjected.’ Indeed, the picture the\nMargravine gives of the King is quite extraordinary. ‘He despised all\nlearning,’ she writes, ‘and wished me to occupy myself with nothing but\nneedlework and household duties or details. Had he found me writing or\nreading, he would probably have whipped me.’ He ‘considered music a\ncapital offence, and maintained that every one should devote himself to\none object: men to the military service, and women to their household\nduties. Science and the arts he counted among the “seven deadly sins.”’\nSometimes he took to religion, ‘and then,’ says the Margravine, ‘we lived\nlike trappists, to the great grief of my brother and myself. Every\nafternoon the King preached a sermon, to which we had to listen as\nattentively as if it proceeded from an Apostle. My brother and I were\noften seized with such an intense sense of the ridiculous that we burst\nout laughing, upon which an apostolic curse was poured out on our heads,\nwhich we had to accept with a show of humility and penitence.’ Economy\nand soldiers were his only topics of conversation; his chief social\namusement was to make his guests intoxicated; and as for his temper, the\naccounts the Margravine gives of it would be almost incredible if they\nwere not amply corroborated from other sources. Suetonius has written of\nthe strange madness that comes on kings, but even in his melodramatic\nchronicles there is hardly anything that rivals what the Margravine has\nto tell us. Here is one of her pictures of family life at a Royal Court\nin the last century, and it is not by any means the worst scene she\ndescribes:\n\n On one occasion, when his temper was more than usually bad, he told\n the Queen that he had received letters from Anspach, in which the\n Margrave announced his arrival at Berlin for the beginning of May.\n He was coming there for the purpose of marrying my sister, and one of\n his ministers would arrive previously with the betrothal ring. My\n father asked my sister whether she were pleased at this prospect, and\n how she would arrange her household. Now my sister had always made a\n point of telling him whatever came into her head, even the greatest\n home-truths, and he had never taken her outspokenness amiss. On this\n occasion, therefore, relying on former experience, she answered him\n as follows: ‘When I have a house of my own, I shall take care to have\n a well-appointed dinner-table, better than yours is, and if I have\n children of my own, I shall not plague them as you do yours, and\n force them to eat things they thoroughly dislike!’\n\n ‘What is amiss with my dinner-table?’ the King enquired, getting very\n red in the face.\n\n ‘You ask what is the matter with it,’ my sister replied; ‘there is\n not enough on it for us to eat, and what there is is cabbage and\n carrots, which we detest.’ Her first answer had already angered my\n father, but now he gave vent to his fury. But instead of punishing\n my sister he poured it all on my mother, my brother, and myself. To\n begin with he threw his plate at my brother’s head, who would have\n been struck had he not got out of the way; a second one he threw at\n me, which I also happily escaped; then torrents of abuse followed\n these first signs of hostility. He reproached the Queen with having\n brought up her children so badly. ‘You will curse your mother,’ he\n said to my brother, ‘for having made you such a good-for-nothing\n creature.’ . . . As my brother and I passed near him to leave the\n room, he hit out at us with his crutch. Happily we escaped the blow,\n for it would certainly have struck us down, and we at last escaped\n without harm.\n\nYet, as the Princess Christian remarks, ‘despite the almost cruel\ntreatment Wilhelmine received from her father, it is noticeable that\nthroughout her memoirs she speaks of him with the greatest affection.\nShe makes constant reference to his “good heart”’; and says that his\nfaults ‘were more those of temper than of nature.’ Nor could all the\nmisery and wretchedness of her home life dull the brightness of her\nintellect. What would have made others morbid, made her satirical.\nInstead of weeping over her own personal tragedies, she laughs at the\ngeneral comedy of life. Here, for instance, is her description of Peter\nthe Great and his wife, who arrived at Berlin in 1718:\n\n The Czarina was small, broad, and brown-looking, without the\n slightest dignity or appearance. You had only to look at her to\n detect her low origin. She might have passed for a German actress,\n she had decked herself out in such a manner. Her dress had been\n bought second-hand, and was trimmed with some dirty looking silver\n embroidery; the bodice was trimmed with precious stones, arranged in\n such a manner as to represent the double eagle. She wore a dozen\n orders; and round the bottom of her dress hung quantities of relics\n and pictures of saints, which rattled when she walked, and reminded\n one of a smartly harnessed mule. The orders too made a great noise,\n knocking against each other.\n\n The Czar, on the other hand, was tall and well grown, with a handsome\n face, but his expression was coarse, and impressed one with fear. He\n wore a simple sailor’s dress. His wife, who spoke German very badly,\n called her court jester to her aid, and spoke Russian with her. This\n poor creature was a Princess Gallizin, who had been obliged to\n undertake this sorry office to save her life, as she had been mixed\n up in a conspiracy against the Czar, and had twice been flogged with\n the knout!\n\n * * * * *\n\n The following day [the Czar] visited all the sights of Berlin,\n amongst others the very curious collection of coins and antiques.\n Amongst these last named was a statue, representing a heathen god.\n It was anything but attractive, but was the most valuable in the\n collection. The Czar admired it very much, and insisted on the\n Czarina kissing it. On her refusing, he said to her in bad German\n that she should lose her head if she did not at once obey him. Being\n terrified at the Czar’s anger she immediately complied with his\n orders without the least hesitation. The Czar asked the King to give\n him this and other statues, a request which he could not refuse. The\n same thing happened about a cupboard, inlaid with amber. It was the\n only one of its kind, and had cost King Frederick I. an enormous sum,\n and the consternation was general on its having to be sent to\n Petersburg.\n\n This barbarous Court happily left after two days. The Queen rushed\n at once to Monbijou, which she found in a state resembling that of\n the fall of Jerusalem. I never saw such a sight. Everything was\n destroyed, so that the Queen was obliged to rebuild the whole house.\n\nNor are the Margravine’s descriptions of her reception as a bride in the\nprincipality of Baireuth less amusing. Hof was the first town she came\nto, and a deputation of nobles was waiting there to welcome her. This is\nher account of them:\n\n Their faces would have frightened little children, and, to add to\n their beauty, they had arranged their hair to resemble the wigs that\n were then in fashion. Their dresses clearly denoted the antiquity of\n their families, as they were composed of heirlooms, and were cut\n accordingly, so that most of them did not fit. In spite of their\n costumes being the ‘Court Dresses,’ the gold and silver trimmings\n were so black that you had a difficulty in making out of what they\n were made. The manners of these nobles suited their faces and their\n clothes. They might have passed for peasants. I could scarcely\n restrain my laughter when I first beheld these strange figures. I\n spoke to each in turn, but none of them understood what I said, and\n their replies sounded to me like Hebrew, because the dialect of the\n Empire is quite different from that spoken in Brandenburg.\n\n The clergy also presented themselves. These were totally different\n creatures. Round their necks they wore great ruffs, which resembled\n washing baskets. They spoke very slowly, so that I might be able to\n understand them better. They said the most foolish things, and it\n was only with much difficulty that I was able to prevent myself from\n laughing. At last I got rid of all these people, and we sat down to\n dinner. I tried my best to converse with those at table, but it was\n useless. At last I touched on agricultural topics, and then they\n began to thaw. I was at once informed of all their different\n farmsteads and herds of cattle. An almost interesting discussion\n took place as to whether the oxen in the upper part of the country\n were fatter than those in the lowlands.\n\n * * * * *\n\n I was told that as the next day was Sunday, I must spend it at Hof,\n and listen to a sermon. Never before had I heard such a sermon! The\n clergyman began by giving us an account of all the marriages that had\n taken place from Adam’s time to that of Noah. We were spared no\n detail, so that the gentlemen all laughed and the poor ladies\n blushed. The dinner went off as on the previous day. In the\n afternoon all the ladies came to pay me their respects. Gracious\n heavens! What ladies, too! They were all as ugly as the gentlemen,\n and their head-dresses were so curious that swallows might have built\n their nests in them.\n\nAs for Baireuth itself, and its petty Court, the picture she gives of it\nis exceedingly curious. Her father-in-law, the reigning Margrave, was a\nnarrow-minded mediocrity, whose conversation ‘resembled that of a sermon\nread aloud for the purpose of sending the listener to sleep,’ and he had\nonly two topics, Telemachus, and Amelot de la Houssaye’s _Roman History_.\nThe Ministers, from Baron von Stein, who always said ‘yes’ to everything,\nto Baron von Voit, who always said ‘no,’ were not by any means an\nintellectual set of men. ‘Their chief amusement,’ says the Margravine,\n‘was drinking from morning till night,’ and horses and cattle were all\nthey talked about. The palace itself was shabby, decayed and dirty. ‘I\nwas like a lamb among wolves,’ cries the poor Margravine; ‘I was settled\nin a strange country, at a Court which more resembled a peasant’s farm,\nsurrounded by coarse, bad, dangerous, and tiresome people.’\n\nYet her _esprit_ never deserted her. She is always clever, witty, and\nentertaining. Her stories about the endless squabbles over precedence\nare extremely amusing. The society of her day cared very little for good\nmanners, knew, indeed, very little about them, but all questions of\netiquette were of vital importance, and the Margravine herself, though\nshe saw the shallowness of the whole system, was far too proud not to\nassert her rights when circumstances demanded it, as the description she\ngives of her visit to the Empress of Germany shows very clearly. When\nthis meeting was first proposed, the Margravine declined positively to\nentertain the idea. ‘There was no precedent,’ she writes, ‘of a King’s\ndaughter and the Empress having met, and I did not know to what rights I\nought to lay claim.’ Finally, however, she is induced to consent, but\nshe lays down three conditions for her reception:\n\n I desired first of all that the Empress’s Court should receive me at\n the foot of the stairs, secondly, that she should meet me at the door\n of her bedroom, and, thirdly, that she should offer me an armchair to\n sit on.\n\n * * * * *\n\n They disputed all day over the conditions I had made. The two first\n were granted me, but all that could be obtained with respect to the\n third was, that the Empress would use quite a small armchair, whilst\n she gave me a chair.\n\n Next day I saw this Royal personage. I own that had I been in her\n place I would have made all the rules of etiquette and ceremony the\n excuse for not being obliged to appear. The Empress was small and\n stout, round as a ball, very ugly, and without dignity or manner.\n Her mind corresponded to her body. She was terribly bigoted, and\n spent her whole day praying. The old and ugly are generally the\n Almighty’s portion. She received me trembling all over, and was so\n upset that she could not say a word.\n\n After some silence I began the conversation in French. She answered\n me in her Austrian dialect that she could not speak in that language,\n and begged I would speak in German. The conversation did not last\n long, for the Austrian and low Saxon tongues are so different from\n each other that to those acquainted with only one the other is\n unintelligible. This is what happened to us. A third person would\n have laughed at our misunderstandings, for we caught only a word here\n and there, and had to guess the rest. The poor Empress was such a\n slave to etiquette that she would have thought it high treason had\n she spoken to me in a foreign language, though she understood French\n quite well.\n\nMany other extracts might be given from this delightful book, but from\nthe few that have been selected some idea can be formed of the vivacity\nand picturesqueness of the Margravine’s style. As for her character, it\nis very well summed up by the Princess Christian, who, while admitting\nthat she often appears almost heartless and inconsiderate, yet claims\nthat, ‘taken as a whole, she stands out in marked prominence among the\nmost gifted women of the eighteenth century, not only by her mental\npowers, but by her goodness of heart, her self-sacrificing devotion, and\ntrue friendship.’ An interesting sequel to her _Memoirs_ would be her\ncorrespondence with Voltaire, and it is to be hoped that we may shortly\nsee a translation of these letters from the same accomplished pen to\nwhich we owe the present volume. {63}\n\n_Memoirs of Wilhelmine Margravine of Baireuth_. Translated and edited by\nHer Royal Highness Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess of\nGreat Britain and Ireland. (David Stott.)\n\n\n\n\nA VILLAGE TRAGEDY\n\n\nOne of the most powerful and pathetic novels that has recently appeared\nis _A Village Tragedy_ by Margaret L. Woods. To find any parallel to\nthis lurid little story, one must go to Dostoieffski or to Guy de\nMaupassant. Not that Mrs. Woods can be said to have taken either of\nthese two great masters of fiction as her model, but there is something\nin her work that recalls their method; she has not a little of their\nfierce intensity, their terrible concentration, their passionless yet\npoignant objectivity; like them, she seems to allow life to suggest its\nown mode of presentation; and, like them, she recognizes that a frank\nacceptance of the facts of life is the true basis of all modern imitative\nart. The scene of Mrs. Woods’s story lies in one of the villages near\nOxford; the characters are very few in number, and the plot is extremely\nsimple. It is a romance of modern Arcadia—a tale of the love of a\nfarm-labourer for a girl who, though slightly above him in social station\nand education, is yet herself also a servant on a farm. True Arcadians\nthey are, both of them, and their ignorance and isolation serve only to\nintensify the tragedy that gives the story its title. It is the fashion\nnowadays to label literature, so, no doubt, Mrs. Woods’s novel will be\nspoken of as ‘realistic.’ Its realism, however, is the realism of the\nartist, not of the reporter; its tact of treatment, subtlety of\nperception, and fine distinction of style, make it rather a poem than a\n_procès-verbal_; and though it lays bare to us the mere misery of life,\nit suggests something of life’s mystery also. Very delicate, too, is the\nhandling of external Nature. There are no formal guide-book descriptions\nof scenery, nor anything of what Byron petulantly called ‘twaddling about\ntrees,’ but we seem to breathe the atmosphere of the country, to catch\nthe exquisite scent of the beanfields, so familiar to all who have ever\nwandered through the Oxfordshire lanes in June; to hear the birds singing\nin the thicket, and the sheep-bells tinkling from the hill.\n\nCharacterization, that enemy of literary form, is such an essential part\nof the method of the modern writer of fiction, that Nature has almost\nbecome to the novelist what light and shade are to the painter—the one\npermanent element of style; and if the power of _A Village Tragedy_ be\ndue to its portrayal of human life, no small portion of its charm comes\nfrom its Theocritean setting.\n\n_A Village Tragedy_. By Margaret L. Woods. (Bentley and Son.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. MORRIS’S COMPLETION OF THE _ODYSSEY_\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, November 24, 1887.)\n\n\nMr. Morris’s second volume brings the great romantic epic of Greek\nliterature to its perfect conclusion, and although there can never be an\nultimate translation of either _Iliad_ or _Odyssey_, as each successive\nage is sure to find pleasure in rendering the two poems in its own manner\nand according to its own canons of taste, still it is not too much to say\nthat Mr. Morris’s version will always be a true classic amongst our\nclassical translations. It is not, of course, flawless. In our notice\nof the first volume we ventured to say that Mr. Morris was sometimes far\nmore Norse than Greek, nor does the volume that now lies before us make\nus alter that opinion. The particular metre, also, selected by Mr.\nMorris, although admirably adapted to express ‘the strong-winged music of\nHomer,’ as far as its flow and freedom are concerned, misses something of\nits dignity and calm. Here, it must be admitted, we feel a distinct\nloss, for there is in Homer not a little of Milton’s lofty manner, and if\nswiftness be an essential of the Greek hexameter, stateliness is one of\nits distinguishing qualities in Homer’s hands. This defect, however, if\nwe must call it a defect, seems almost unavoidable, as for certain\nmetrical reasons a majestic movement in English verse is necessarily a\nslow movement; and, after all that can be said is said, how really\nadmirable is this whole translation! If we set aside its noble qualities\nas a poem and look on it purely from the scholar’s point of view, how\nstraightforward it is, how honest and direct! Its fidelity to the\noriginal is far beyond that of any other verse-translation in our\nliterature, and yet it is not the fidelity of a pedant to his text but\nrather the fine loyalty of poet to poet.\n\nWhen Mr. Morris’s first volume appeared many of the critics complained\nthat his occasional use of archaic words and unusual expressions robbed\nhis version of the true Homeric simplicity. This, however, is not a very\nfelicitous criticism, for while Homer is undoubtedly simple in his\nclearness and largeness of vision, his wonderful power of direct\nnarration, his wholesome sanity, and the purity and precision of his\nmethod, simple in language he undoubtedly is not. What he was to his\ncontemporaries we have, of course, no means of judging, but we know that\nthe Athenian of the fifth century B.C. found him in many places difficult\nto understand, and when the creative age was succeeded by the age of\ncriticism and Alexandria began to take the place of Athens as the centre\nof culture for the Hellenistic world, Homeric dictionaries and glossaries\nseem to have been constantly published. Indeed, Athenæus tells us of a\nwonderful Byzantine blue-stocking, a _précieuse_ from the Propontis, who\nwrote a long hexameter poem, called _Mnemosyne_, full of ingenious\ncommentaries on difficulties in Homer, and in fact, it is evident that,\nas far as the language is concerned, such a phrase as ‘Homeric\nsimplicity’ would have rather amazed an ancient Greek. As for Mr.\nMorris’s tendency to emphasize the etymological meaning of words, a point\ncommented on with somewhat flippant severity in a recent number of\n_Macmillan_’_s Magazine_, here Mr. Morris seems to us to be in complete\naccord, not merely with the spirit of Homer, but with the spirit of all\nearly poetry. It is quite true that language is apt to degenerate into a\nsystem of almost algebraic symbols, and the modern city-man who takes a\nticket for Blackfriars Bridge, naturally never thinks of the Dominican\nmonks who once had their monastery by Thames-side, and after whom the\nspot is named. But in earlier times it was not so. Men were then keenly\nconscious of the real meaning of words, and early poetry, especially, is\nfull of this feeling, and, indeed, may be said to owe to it no small\nportion of its poetic power and charm. These old words, then, and this\nold use of words which we find in Mr. Morris’s _Odyssey_ can be amply\njustified upon historical grounds, and as for their artistic effect, it\nis quite excellent. Pope tried to put Homer into the ordinary language\nof his day, with what result we know only too well; but Mr. Morris, who\nuses his archaisms with the tact of a true artist, and to whom indeed\nthey seem to come absolutely naturally, has succeeded in giving to his\nversion by their aid that touch, not of ‘quaintness,’ for Homer is never\nquaint, but of old-world romance and old-world beauty, which we moderns\nfind so pleasurable, and to which the Greeks themselves were so keenly\nsensitive.\n\nAs for individual passages of special merit, Mr. Morris’s translation is\nno robe of rags sewn with purple patches for critics to sample. Its real\nvalue lies in the absolute rightness and coherence of the whole, in the\ngrand architecture of the swift, strong verse, and in the fact that the\nstandard is not merely high but everywhere sustained. It is impossible,\nhowever, to resist the temptation of quoting Mr. Morris’s rendering of\nthat famous passage in the twenty-third book of the epic, in which\nOdysseus eludes the trap laid for him by Penelope, whose very faith in\nthe certainty of her husband’s return makes her sceptical of his identity\nwhen he stands before her; an instance, by the way, of Homer’s wonderful\npsychological knowledge of human nature, as it is always the dreamer\nhimself who is most surprised when his dream comes true.\n\n Thus she spake to prove her husband; but Odysseus, grieved at heart,\n Spake thus unto his bed-mate well-skilled in gainful art:\n ‘O woman, thou sayest a word exceeding grievous to me!\n Who hath otherwhere shifted my bedstead? full hard for him should it\n be,\n For as deft as he were, unless soothly a very God come here,\n Who easily, if he willed it, might shift it otherwhere.\n But no mortal man is living, how strong soe’er in his youth,\n Who shall lightly hale it elsewhere, since a mighty wonder forsooth\n Is wrought in that fashioned bedstead, and I wrought it, and I alone.\n In the close grew a thicket of olive, a long-leaved tree full-grown,\n That flourished and grew goodly as big as a pillar about,\n So round it I built my bride-room, till I did the work right out\n With ashlar stone close-fitting; and I roofed it overhead,\n And thereto joined doors I made me, well-fitting in their stead.\n Then I lopped away the boughs of the long-leafed olive-tree,\n And, shearing the bole from the root up full well and cunningly,\n I planed it about with the brass, and set the rule thereto,\n And shaping thereof a bed-post, with the wimble I bored it through.\n So beginning, I wrought out the bedstead, and finished it utterly,\n And with gold enwrought it about, and with silver and ivory,\n And stretched on it a thong of oxhide with the purple dye made\n bright.\n Thus then the sign I have shown thee; nor, woman, know I aright\n If my bed yet bideth steadfast, or if to another place\n Some man hath moved it, and smitten the olive-bole from its base.’\n\nThese last twelve books of the _Odyssey_ have not the same marvel of\nromance, adventure and colour that we find in the earlier part of the\nepic. There is nothing in them that we can compare to the exquisite\nidyll of Nausicaa or to the Titanic humour of the episode in the Cyclops’\ncave. Penelope has not the glamour of Circe, and the song of the Sirens\nmay sound sweeter than the whizz of the arrows of Odysseus as he stands\non the threshold of his hall. Yet, for sheer intensity of passionate\npower, for concentration of intellectual interest and for masterly\ndramatic construction, these latter books are quite unequalled. Indeed,\nthey show very clearly how it was that, as Greek art developed, the epos\npassed into the drama. The whole scheme of the argument, the return of\nthe hero in disguise, his disclosure of himself to his son, his terrible\nvengeance on his enemies and his final recognition by his wife, reminds\nus of the plot of more than one Greek play, and shows us what the great\nAthenian poet meant when he said that his own dramas were merely scraps\nfrom Homer’s table. In rendering this splendid poem into English verse,\nMr. Morris has done our literature a service that can hardly be\nover-estimated, and it is pleasant to think that, even should the\nclassics be entirely excluded from our educational systems, the English\nboy will still be able to know something of Homer’s delightful tales, to\ncatch an echo of his grand music and to wander with the wise Odysseus\nround ‘the shores of old romance.’\n\n_The Odyssey of Homer_. Done into English Verse by William Morris,\nAuthor of _The Earthly Paradise_. Volume II. (Reeves and Turner.)\n\n\n\n\nMRS. SOMERVILLE\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, November 30, 1887.)\n\n\nPhyllis Browne’s Life of Mrs. Somerville forms part of a very interesting\nlittle series, called ‘The World’s Workers’—a collection of short\nbiographies catholic enough to include personalities so widely different\nas Turner and Richard Cobden, Handel and Sir Titus Salt, Robert\nStephenson and Florence Nightingale, and yet possessing a certain\ndefinite aim. As a mathematician and a scientist, the translator and\npopularizer of _La Mécanique Céleste_, and the author of an important\nbook on physical geography, Mrs. Somerville is, of course, well known.\nThe scientific bodies of Europe covered her with honours; her bust stands\nin the hall of the Royal Society, and one of the Women’s Colleges at\nOxford bears her name. Yet, considered simply in the light of a wife and\na mother, she is no less admirable; and those who consider that stupidity\nis the proper basis for the domestic virtues, and that intellectual women\nmust of necessity be helpless with their hands, cannot do better than\nread Phyllis Browne’s pleasant little book, in which they will find that\nthe greatest woman-mathematician of any age was a clever needlewoman, a\ngood housekeeper, and a most skilful cook. Indeed, Mrs. Somerville seems\nto have been quite renowned for her cookery. The discoverers of the\nNorth-West Passage christened an island ‘Somerville,’ not as a tribute to\nthe distinguished mathematician, but as a recognition of the excellence\nof some orange marmalade which the distinguished mathematician had\nprepared with her own hands and presented to the ships before they left\nEngland; and to the fact that she was able to make currant jelly at a\nvery critical moment she owed the affection of some of her husband’s\nrelatives, who up to that time had been rather prejudiced against her on\nthe ground that she was merely an unpractical Blue-stocking.\n\nNor did her scientific knowledge ever warp or dull the tenderness and\nhumanity of her nature. For birds and animals she had always a great\nlove. We hear of her as a little girl watching with eager eyes the\nswallows as they built their nests in summer or prepared for their flight\nin the autumn; and when snow was on the ground she used to open the\nwindows to let the robins hop in and pick crumbs on the breakfast-table.\nOn one occasion she went with her father on a tour in the Highlands, and\nfound on her return that a pet goldfinch, which had been left in the\ncharge of the servants, had been neglected by them and had died of\nstarvation. She was almost heart-broken at the event, and in writing her\n_Recollections_, seventy years after, she mentioned it and said that, as\nshe wrote, she felt deep pain. Her chief pet in her old age was a\nmountain sparrow, which used to perch on her arm and go to sleep there\nwhile she was writing. One day the sparrow fell into the water-jug and\nwas drowned, to the great grief of its mistress who could hardly be\nconsoled for its loss, though later on we hear of a beautiful paroquet\ntaking the place of _le moineau d’Uranie_, and becoming Mrs. Somerville’s\nconstant companion. She was also very energetic, Phyllis Browne tells\nus, in trying to get a law passed in the Italian Parliament for the\nprotection of animals, and said once, with reference to this subject, ‘We\nEnglish cannot boast of humanity so long as our sportsmen find pleasure\nin shooting down tame pigeons as they fly terrified out of a cage’—a\nremark with which I entirely agree. Mr. Herbert’s Bill for the\nprotection of land birds gave her immense pleasure, though, to quote her\nown words, she was ‘grieved to find that “the lark, which at heaven’s\ngate sings,” is thought unworthy of man’s protection’; and she took a\ngreat fancy to a gentleman who, on being told of the number of singing\nbirds that is eaten in Italy—nightingales, goldfinches, and\nrobins—exclaimed in horror, ‘What! robins! our household birds! I would\nas soon eat a child!’ Indeed, she believed to some extent in the\nimmortality of animals on the ground that, if animals have no future, it\nwould seem as if some were created for uncompensated misery—an idea which\ndoes not seem to me to be either extravagant or fantastic, though it must\nbe admitted that the optimism on which it is based receives absolutely no\nsupport from science.\n\nOn the whole, Phyllis Browne’s book is very pleasant reading. Its only\nfault is that it is far too short, and this is a fault so rare in modern\nliterature that it almost amounts to a distinction. However, Phyllis\nBrowne has managed to crowd into the narrow limits at her disposal a\ngreat many interesting anecdotes. The picture she gives of Mrs.\nSomerville working away at her translation of Laplace in the same room\nwith her children is very charming, and reminds one of what is told of\nGeorge Sand; there is an amusing account of Mrs. Somerville’s visit to\nthe widow of the young Pretender, the Countess of Albany, who, after\ntalking with her for some time, exclaimed, ‘So you don’t speak Italian.\nYou must have had a very bad education’! And this story about the\nWaverley Novels may possibly be new to some of my readers:\n\n A very amusing circumstance in connection with Mrs. Somerville’s\n acquaintance with Sir Walter arose out of the childish\n inquisitiveness of Woronzow Greig, Mrs. Somerville’s little boy.\n\n During the time Mrs. Somerville was visiting Abbotsford the Waverley\n Novels were appearing, and were creating a great sensation; yet even\n Scott’s intimate friends did not know that he was the author; he\n enjoyed keeping the affair a mystery. But little Woronzow discovered\n what he was about. One day when Mrs. Somerville was talking about a\n novel that had just been published, Woronzow said, ‘I knew all these\n stories long ago, for Mr. Scott writes on the dinner-table; when he\n has finished he puts the green cloth with the papers in a corner of\n the dining-room, and when he goes out Charlie Scott and I read the\n stories.’\n\nPhyllis Browne remarks that this incident shows ‘that persons who want to\nkeep a secret ought to be very careful when children are about’; but the\nstory seems to me to be far too charming to require any moral of the\nkind.\n\nBound up in the same volume is a Life of Miss Mary Carpenter, also\nwritten by Phyllis Browne. Miss Carpenter does not seem to me to have\nthe charm and fascination of Mrs. Somerville. There is always something\nabout her that is formal, limited, and precise. When she was about two\nyears old she insisted on being called ‘Doctor Carpenter’ in the nursery;\nat the age of twelve she is described by a friend as a sedate little\ngirl, who always spoke like a book; and before she entered on her\neducational schemes she wrote down a solemn dedication of herself to the\nservice of humanity. However, she was one of the practical, hardworking\nsaints of the nineteenth century, and it is no doubt quite right that the\nsaints should take themselves very seriously. It is only fair also to\nremember that her work of rescue and reformation was carried on under\ngreat difficulties. Here, for instance, is the picture Miss Cobbe gives\nus of one of the Bristol night-schools:\n\n It was a wonderful spectacle to see Mary Carpenter sitting patiently\n before the large school gallery in St. James’s Back, teaching,\n singing, and praying with the wild street-boys, in spite of endless\n interruptions caused by such proceedings as shooting marbles at any\n object behind her, whistling, stamping, fighting, shrieking out\n ‘Amen’ in the middle of a prayer, and sometimes rising _en masse_ and\n tearing like a troop of bisons in hob-nailed shoes down from the\n gallery, round the great schoolroom, and down the stairs, and into\n the street. These irrepressible outbreaks she bore with infinite\n good humour.\n\nHer own account is somewhat pleasanter, and shows that ‘the troop of\nbisons in hob-nailed shoes’ was not always so barbarous.\n\n I had taken to my class on the preceding week some specimens of ferns\n neatly gummed on white paper. . . . This time I took a piece of\n coal-shale, with impressions of ferns, to show them. . . . I told\n each to examine the specimen, and tell me what he thought it was. W.\n gave so bright a smile that I saw he knew; none of the others could\n tell; he said they were ferns, like what I showed them last week, but\n he thought they were chiselled on the stone. Their surprise and\n pleasure were great when I explained the matter to them.\n\n The history of Joseph: they all found a difficulty in realizing that\n this had actually occurred. One asked if Egypt existed now, and if\n people lived in it. When I told them that buildings now stood which\n had been erected about the time of Joseph, one said that it was\n impossible, as they must have fallen down ere this. I showed them\n the form of a pyramid, and they were satisfied. One asked if _all_\n books were true.\n\n The story of Macbeth impressed them very much. They knew the name of\n Shakespeare, having seen his name over a public-house.\n\nA boy defined conscience as ‘a thing a gentleman hasn’t got, who, when a\nboy finds his purse and gives it back to him, doesn’t give the boy\nsixpence.’\n\nAnother boy was asked, after a Sunday evening lecture on ‘Thankfulness,’\nwhat pleasure he enjoyed most in the course of a year. He replied\ncandidly, ‘Cock-fightin’, ma’am; there’s a pit up by the “Black Boy” as\nis worth anythink in Brissel.’\n\nThere is something a little pathetic in the attempt to civilize the rough\nstreet-boy by means of the refining influence of ferns and fossils, and\nit is difficult to help feeling that Miss Carpenter rather over-estimated\nthe value of elementary education. The poor are not to be fed upon\nfacts. Even Shakespeare and the Pyramids are not sufficient; nor is\nthere much use in giving them the results of culture, unless we also give\nthem those conditions under which culture can be realized. In these\ncold, crowded cities of the North, the proper basis for morals, using the\nword in its wide Hellenic signification, is to be found in architecture,\nnot in books.\n\nStill, it would be ungenerous not to recognize that Mary Carpenter gave\nto the children of the poor not merely her learning, but her love. In\nearly life, her biographer tells us, she had longed for the happiness of\nbeing a wife and a mother; but later she became content that her\naffection could be freely given to all who needed it, and the verse in\nthe prophecies, ‘I have given thee children whom thou hast not borne,’\nseemed to her to indicate what was to be her true mission. Indeed, she\nrather inclined to Bacon’s opinion, that unmarried people do the best\npublic work. ‘It is quite striking,’ she says in one of her letters, ‘to\nobserve how much the useful power and influence of woman has developed of\nlate years. Unattached ladies, such as widows and unmarried women, have\nquite ample work to do in the world for the good of others to absorb all\ntheir powers. Wives and mothers have a very noble work given them by\nGod, and want no more.’ The whole passage is extremely interesting, and\nthe phrase ‘unattached ladies’ is quite delightful, and reminds one of\nCharles Lamb.\n\n_Mrs. Somerville_ and _Mary Carpenter_. By Phyllis Browne, Author of\n_What Girls Can Do_, _etc._ (Cassell and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nARISTOTLE AT AFTERNOON TEA\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, December 16, 1887.)\n\n\nIn society, says Mr. Mahaffy, every civilized man and woman ought to feel\nit their duty to say something, even when there is hardly anything to be\nsaid, and, in order to encourage this delightful art of brilliant\nchatter, he has published a social guide without which no _débutante_ or\ndandy should ever dream of going out to dine. Not that Mr. Mahaffy’s\nbook can be said to be, in any sense of the word, popular. In discussing\nthis important subject of conversation, he has not merely followed the\nscientific method of Aristotle which is, perhaps, excusable, but he has\nadopted the literary style of Aristotle for which no excuse is possible.\nThere is, also, hardly a single anecdote, hardly a single illustration,\nand the reader is left to put the Professor’s abstract rules into\npractice, without either the examples or the warnings of history to\nencourage or to dissuade him in his reckless career. Still, the book can\nbe warmly recommended to all who propose to substitute the vice of\nverbosity for the stupidity of silence. It fascinates in spite of its\nform and pleases in spite of its pedantry, and is the nearest approach,\nthat we know of, in modern literature to meeting Aristotle at an\nafternoon tea.\n\nAs regards physical conditions, the only one that is considered by Mr.\nMahaffy as being absolutely essential to a good conversationalist, is the\npossession of a musical voice. Some learned writers have been of opinion\nthat a slight stammer often gives peculiar zest to conversation, but Mr.\nMahaffy rejects this view and is extremely severe on every eccentricity\nfrom a native brogue to an artificial catchword. With his remarks on the\nlatter point, the meaningless repetition of phrases, we entirely agree.\nNothing can be more irritating than the scientific person who is always\nsaying ‘_Exactly so_,’ or the commonplace person who ends every sentence\nwith ‘_Don’t you know_?’ or the pseudo-artistic person who murmurs\n‘_Charming_, _charming_,’ on the smallest-provocation. It is, however,\nwith the mental and moral qualifications for conversation that Mr.\nMahaffy specially deals. Knowledge he, naturally, regards as an absolute\nessential, for, as he most justly observes, ‘an ignorant man is seldom\nagreeable, except as a butt.’ Upon the other hand, strict accuracy\nshould be avoided. ‘Even a consummate liar,’ says Mr. Mahaffy, is a\nbetter ingredient in a company than ‘the scrupulously truthful man, who\nweighs every statement, questions every fact, and corrects every\ninaccuracy.’ The liar at any rate recognizes that recreation, not\ninstruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilized\nbeing than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story\nwhich is told simply for the amusement of the company. Mr. Mahaffy,\nhowever, makes an exception in favour of the eminent specialist and tells\nus that intelligent questions addressed to an astronomer, or a pure\nmathematician, will elicit many curious facts which will pleasantly\nbeguile the time. Here, in the interest of Society, we feel bound to\nenter a formal protest. Nobody, even in the provinces, should ever be\nallowed to ask an intelligent question about pure mathematics across a\ndinner-table. A question of this kind is quite as bad as inquiring\nsuddenly about the state of a man’s soul, a sort of _coup_ which, as Mr.\nMahaffy remarks elsewhere, ‘many pious people have actually thought a\ndecent introduction to a conversation.’\n\nAs for the moral qualifications of a good talker, Mr. Mahaffy, following\nthe example of his great master, warns us against any disproportionate\nexcess of virtue. Modesty, for instance, may easily become a social\nvice, and to be continually apologizing for one’s ignorance or stupidity\nis a grave injury to conversation, for, ‘what we want to learn from each\nmember is his free opinion on the subject in hand, not his own estimate\nof the value of that opinion.’ Simplicity, too, is not without its\ndangers. The _enfant terrible_, with his shameless love of truth, the\nraw country-bred girl who always says what she means, and the plain,\nblunt man who makes a point of speaking his mind on every possible\noccasion, without ever considering whether he has a mind at all, are the\nfatal examples of what simplicity leads to. Shyness may be a form of\nvanity, and reserve a development of pride, and as for sympathy, what can\nbe more detestable than the man, or woman, who insists on agreeing with\neverybody, and so makes ‘a discussion, which implies differences in\nopinion,’ absolutely impossible? Even the unselfish listener is apt to\nbecome a bore. ‘These silent people,’ says Mr. Mahaffy, ‘not only take\nall they can get in Society for nothing, but they take it without the\nsmallest gratitude, and have the audacity afterwards to censure those who\nhave laboured for their amusement.’ Tact, which is an exquisite sense of\nthe symmetry of things, is, according to Mr. Mahaffy, the highest and\nbest of all the moral conditions for conversation. The man of tact, he\nmost wisely remarks, ‘will instinctively avoid jokes about Blue Beard’ in\nthe company of a woman who is a man’s third wife; he will never be guilty\nof talking like a book, but will rather avoid too careful an attention to\ngrammar and the rounding of periods; he will cultivate the art of\ngraceful interruption, so as to prevent a subject being worn threadbare\nby the aged or the inexperienced; and should he be desirous of telling a\nstory, he will look round and consider each member of the party, and if\nthere be a single stranger present will forgo the pleasure of anecdotage\nrather than make the social mistake of hurting even one of the guests.\nAs for prepared or premeditated art, Mr. Mahaffy has a great contempt for\nit and tells us of a certain college don (let us hope not at Oxford or\nCambridge) who always carried a jest-book in his pocket and had to refer\nto it when he wished to make a repartee. Great wits, too, are often very\ncruel, and great humorists often very vulgar, so it will be better to try\nand ‘make good conversation without any large help from these brilliant\nbut dangerous gifts.’\n\nIn a _tête-à-tête_ one should talk about persons, and in general Society\nabout things. The state of the weather is always an excusable exordium,\nbut it is convenient to have a paradox or heresy on the subject always\nready so as to direct the conversation into other channels. Really\ndomestic people are almost invariably bad talkers as their very virtues\nin home life have dulled their interest in outer things. The very best\nmothers will insist on chattering of their babies and prattling about\ninfant education. In fact, most women do not take sufficient interest in\npolitics, just as most men are deficient in general reading. Still,\nanybody can be made to talk, except the very obstinate, and even a\ncommercial traveller may be drawn out and become quite interesting. As\nfor Society small talk, it is impossible, Mr. Mahaffy tells us, for any\nsound theory of conversation to depreciate gossip, ‘which is perhaps the\nmain factor in agreeable talk throughout Society.’ The retailing of\nsmall personal points about great people always gives pleasure, and if\none is not fortunate enough to be an Arctic traveller or an escaped\nNihilist, the best thing one can do is to relate some anecdote of ‘Prince\nBismarck, or King Victor Emmanuel, or Mr. Gladstone.’ In the case of\nmeeting a genius and a Duke at dinner, the good talker will try to raise\nhimself to the level of the former and to bring the latter down to his\nown level. To succeed among one’s social superiors one must have no\nhesitation in contradicting them. Indeed, one should make bold\ncriticisms and introduce a bright and free tone into a Society whose\ngrandeur and extreme respectability make it, Mr. Mahaffy remarks, as\npathetically as inaccurately, ‘perhaps somewhat dull.’ The best\nconversationalists are those whose ancestors have been bilingual, like\nthe French and Irish, but the art of conversation is really within the\nreach of almost every one, except those who are morbidly truthful, or\nwhose high moral worth requires to be sustained by a permanent gravity of\ndemeanour and a general dullness of mind.\n\nThese are the broad principles contained in Mr. Mahaffy’s clever little\nbook, and many of them will, no doubt, commend themselves to our readers.\nThe maxim, ‘If you find the company dull, blame yourself,’ seems to us\nsomewhat optimistic, and we have no sympathy at all with the professional\nstoryteller who is really a great bore at a dinner-table; but Mr. Mahaffy\nis quite right in insisting that no bright social intercourse is possible\nwithout equality, and it is no objection to his book to say that it will\nnot teach people how to talk cleverly. It is not logic that makes men\nreasonable, nor the science of ethics that makes men good, but it is\nalways useful to analyse, to formularize and to investigate. The only\nthing to be regretted in the volume is the arid and jejune character of\nthe style. If Mr. Mahaffy would only write as he talks, his book would\nbe much pleasanter reading.\n\n_The Principles of the Art of Conversation_: _A Social Essay_. By J. P.\nMahaffy. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nEARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, December 17, 1887.)\n\n\nThe want of a good series of popular handbooks on Irish art has long been\nfelt, the works of Sir William Wilde, Petrie and others being somewhat\ntoo elaborate for the ordinary student; so we are glad to notice the\nappearance, under the auspicesof the Committee of Council on Education,\nof Miss Margaret Stokes’s useful little volume on the early Christian art\nof her country. There is, of course, nothing particularly original in\nMiss Stokes’s book, nor can she be said to be a very attractive or\npleasing writer, but it is unfair to look for originality in primers, and\nthe charm of the illustrations fully atones for the somewhat heavy and\npedantic character of the style.\n\nThis early Christian art of Ireland is full of interest to the artist,\nthe archæologist and the historian. In its rudest forms, such as the\nlittle iron hand-bell, the plain stone chalice and the rough wooden\nstaff, it brings us back to the simplicity of the primitive Christian\nChurch, while to the period of its highest development we owe the great\nmasterpieces of Celtic metal-work. The stone chalice is now replaced by\nthe chalice of silver and gold; the iron bell has its jewel-studded\nshrine, and the rough staff its gorgeous casing; rich caskets and\nsplendid bindings preserve the holy books of the Saints and, instead of\nthe rudely carved symbol of the early missionaries, we have such\nbeautiful works of art as the processional cross of Cong Abbey.\nBeautiful this cross certainly is with its delicate intricacy of\nornamentation, its grace of proportion and its marvel of mere\nworkmanship, nor is there any doubt about its history. From the\ninscriptions on it, which are corroborated by the annals of Innisfallen\nand the book of Clonmacnoise, we learn that it was made for King Turlough\nO’Connor by a native artist under the superintendence of Bishop O’Duffy,\nits primary object being to enshrine a portion of the true cross that was\nsent to the king in 1123. Brought to Cong some years afterwards,\nprobably by the archbishop, who died there in 1150, it was concealed at\nthe time of the Reformation, but at the beginning of the present century\nwas still in the possession of the last abbot, and at his death it was\npurchased by Professor MacCullagh and presented by him to the museum of\nthe Royal Irish Academy. This wonderful work is alone well worth a visit\nto Dublin, but not less lovely is the chalice of Ardagh, a two-handled\nsilver cup, absolutely classical in its perfect purity of form, and\ndecorated with gold and amber and crystal and with varieties of\n_cloisonné_ and _champlevé_ enamel. There is no mention of this cup, or\nof the so-called Tara brooch, in ancient Irish history. All that we know\nof them is that they were found accidentally, the former by a boy who was\ndigging potatoes near the old Rath of Ardagh, the latter by a poor child\nwho picked it up near the seashore. They both, however, belong probably\nto the tenth century.\n\nOf all these works, as well as of the bell shrines, book-covers,\nsculptured crosses and illuminated designs in manuscripts, excellent\npictures are given in Miss Stokes’s handbook. The extremely interesting\n_Fiachal Phadrig_, or shrine of St. Patrick’s tooth, might have been\nfigured and noted as an interesting example of the survival of ornament,\nand one of the old miniatures of the scribe or Evangelist writing would\nhave given an additional interest to the chapter on Irish MSS. On the\nwhole, however, the book is wonderfully well illustrated, and the\nordinary art student will be able to get some useful suggestions from it.\nIndeed, Miss Stokes, echoing the aspirations of many of the great Irish\narchæologists, looks forward to the revival of a native Irish school in\narchitecture, sculpture, metal-work and painting. Such an aspiration is,\nof course, very laudable, but there is always a danger of these revivals\nbeing merely artificial reproductions, and it may be questioned whether\nthe peculiar forms of Irish ornamentation could be made at all expressive\nof the modern spirit. A recent writer on house decoration has gravely\nsuggested that the British householder should take his meals in a Celtic\ndining-room adorned with a dado of Ogham inscriptions, and such wicked\nproposals may serve as a warning to all who fancy that the reproduction\nof a form necessarily implies a revival of the spirit that gave the form\nlife and meaning, and who fail to recognize the difference between art\nand anachronisms. Miss Stokes’s proposal for an ark-shaped church in\nwhich the mural painter is to repeat the arcades and ‘follow the\narchitectural compositions of the grand pages of the Eusebian canons in\nthe Book of Kells,’ has, of course, nothing grotesque about it, but it is\nnot probable that the artistic genius of the Irish people will, even when\n‘the land has rest,’ find in such interesting imitations its healthiest\nor best expression. Still, there are certain elements of beauty in\nancient Irish art that the modern artist would do well to study. The\nvalue of the intricate illuminations in the Book of Kells, as far as\ntheir adaptability to modern designs and modern material goes, has been\nvery much overrated, but in the ancient Irish torques, brooches, pins,\nclasps and the like, the modern goldsmith will find a rich and,\ncomparatively speaking, an untouched field; and now that the Celtic\nspirit has become the leaven of our politics, there is no reason why it\nshould not contribute something to our decorative art. This result,\nhowever, will not be obtained by a patriotic misuse of old designs, and\neven the most enthusiastic Home Ruler must not be allowed to decorate his\ndining-room with a dado of Oghams.\n\n_Early Christian Art in Ireland_. By Margaret Stokes. (Published for\nthe Committee of Council on Education by Chapman and Hall.)\n\n\n\n\nMADAME RISTORI\n(_Woman’s World_, January 1888.)\n\n\nMadame Ristori’s _Etudes et Souvenirs_ is one of the most delightful\nbooks on the stage that has appeared since Lady Martin’s charming volume\non the Shakespearian heroines. It is often said that actors leave\nnothing behind them but a barren name and a withered wreath; that they\nsubsist simply upon the applause of the moment; that they are ultimately\ndoomed to the oblivion of old play-bills; and that their art, in a word,\ndies with them, and shares their own mortality. ‘Chippendale, the\ncabinet-maker,’ says the clever author of _Obiter Dicta_, ‘is more potent\nthan Garrick the actor. The vivacity of the latter no longer charms\n(save in Boswell); the chairs of the former still render rest impossible\nin a hundred homes.’ This view, however, seems to me to be exaggerated.\nIt rests on the assumption that acting is simply a mimetic art, and takes\nno account of its imaginative and intellectual basis. It is quite true,\nof course, that the personality of the player passes away, and with it\nthat pleasure-giving power by virtue of which the arts exist. Yet the\nartistic method of a great actor survives. It lives on in tradition, and\nbecomes part of the science of a school. It has all the intellectual\nlife of a principle. In England, at the present moment, the influence of\nGarrick on our actors is far stronger than that of Reynolds on our\npainters of portraits, and if we turn to France it is easy to discern the\ntradition of Talma, but where is the tradition of David?\n\nMadame Ristori’s memoirs, then, have not merely the charm that always\nattaches to the autobiography of a brilliant and beautiful woman, but\nhave also a definite and distinct artistic value. Her analysis of the\ncharacter of Lady Macbeth, for instance, is full of psychological\ninterest, and shows us that the subtleties of Shakespearian criticism are\nnot necessarily confined to those who have views on weak endings and\nrhyming tags, but may also be suggested by the art of acting itself. The\nauthor of _Obiter Dicta_ seeks to deny to actors all critical insight and\nall literary appreciation. The actor, he tells us, is art’s slave, not\nher child, and lives entirely outside literature, ‘with its words for\never on his lips, and none of its truths engraven on his heart.’ But\nthis seems to me to be a harsh and reckless generalization. Indeed, so\nfar from agreeing with it, I would be inclined to say that the mere\nartistic process of acting, the translation of literature back again into\nlife, and the presentation of thought under the conditions of action, is\nin itself a critical method of a very high order; nor do I think that a\nstudy of the careers of our great English actors will really sustain the\ncharge of want of literary appreciation. It may be true that actors pass\ntoo quickly away from the form, in order to get at the feeling that gives\nthe form beauty and colour, and that, where the literary critic studies\nthe language, the actor looks simply for the life; and yet, how well the\ngreat actors have appreciated that marvellous music of words, which in\nShakespeare, at any rate, is so vital an element of poetic power, if,\nindeed, it be not equally so in the case of all who have any claim to be\nregarded as true poets. ‘The sensual life of verse,’ says Keats, in a\ndramatic criticism published in the _Champion_, ‘springs warm from the\nlips of Kean, and to one learned in Shakespearian hieroglyphics, learned\nin the spiritual portion of those lines to which Kean adds a sensual\ngrandeur, his tongue must seem to have robbed the Hybla bees and left\nthem honeyless.’ This particular feeling, of which Keats speaks, is\nfamiliar to all who have heard Salvini, Sarah Bernhardt, Ristori, or any\nof the great artists of our day, and it is a feeling that one cannot, I\nthink, gain merely by reading the passage to oneself. For my own part, I\nmust confess that it was not until I heard Sarah Bernhardt in _Phèdre_\nthat I absolutely realized the sweetness of the music of Racine. As for\nMr. Birrell’s statement that actors have the words of literature for ever\non their lips, but none of its truths engraved on their hearts, all that\none can say is that, if it be true, it is a defect which actors share\nwith the majority of literary critics.\n\nThe account Madame Ristori gives of her own struggles, voyages and\nadventures, is very pleasant reading indeed. The child of poor actors,\nshe made her first appearance when she was three months old, being\nbrought on in a hamper as a New Year’s gift to a selfish old gentleman\nwho would not forgive his daughter for having married for love. As,\nhowever, she began to cry long before the hamper was opened, the comedy\nbecame a farce, to the immense amusement of the public. She next\nappeared in a mediæval melodrama, being then three years of age, and was\nso terrified at the machinations of the villain that she ran away at the\nmost critical moment. However, her stage-fright seems to have\ndisappeared, and we find her playing Silvio Pellico’s _Francesca da\nRimini_ at fifteen, and at eighteen making her _début_ as Marie Stuart.\nAt this time the naturalism of the French method was gradually displacing\nthe artificial elocution and academic poses of the Italian school of\nacting. Madame Ristori seems to have tried to combine simplicity with\nstyle, and the passion of nature with the self-restraint of the artist.\n‘J’ai voulu fondre les deux manières,’ she tells us, ‘car je sentais que\ntoutes choses étant susceptibles de progrès, l’art dramatique aussi était\nappelé à subir des transformations.’ The natural development, however,\nof the Italian drama was almost arrested by the ridiculous censorship of\nplays then existing in each town under Austrian or Papal rule. The\nslightest allusion to the sentiment of nationality or the spirit of\nfreedom was prohibited. Even the word _patria_ was regarded as\ntreasonable, and Madame Ristori tells us an amusing story of the\nindignation of a censor who was asked to license a play, in which a dumb\nman returns home after an absence of many years, and on his entrance upon\nthe stage makes gestures expressive of his joy in seeing his native land\nonce more. ‘Gestures of this kind,’ said the censor, ‘are obviously of a\nvery revolutionary tendency, and cannot possibly be allowed. The only\ngestures that I could think of permitting would be gestures expressive of\na dumb man’s delight in scenery generally.’ The stage directions were\naccordingly altered, and the word ‘landscape’ substituted for ‘native\nland’! Another censor was extremely severe on an unfortunate poet who\nhad used the expression ‘the beautiful Italian sky,’ and explained to him\nthat ‘the beautiful Lombardo-Venetian sky’ was the proper official\nexpression to use. Poor Gregory in _Romeo and Juliet_ had to be\nrechristened, because Gregory is a name dear to the Popes; and the\n\n Here I have a pilot’s thumb,\n Wrecked as homeward he did come,\n\nof the first witch in _Macbeth_ was ruthlessly struck out as containing\nan obvious allusion to the steersman of St. Peter’s bark. Finally, bored\nand bothered by the political and theological Dogberrys of the day, with\ntheir inane prejudices, their solemn stupidity, and their entire\nignorance of the conditions necessary for the growth of sane and healthy\nart, Madame Ristori made up her mind to leave the stage. She, however,\nwas extremely anxious to appear once before a Parisian audience, Paris\nbeing at that time the centre of dramatic activity, and after some\nconsideration left Italy for France in the year 1855. There she seems to\nhave been a great success, particularly in the part of Myrrha; classical\nwithout being cold, artistic without being academic, she brought to the\ninterpretation of the character of Alfieri’s great heroine the\ncolour-element of passion, the form-element of style. Jules Janin was\nloud in his praises, the Emperor begged Ristori to join the troupe of the\nComédie Française, and Rachel, with the strange narrow jealousy of her\nnature, trembled for her laurels. Myrrha was followed by Marie Stuart,\nand Marie Stuart by Medea. In the latter part Madame Ristori excited the\ngreatest enthusiasm. Ary Scheffer designed her costumes for her; and the\nNiobe that stands in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, suggested to Madame\nRistori her famous pose in the scene with the children. She would not\nconsent, however, to remain in France, and we find her subsequently\nplaying in almost every country in the world from Egypt to Mexico, from\nDenmark to Honolulu. Her representations of classical plays seem to have\nbeen always immensely admired. When she played at Athens, the King\noffered to arrange for a performance in the beautiful old theatre of\nDionysos, and during her tour in Portugal she produced _Medea_ before the\nUniversity of Coimbra. Her description of the latter engagement is\nextremely interesting. On her arrival at the University, she was\nreceived by the entire body of the undergraduates, who still wear a\ncostume almost mediæval in character. Some of them came on the stage in\nthe course of the play as the handmaidens of Creusa, hiding their black\nbeards beneath heavy veils, and as soon as they had finished their parts\nthey took their places gravely among the audience, to Madame Ristori’s\nhorror, still in their Greek dress, but with their veils thrown back and\nsmoking long cigars. ‘Ce n’est pas la première fois,’ she says, ‘que\nj’ai dû empêcher, par un effort de volonté, la tragédie de se terminer en\nfarce.’ Very interesting, also, is her account of the production of\nMontanelli’s _Camma_, and she tells an amusing story of the arrest of the\nauthor by the French police on the charge of murder, in consequence of a\ntelegram she sent to him in which the words ‘body of the victim’\noccurred. Indeed, the whole book is full of cleverly written stories,\nand admirable criticisms on dramatic art. I have quoted from the French\nversion, which happens to be the one that lies before me, but whether in\nFrench or Italian the book is one of the most fascinating autobiographies\nthat has appeared for some time, even in an age like ours when literary\negotism has been brought to such an exquisite pitch of perfection.\n\n_Etudes et Souvenirs_. By Madame Ristori. (Paul Ollendorff.)\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH POETESSES\n(_Queen_, December 8, 1888.)\n\n\nEngland has given to the world one great poetess, Elizabeth Barrett\nBrowning. By her side Mr. Swinburne would place Miss Christina Rossetti,\nwhose New Year hymn he describes as so much the noblest of sacred poems\nin our language, that there is none which comes near it enough to stand\nsecond. ‘It is a hymn,’ he tells us, ‘touched as with the fire, and\nbathed as in the light of sunbeams, tuned as to chords and cadences of\nrefluent sea-music beyond reach of harp and organ, large echoes of the\nserene and sonorous tides of heaven.’ Much as I admire Miss Rossetti’s\nwork, her subtle choice of words, her rich imagery, her artistic naïveté,\nwherein curious notes of strangeness and simplicity are fantastically\nblended together, I cannot but think that Mr. Swinburne has, with noble\nand natural loyalty, placed her on too lofty a pedestal. To me, she is\nsimply a very delightful artist in poetry. This is indeed something so\nrare that when we meet it we cannot fail to love it, but it is not\neverything. Beyond it and above it are higher and more sunlit heights of\nsong, a larger vision, and an ampler air, a music at once more passionate\nand more profound, a creative energy that is born of the spirit, a winged\nrapture that is born of the soul, a force and fervour of mere utterance\nthat has all the wonder of the prophet, and not a little of the\nconsecration of the priest.\n\nMrs. Browning is unapproachable by any woman who has ever touched lyre or\nblown through reed since the days of the great Æolian poetess. But\nSappho, who to the antique world was a pillar of flame, is to us but a\npillar of shadow. Of her poems, burnt with other most precious work by\nByzantine Emperor and by Roman Pope, only a few fragments remain.\nPossibly they lie mouldering in the scented darkness of an Egyptian tomb,\nclasped in the withered hand of some long-dead lover. Some Greek monk at\nAthos may even now be poring over an ancient manuscript, whose crabbed\ncharacters conceal lyric or ode by her whom the Greeks spoke of as ‘the\nPoetess’ just as they termed Homer ‘the Poet,’ who was to them the tenth\nMuse, the flower of the Graces, the child of Erôs, and the pride of\nHellas—Sappho, with the sweet voice, the bright, beautiful eyes, the dark\nhyacinth coloured hair. But, practically, the work of the marvellous\nsinger of Lesbos is entirely lost to us.\n\nWe have a few rose-leaves out of her garden, that is all. Literature\nnowadays survives marble and bronze, but in the old days, in spite of the\nRoman poet’s noble boast, it was not so. The fragile clay vases of the\nGreeks still keep for us pictures of Sappho, delicately painted in black\nand red and white; but of her song we have only the echo of an echo.\n\nOf all the women of history, Mrs. Browning is the only one that we could\nname in any possible or remote conjunction with Sappho.\n\nSappho was undoubtedly a far more flawless and perfect artist. She\nstirred the whole antique world more than Mrs. Browning ever stirred our\nmodern age. Never had Love such a singer. Even in the few lines that\nremain to us the passion seems to scorch and burn. But, as unjust Time,\nwho has crowned her with the barren laurels of fame, has twined with them\nthe dull poppies of oblivion, let us turn from the mere memory of a\npoetess to one whose song still remains to us as an imperishable glory to\nour literature; to her who heard the cry of the children from dark mine\nand crowded factory, and made England weep over its little ones; who, in\nthe feigned sonnets from the Portuguese, sang of the spiritual mystery of\nLove, and of the intellectual gifts that Love brings to the soul; who had\nfaith in all that is worthy, and enthusiasm for all that is great, and\npity for all that suffers; who wrote the _Vision of Poets_ and _Casa\nGuidi Windows_ and _Aurora Leigh_.\n\nAs one, to whom I owe my love of poetry no less than my love of country,\nsaid of her:\n\n Still on our ears\n The clear ‘Excelsior’ from a woman’s lip\n Rings out across the Apennines, although\n The woman’s brow lies pale and cold in death\n With all the mighty marble dead in Florence.\n For while great songs can stir the hearts of men,\n Spreading their full vibrations through the world\n In ever-widening circles till they reach\n The Throne of God, and song becomes a prayer,\n And prayer brings down the liberating strength\n That kindles nations to heroic deeds,\n She lives—the great-souled poetess who saw\n From Casa Guidi windows Freedom dawn\n On Italy, and gave the glory back\n In sunrise hymns to all Humanity!\n\nShe lives indeed, and not alone in the heart of Shakespeare’s England,\nbut in the heart of Dante’s Italy also. To Greek literature she owed her\nscholarly culture, but modern Italy created her human passion for\nLiberty. When she crossed the Alps she became filled with a new ardour,\nand from that fine, eloquent mouth, that we can still see in her\nportraits, broke forth such a noble and majestic outburst of lyrical song\nas had not been heard from woman’s lips for more than two thousand years.\nIt is pleasant to think that an English poetess was to a certain extent a\nreal factor in bringing about that unity of Italy that was Dante’s dream,\nand if Florence drove her great singer into exile, she at least welcomed\nwithin her walls the later singer that England had sent to her.\n\nIf one were asked the chief qualities of Mrs. Browning’s work, one would\nsay, as Mr. Swinburne said of Byron’s, its sincerity and its strength.\nFaults it, of course, possesses. ‘She would rhyme moon to table,’ used\nto be said of her in jest; and certainly no more monstrous rhymes are to\nbe found in all literature than some of those we come across in Mrs.\nBrowning’s poems. But her ruggedness was never the result of\ncarelessness. It was deliberate, as her letters to Mr. Horne show very\nclearly. She refused to sandpaper her muse. She disliked facile\nsmoothness and artificial polish. In her very rejection of art she was\nan artist. She intended to produce a certain effect by certain means,\nand she succeeded; and her indifference to complete assonance in rhyme\noften gives a splendid richness to her verse, and brings into it a\npleasurable element of surprise.\n\nIn philosophy she was a Platonist, in politics an Opportunist. She\nattached herself to no particular party. She loved the people when they\nwere king-like, and kings when they showed themselves to be men. Of the\nreal value and motive of poetry she had a most exalted idea. ‘Poetry,’\nshe says, in the preface of one of her volumes, ‘has been as serious a\nthing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing.\nThere has been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistook\npleasure for the final cause of poetry, nor leisure for the hour of the\npoet. I have done my work so far, not as mere hand and head work apart\nfrom the personal being, but as the completest expression of that being\nto which I could attain.’\n\nIt certainly is her completest expression, and through it she realizes\nher fullest perfection. ‘The poet,’ she says elsewhere, ‘is at once\nricher and poorer than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, but\nspeaks no more oracles.’ These words give us the keynote to her view of\nthe poet’s mission. He was to utter Divine oracles, to be at once\ninspired prophet and holy priest; and as such we may, I think, without\nexaggeration, conceive her. She was a Sibyl delivering a message to the\nworld, sometimes through stammering lips, and once at least with blinded\neyes, yet always with the true fire and fervour of lofty and unshaken\nfaith, always with the great raptures of a spiritual nature, the high\nardours of an impassioned soul. As we read her best poems we feel that,\nthough Apollo’s shrine be empty and the bronze tripod overthrown, and the\nvale of Delphi desolate, still the Pythia is not dead. In our own age\nshe has sung for us, and this land gave her new birth. Indeed, Mrs.\nBrowning is the wisest of the Sibyls, wiser even than that mighty figure\nwhom Michael Angelo has painted on the roof of the Sistine Chapel at\nRome, poring over the scroll of mystery, and trying to decipher the\nsecrets of Fate; for she realized that, while knowledge is power,\nsuffering is part of knowledge.\n\nTo her influence, almost as much as to the higher education of women, I\nwould be inclined to attribute the really remarkable awakening of woman’s\nsong that characterizes the latter half of our century in England. No\ncountry has ever had so many poetesses at once. Indeed, when one\nremembers that the Greeks had only nine muses, one is sometimes apt to\nfancy that we have too many. And yet the work done by women in the\nsphere of poetry is really of a very high standard of excellence. In\nEngland we have always been prone to underrate the value of tradition in\nliterature. In our eagerness to find a new voice and a fresh mode of\nmusic, we have forgotten how beautiful Echo may be. We look first for\nindividuality and personality, and these are, indeed, the chief\ncharacteristics of the masterpieces of our literature, either in prose or\nverse; but deliberate culture and a study of the best models, if united\nto an artistic temperament and a nature susceptible of exquisite\nimpressions, may produce much that is admirable, much that is worthy of\npraise. It would be quite impossible to give a complete catalogue of all\nthe women who since Mrs. Browning’s day have tried lute and lyre. Mrs.\nPfeiffer, Mrs. Hamilton King, Mrs. Augusta Webster, Graham Tomson, Miss\nMary Robinson, Jean Ingelow, Miss May Kendall, Miss Nesbit, Miss May\nProbyn, Mrs. Craik, Mrs. Meynell, Miss Chapman, and many others have done\nreally good work in poetry, either in the grave Dorian mode of thoughtful\nand intellectual verse, or in the light and graceful forms of old French\nsong, or in the romantic manner of antique ballad, or in that ‘moment’s\nmonument,’ as Rossetti called it, the intense and concentrated sonnet.\nOccasionally one is tempted to wish that the quick, artistic faculty that\nwomen undoubtedly possess developed itself somewhat more in prose and\nsomewhat less in verse. Poetry is for our highest moods, when we wish to\nbe with the gods, and in our poetry nothing but the very best should\nsatisfy us; but prose is for our daily bread, and the lack of good prose\nis one of the chief blots on our culture. French prose, even in the\nhands of the most ordinary writers, is always readable, but English prose\nis detestable. We have a few, a very few, masters, such as they are. We\nhave Carlyle, who should not be imitated; and Mr. Pater, who, through the\nsubtle perfection of his form, is inimitable absolutely; and Mr. Froude,\nwho is useful; and Matthew Arnold, who is a model; and Mr. George\nMeredith, who is a warning; and Mr. Lang, who is the divine amateur; and\nMr. Stevenson, who is the humane artist; and Mr. Ruskin, whose rhythm and\ncolour and fine rhetoric and marvellous music of words are entirely\nunattainable. But the general prose that one reads in magazines and in\nnewspapers is terribly dull and cumbrous, heavy in movement and uncouth\nor exaggerated in expression. Possibly some day our women of letters\nwill apply themselves more definitely to prose.\n\nTheir light touch, and exquisite ear, and delicate sense of balance and\nproportion would be of no small service to us. I can fancy women\nbringing a new manner into our literature.\n\nHowever, we have to deal here with women as poetesses, and it is\ninteresting to note that, though Mrs. Browning’s influence undoubtedly\ncontributed very largely to the development of this new song-movement, if\nI may so term it, still there seems to have been never a time during the\nlast three hundred years when the women of this kingdom did not\ncultivate, if not the art, at least the habit, of writing poetry.\n\nWho the first English poetess was I cannot say. I believe it was the\nAbbess Juliana Berners, who lived in the fifteenth century; but I have no\ndoubt that Mr. Freeman would be able at a moment’s notice to produce some\nwonderful Saxon or Norman poetess, whose works cannot be read without a\nglossary, and even with its aid are completely unintelligible. For my\nown part, I am content with the Abbess Juliana, who wrote\nenthusiastically about hawking; and after her I would mention Anne Askew,\nwho in prison and on the eve of her fiery martyrdom wrote a ballad that\nhas, at any rate, a pathetic and historical interest. Queen Elizabeth’s\n‘most sweet and sententious ditty’ on Mary Stuart is highly praised by\nPuttenham, a contemporary critic, as an example of ‘Exargasia, or the\nGorgeous in Literature,’ which somehow seems a very suitable epithet for\nsuch a great Queen’s poems. The term she applies to the unfortunate\nQueen of Scots, ‘the daughter of debate,’ has, of course, long since\npassed into literature. The Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney’s\nsister, was much admired as a poetess in her day.\n\nIn 1613 the ‘learned, virtuous, and truly noble ladie,’ Elizabeth Carew,\npublished a _Tragedie of Marian_, _the Faire Queene of Jewry_, and a few\nyears later the ‘noble ladie Diana Primrose’ wrote _A Chain of Pearl_,\nwhich is a panegyric on the ‘peerless graces’ of Gloriana. Mary Morpeth,\nthe friend and admirer of Drummond of Hawthornden; Lady Mary Wroth, to\nwhom Ben Jonson dedicated _The Alchemist_; and the Princess Elizabeth,\nthe sister of Charles I., should also be mentioned.\n\nAfter the Restoration women applied themselves with still greater ardour\nto the study of literature and the practice of poetry. Margaret, Duchess\nof Newcastle, was a true woman of letters, and some of her verses are\nextremely pretty and graceful. Mrs. Aphra Behn was the first\nEnglishwoman who adopted literature as a regular profession. Mrs.\nKatharine Philips, according to Mr. Gosse, invented sentimentality. As\nshe was praised by Dryden, and mourned by Cowley, let us hope she may be\nforgiven. Keats came across her poems at Oxford when he was writing\n_Endymion_, and found in one of them ‘a most delicate fancy of the\nFletcher kind’; but I fear nobody reads the Matchless Orinda now. Of\nLady Winchelsea’s _Nocturnal Reverie_ Wordsworth said that, with the\nexception of Pope’s _Windsor Forest_, it was the only poem of the period\nintervening between _Paradise Lost_ and Thomson’s _Seasons_ that\ncontained a single new image of external nature. Lady Rachel Russell,\nwho may be said to have inaugurated the letter-writing literature of\nEngland; Eliza Haywood, who is immortalized by the badness of her work,\nand has a niche in _The Dunciad_; and the Marchioness of Wharton, whose\npoems Waller said he admired, are very remarkable types, the finest of\nthem being, of course, the first named, who was a woman of heroic mould\nand of a most noble dignity of nature.\n\nIndeed, though the English poetesses up to the time of Mrs. Browning\ncannot be said to have produced any work of absolute genius, they are\ncertainly interesting figures, fascinating subjects for study. Amongst\nthem we find Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who had all the caprice of\nCleopatra, and whose letters are delightful reading; Mrs. Centlivre, who\nwrote one brilliant comedy; Lady Anne Barnard, whose _Auld Robin Gray_\nwas described by Sir Walter Scott as ‘worth all the dialogues Corydon and\nPhillis have together spoken from the days of Theocritus downwards,’ and\nis certainly a very beautiful and touching poem; Esther Vanhomrigh and\nHester Johnson, the Vanessa and the Stella of Dean Swift’s life; Mrs.\nThrale, the friend of the great lexicographer; the worthy Mrs. Barbauld;\nthe excellent Miss Hannah More; the industrious Joanna Baillie; the\nadmirable Mrs. Chapone, whose _Ode to Solitude_ always fills me with the\nwildest passion for society, and who will at least be remembered as the\npatroness of the establishment at which Becky Sharp was educated; Miss\nAnna Seward, who was called ‘The Swan of Lichfield’; poor L. E. L. whom\nDisraeli described in one of his clever letters to his sister as ‘the\npersonification of Brompton—pink satin dress, white satin shoes, red\ncheeks, snub nose, and her hair _à la_ Sappho’; Mrs. Ratcliffe, who\nintroduced the romantic novel, and has consequently much to answer for;\nthe beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, of whom Gibbon said that she was\n‘made for something better than a Duchess’; the two wonderful sisters,\nLady Dufferin and Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Tighe, whose _Psyche_ Keats read with\npleasure; Constantia Grierson, a marvellous blue-stocking in her time;\nMrs. Hemans; pretty, charming ‘Perdita,’ who flirted alternately with\npoetry and the Prince Regent, played divinely in the _Winter’s Tale_, was\nbrutally attacked by Gifford, and has left us a pathetic little poem on a\nSnowdrop; and Emily Brontë, whose poems are instinct with tragic power,\nand seem often on the verge of being great.\n\nOld fashions in literature are not so pleasant as old fashions in dress.\nI like the costume of the age of powder better than the poetry of the age\nof Pope. But if one adopts the historical standpoint—and this is,\nindeed, the only standpoint from which we can ever form a fair estimate\nof work that is not absolutely of the highest order—we cannot fail to see\nthat many of the English poetesses who preceded Mrs. Browning were women\nof no ordinary talent, and that if the majority of them looked upon\npoetry simply as a department of _belles lettres_, so in most cases did\ntheir contemporaries. Since Mrs. Browning’s day our woods have become\nfull of singing birds, and if I venture to ask them to apply themselves\nmore to prose and less to song, it is not that I like poetical prose, but\nthat I love the prose of poets.\n\n\n\n\nVENUS OR VICTORY\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, February 24, 1888.)\n\n\nThere are certain problems in archæology that seem to possess a real\nromantic interest, and foremost among these is the question of the\nso-called Venus of Melos. Who is she, this marble mutilated goddess whom\nGautier loved, to whom Heine bent his knee? What sculptor wrought her,\nand for what shrine? Whose hands walled her up in that rude niche where\nthe Melian peasant found her? What symbol of her divinity did she carry?\nWas it apple of gold or shield of bronze? Where is her city and what was\nher name among gods and men? The last writer on this fascinating subject\nis Mr. Stillman, who in a most interesting book recently published in\nAmerica, claims that the work of art in question is no sea-born and\nfoam-born Aphrodite, but the very Victory Without Wings that once stood\nin the little chapel outside the gates of the Acropolis at Athens. So\nlong ago as 1826, that is to say six years after the discovery of the\nstatue, the Venus hypothesis was violently attacked by Millingen, and\nfrom that time to this the battle of the archæologists has never ceased.\nMr. Stillman, who fights, of course, under Millingen’s banner, points out\nthat the statue is not of the Venus type at all, being far too heroic in\ncharacter to correspond to the Greek conception of Aphrodite at any\nperiod of their artistic development, but that it agrees distinctly with\ncertain well-known statues of Victory, such as the celebrated ‘Victory of\nBrescia.’ The latter is in bronze, is later, and has the wings, but the\ntype is unmistakable, and though not a reproduction it is certainly a\nrecollection of the Melian statue. The representation of Victory on the\ncoin of Agathocles is also obviously of the Melian type, and in the\nmuseum of Naples is a terra-cotta Victory in almost the identical action\nand drapery. As for Dumont d’Urville’s statement that, when the statue\nwas discovered, one hand held an apple and the other a fold of the\ndrapery, the latter is obviously a mistake, and the whole evidence on the\nsubject is so contradictory that no reliance can be placed on the\nstatement made by the French Consul and the French naval officers, none\nof whom seems to have taken the trouble to ascertain whether the arm and\nhand now in the Louvre were really found in the same niche as the statue\nat all. At any rate, these fragments seem to be of extremely inferior\nworkmanship, and they are so imperfect that they are quite worthless as\ndata for measure or opinion. So far, Mr. Stillman is on old ground. His\nreal artistic discovery is this. In working about the Acropolis of\nAthens, some years ago, he photographed among other sculptures the\nmutilated Victories in the Temple of Nikè Apteros, the ‘Wingless\nVictory,’ the little Ionic temple in which stood that statue of Victory\nof which it was said that ‘_the Athenians made her without wings that she\nmight never leave Athens_.’ Looking over the photographs afterwards,\nwhen the impression of the comparatively diminutive size had passed, he\nwas struck with the close resemblance of the type to that of the Melian\nstatue. Now, this resemblance is so striking that it cannot be\nquestioned by any one who has an eye for form. There are the same large\nheroic proportions, the same ampleness of physical development, and the\nsame treatment of drapery, and there is also that perfect spiritual\nkinship which, to any true antiquarian, is one of the most valuable modes\nof evidence. Now it is generally admitted on both sides that the Melian\nstatue is probably Attic in its origin, and belongs certainly to the\nperiod between Phidias and Praxiteles, that is to say, to the age of\nScopas, if it be not actually the work of Scopas himself; and as it is to\nScopas that these bas-reliefs have been always attributed, the similarity\nof style can, on Mr. Stillman’s hypothesis, be easily accounted for.\n\nAs regards the appearance of the statue in Melos, Mr. Stillman points out\nthat Melos belonged to Athens as late as she had any Greek allegiance,\nand that it is probable that the statue was sent there for concealment on\nthe occasion of some siege or invasion. When this took place, Mr.\nStillman does not pretend to decide with any degree of certainty, but it\nis evident that it must have been subsequent to the establishment of the\nRoman hegemony, as the brickwork of the niche in which the statue was\nfound is clearly Roman in character, and before the time of Pausanias and\nPliny, as neither of these antiquaries mentions the statue. Accepting,\nthen, the statue as that of the Victory Without Wings, Mr. Stillman\nagrees with Millingen in supposing that in her left hand she held a\nbronze shield, the lower rim of which rested on the left knee where some\nmarks of the kind are easily recognizable, while with her right hand she\ntraced, or had just finished tracing, the names of the great heroes of\nAthens. Valentin’s objection, that if this were so the left thigh would\nincline outwards so as to secure a balance, Mr. Stillman meets partly by\nthe analogy of the Victory of Brescia and partly by the evidence of\nNature herself; for he has had a model photographed in the same position\nas the statue and holding a shield in the manner he proposes in his\nrestoration. The result is precisely the contrary to that which Valentin\nassumes. Of course, Mr. Stillman’s solution of the whole matter must not\nbe regarded as an absolutely scientific demonstration. It is simply an\ninduction in which a kind of artistic instinct, not communicable or\nequally valuable to all people, has had the greatest part, but to this\nmode of interpretation archæologists as a class have been far too\nindifferent; and it is certain that in the present case it has given us a\ntheory which is most fruitful and suggestive.\n\nThe little temple of Nikè Apteros has had, as Mr. Stillman reminds us, a\ndestiny unique of its kind. Like the Parthenon, it was standing little\nmore than two hundred years ago, but during the Turkish occupation it was\nrazed, and its stones all built into the great bastion which covered the\nfront of the Acropolis and blocked up the staircase to the Propylæa. It\nwas dug out and restored, nearly every stone in its place, by two German\narchitects during the reign of Otho, and it stands again just as\nPausanias described it on the spot where old Ægeus watched for the return\nof Theseus from Crete. In the distance are Salamis and Ægina, and beyond\nthe purple hills lies Marathon. If the Melian statue be indeed the\nVictory Without Wings, she had no unworthy shrine.\n\nThere are some other interesting essays in Mr. Stillman’s book on the\nwonderful topographical knowledge of Ithaca displayed in the _Odyssey_,\nand discussions of this kind are always interesting as long as there is\nno attempt to represent Homer as the ordinary literary man; but the\narticle on the Melian statue is by far the most important and the most\ndelightful. Some people will, no doubt, regret the possibility of the\ndisappearance of the old name, and as Venus not as Victory will still\nworship the stately goddess, but there are others who will be glad to see\nin her the image and ideal of that spiritual enthusiasm to which Athens\nowed her liberty, and by which alone can liberty be won.\n\n_On the Track of Ulysses_; _together with an Excursion in Quest of the\nSo-called Venus of Melos_. By W. J. Stillman. (Houghton, Mifflin and\nCo., Boston.)\n\n\n\n\nM. CARO ON GEORGE SAND\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, April 14, 1888.)\n\n\nThe biography of a very great man from the pen of a very ladylike\nwriter—this is the best description we can give of M. Caro’s Life of\nGeorge Sand. The late Professor of the Sorbonne could chatter charmingly\nabout culture, and had all the fascinating insincerity of an accomplished\nphrase-maker; being an extremely superior person he had a great contempt\nfor Democracy and its doings, but he was always popular with the\nDuchesses of the Faubourg, as there was nothing in history or in\nliterature that he could not explain away for their edification; having\nnever done anything remarkable he was naturally elected a member of the\nAcademy, and he always remained loyal to the traditions of that\nthoroughly respectable and thoroughly pretentious institution. In fact,\nhe was just the sort of man who should never have attempted to write a\nLife of George Sand or to interpret George Sand’s genius. He was too\nfeminine to appreciate the grandeur of that large womanly nature, too\nmuch of a _dilettante_ to realize the masculine force of that strong and\nardent mind. He never gets at the secret of George Sand, and never\nbrings us near to her wonderful personality. He looks on her simply as a\nlittérateur, as a writer of pretty stories of country life and of\ncharming, if somewhat exaggerated, romances. But George Sand was much\nmore than this. Beautiful as are such books as _Consuelo_ and _Mauprat_,\n_François le Champi_ and _La Mare au Diable_, yet in none of them is she\nadequately expressed, by none of them is she adequately revealed. As Mr.\nMatthew Arnold said, many years ago, ‘We do not know George Sand unless\nwe feel the spirit which goes through her work as a whole.’ With this\nspirit, however, M. Caro has no sympathy. Madame Sand’s doctrines are\nantediluvian, he tells us, her philosophy is quite dead and her ideas of\nsocial regeneration are Utopian, incoherent and absurd. The best thing\nfor us to do is to forget these silly dreams and to read _Teverino_ and\n_Le Secrétaire Intime_. Poor M. Caro! This spirit, which he treats with\nsuch airy flippancy, is the very leaven of modern life. It is remoulding\nthe world for us and fashioning our age anew. If it is antediluvian, it\nis so because the deluge is yet to come; if it is Utopian, then Utopia\nmust be added to our geographies. To what curious straits M. Caro is\ndriven by his violent prejudices may be estimated by the fact that he\ntries to class George Sand’s novels with the old _Chansons de geste_, the\nstories of adventure characteristic of primitive literatures; whereas in\nusing fiction as a vehicle of thought, and romance as a means of\ninfluencing the social ideals of her age, George Sand was merely carrying\nout the traditions of Voltaire and Rousseau, of Diderot and of\nChateaubriand. The novel, says M. Caro, must be allied either to poetry\nor to science. That it has found in philosophy one of its strongest\nallies seems not to have occurred to him. In an English critic such a\nview might possibly be excusable. Our greatest novelists, such as\nFielding, Scott and Thackeray, cared little for the philosophy of their\nage. But coming, as it does, from a French critic, the statement seems\nto show a strange want of recognition of one of the most important\nelements of French fiction. Nor, even in the narrow limits that he has\nimposed upon himself, can M. Caro be said to be a very fortunate or\nfelicitous critic. To take merely one instance out of many, he says\nnothing of George Sand’s delightful treatment of art and the artist’s\nlife. And yet how exquisitely does she analyse each separate art and\npresent it to us in its relation to life! In _Consuelo_ she tells us of\nmusic; in _Horace_ of authorship; in _Le Château des Désertes_ of acting;\nin _Les Maîtres Mosaïstes_ of mosaic work; in _Le Château de Pictordu_ of\nportrait painting; and in _La Daniella_ of the painting of landscape.\nWhat Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Browning have done for England she did for\nFrance. She invented an art literature. It is unnecessary, however, to\ndiscuss any of M. Caro’s minor failings, for the whole effect of the\nbook, so far as it attempts to portray for us the scope and character of\nGeorge Sand’s genius, is entirely spoiled by the false attitude assumed\nfrom the beginning, and though the dictum may seem to many harsh and\nexclusive, we cannot help feeling that an absolute incapacity for\nappreciating the spirit of a great writer is no qualification for writing\na treatise on the subject.\n\nAs for Madame Sand’s private life, which is so intimately connected with\nher art (for, like Goethe, she had to live her romances before she could\nwrite them), M. Caro says hardly anything about it. He passes it over\nwith a modesty that almost makes one blush, and for fear of wounding the\nsusceptibilities of those _grandes dames_ whose passions M. Paul Bourget\nanalyses with such subtlety, he transforms her mother, who was a typical\nFrench _grisette_, into ‘a very amiable and _spirituelle_ milliner’! It\nmust be admitted that Joseph Surface himself could hardly show greater\ntact and delicacy, though we ourselves must plead guilty to preferring\nMadame Sand’s own description of her as an ‘enfant du vieux pavé de\nParis.’\n\n_George Sand_. By the late Elmé Marie Caro. Translated by Gustave\nMasson, B.A., Assistant Master, Harrow School. ‘Great French Writers’\nSeries. (Routledge and Sons.)\n\n\n\n\nA FASCINATING BOOK\n(_Woman’s World_, November 1888.)\n\n\nMr. Alan Cole’s carefully-edited translation of M. Lefébure’s history of\n_Embroidery and Lace_ is one of the most fascinating books that has\nappeared on this delightful subject. M. Lefébure is one of the\nadministrators of the Musée des Arts Décoratifs at Paris, besides being a\nlace manufacturer; and his work has not merely an important historical\nvalue, but as a handbook of technical instruction it will be found of the\ngreatest service by all needle-women. Indeed, as the translator himself\npoints out, M. Lefébure’s book suggests the question whether it is not\nrather by the needle and the bobbin, than by the brush, the graver or the\nchisel, that the influence of woman should assert itself in the arts. In\nEurope, at any rate, woman is sovereign in the domain of art-needlework,\nand few men would care to dispute with her the right of using those\ndelicate implements so intimately associated with the dexterity of her\nnimble and slender fingers; nor is there any reason why the productions\nof embroidery should not, as Mr. Alan Cole suggests, be placed on the\nsame level with those of painting, engraving and sculpture, though there\nmust always be a great difference between those purely decorative arts\nthat glorify their own material and the more imaginative arts in which\nthe material is, as it were, annihilated, and absorbed into the creation\nof a new form. In the beautifying of modern houses it certainly must be\nadmitted—indeed, it should be more generally recognized than it is—that\nrich embroidery on hangings and curtains, _portières_, couches and the\nlike, produces a far more decorative and far more artistic effect than\ncan be gained from our somewhat wearisome English practice of covering\nthe walls with pictures and engravings; and the almost complete\ndisappearance of embroidery from dress has robbed modern costume of one\nof the chief elements of grace and fancy.\n\nThat, however, a great improvement has taken place in English embroidery\nduring the last ten or fifteen years cannot, I think, be denied. It is\nshown, not merely in the work of individual artists, such as Mrs.\nHoliday, Miss May Morris and others, but also in the admirable\nproductions of the South Kensington School of Embroidery (the\nbest—indeed, the only real good—school that South Kensington has\nproduced). It is pleasant to note on turning over the leaves of M.\nLefébure’s book, that in this we are merely carrying out certain old\ntraditions of Early English art. In the seventh century, St. Ethelreda,\nfirst abbess of the monastery of Ely, made an offering to St. Cuthbert of\na sacred ornament she had worked with gold and precious stones, and the\ncope and maniple of St. Cuthbert, which are preserved at Durham, are\nconsidered to be specimens of _opus Anglicanum_. In the year 800, the\nBishop of Durham allotted the income of a farm of two hundred acres for\nlife to an embroideress named Eanswitha, in consideration of her keeping\nin repair the vestments of the clergy in his diocese. The battle\nstandard of King Alfred was embroidered by Danish Princesses; and the\nAnglo-Saxon Gudric gave Alcuid a piece of land, on condition that she\ninstructed his daughter in needle-work. Queen Mathilda bequeathed to the\nAbbey of the Holy Trinity at Caen a tunic embroidered at Winchester by\nthe wife of one Alderet; and when William presented himself to the\nEnglish nobles, after the Battle of Hastings, he wore a mantle covered\nwith Anglo-Saxon embroideries, which is probably, M. Lefébure suggests,\nthe same as that mentioned in the inventory of the Bayeux Cathedral,\nwhere, after the entry relating to the _broderie à telle_ (representing\nthe conquest of England), two mantles are described—one of King William,\n‘all of gold, powdered with crosses and blossoms of gold, and edged along\nthe lower border with an orphrey of figures.’ The most splendid example\nof the _opus Anglicanum_ now in existence is, of course, the Syon cope at\nthe South Kensington Museum; but English work seems to have been\ncelebrated all over the Continent. Pope Innocent IV. so admired the\nsplendid vestments worn by the English clergy in 1246, that he ordered\nsimilar articles from Cistercian monasteries in England. St. Dunstan,\nthe artistic English monk, was known as a designer for embroideries; and\nthe stole of St. Thomas à Becket is still preserved in the cathedral at\nSens, and shows us the interlaced scroll-forms used by Anglo-Saxon MS.\nilluminators.\n\nHow far this modern artistic revival of rich and delicate embroidery will\nbear fruit depends, of course, almost entirely on the energy and study\nthat women are ready to devote to it; but I think that it must be\nadmitted that all our decorative arts in Europe at present have, at\nleast, this element of strength—that they are in immediate relationship\nwith the decorative arts of Asia. Wherever we find in European history a\nrevival of decorative art, it has, I fancy, nearly always been due to\nOriental influence and contact with Oriental nations. Our own keenly\nintellectual art has more than once been ready to sacrifice real\ndecorative beauty either to imitative presentation or to ideal motive.\nIt has taken upon itself the burden of expression, and has sought to\ninterpret the secrets of thought and passion. In its marvellous truth of\npresentation it has found its strength, and yet its weakness is there\nalso. It is never with impunity that an art seeks to mirror life. If\nTruth has her revenge upon those who do not follow her, she is often\npitiless to her worshippers. In Byzantium the two arts met—Greek art,\nwith its intellectual sense of form, and its quick sympathy with\nhumanity; Oriental art, with its gorgeous materialism, its frank\nrejection of imitation, its wonderful secrets of craft and colour, its\nsplendid textures, its rare metals and jewels, its marvellous and\npriceless traditions. They had, indeed, met before, but in Byzantium\nthey were married; and the sacred tree of the Persians, the palm of\nZoroaster, was embroidered on the hem of the garments of the Western\nworld. Even the Iconoclasts, the Philistines of theological history,\nwho, in one of those strange outbursts of rage against Beauty that seem\nto occur only amongst European nations, rose up against the wonder and\nmagnificence of the new art, served merely to distribute its secrets more\nwidely; and in the _Liber Pontificalis_, written in 687 by Athanasius,\nthe librarian, we read of an influx into Rome of gorgeous embroideries,\nthe work of men who had arrived from Constantinople and from Greece. The\ntriumph of the Mussulman gave the decorative art of Europe a new\ndeparture—that very principle of their religion that forbade the actual\nrepresentation of any object in nature being of the greatest artistic\nservice to them, though it was not, of course, strictly carried out. The\nSaracens introduced into Sicily the art of weaving silken and golden\nfabrics; and from Sicily the manufacture of fine stuffs spread to the\nNorth of Italy, and became localized in Genoa, Florence, Venice, and\nother towns. A still greater art-movement took place in Spain under the\nMoors and Saracens, who brought over workmen from Persia to make\nbeautiful things for them. M. Lefébure tells us of Persian embroidery\npenetrating as far as Andalusia; and Almeria, like Palermo, had its Hôtel\ndes Tiraz, which rivalled the Hôtel des Tiraz at Bagdad, _tiraz_ being\nthe generic name for ornamental tissues and costumes made with them.\nSpangles (those pretty little discs of gold, silver, or polished steel,\nused in certain embroidery for dainty glinting effects) were a Saracenic\ninvention; and Arabic letters often took the place of letters in the\nRoman characters for use in inscriptions upon embroidered robes and\nMiddle Age tapestries, their decorative value being so much greater. The\nbook of crafts by Etienne Boileau, provost of the merchants in 1258–1268,\ncontains a curious enumeration of the different craft-guilds of Paris,\namong which we find ‘the tapiciers, or makers of the _tapis sarrasinois_\n(or Saracen cloths), who say that their craft is for the service only of\nchurches, or great men like kings and counts’; and, indeed, even in our\nown day, nearly all our words descriptive of decorative textures and\ndecorative methods point to an Oriental origin. What the inroads of the\nMohammedans did for Sicily and Spain, the return of the Crusaders did for\nthe other countries of Europe. The nobles who left for Palestine clad in\narmour, came back in the rich stuffs of the East; and their costumes,\npouches (_aumônières sarrasinoises_), and caparisons excited the\nadmiration of the needle-workers of the West. Matthew Paris says that at\nthe sacking of Antioch, in 1098, gold, silver and priceless costumes were\nso equally distributed among the Crusaders, that many who the night\nbefore were famishing and imploring relief, suddenly found themselves\noverwhelmed with wealth; and Robert de Clair tells us of the wonderful\nfêtes that followed the capture of Constantinople. The thirteenth\ncentury, as M. Lefébure points out, was conspicuous for an increased\ndemand in the West for embroidery. Many Crusaders made offerings to\nchurches of plunder from Palestine; and St. Louis, on his return from the\nfirst Crusade, offered thanks at St. Denis to God for mercies bestowed on\nhim during his six years’ absence and travel, and presented some richly\nembroidered stuffs to be used on great occasions as coverings to the\nreliquaries containing the relics of holy martyrs. European embroidery,\nhaving thus become possessed of new materials and wonderful methods,\ndeveloped on its own intellectual and imitative lines, inclining, as it\nwent on, to the purely pictorial, and seeking to rival painting, and to\nproduce landscapes and figure-subjects with elaborate perspective and\nsubtle aerial effects. A fresh Oriental influence, however, came through\nthe Dutch and the Portuguese, and the famous _Compagnie des Grandes\nIndes_; and M. Lefébure gives an illustration of a door-hanging now in\nthe Cluny Museum, where we find the French _fleurs-de-lys_ intermixed\nwith Indian ornament. The hangings of Madame de Maintenon’s room at\nFontainebleau, which were embroidered at St. Cyr, represent Chinese\nscenery upon a jonquil-yellow ground.\n\nClothes were sent out ready cut to the East to be embroidered, and many\nof the delightful coats of the period of Louis XV. and Louis XVI. owe\ntheir dainty decoration to the needles of Chinese artists. In our own\nday the influence of the East is strongly marked. Persia has sent us her\ncarpets for patterns, and Cashmere her lovely shawls, and India her\ndainty muslins finely worked with gold thread palmates, and stitched over\nwith iridescent beetles’ wings. We are beginning now to dye by Oriental\nmethods, and the silk robes of China and Japan have taught us new wonders\nof colour-combination, and new subtleties of delicate design. Whether we\nhave yet learned to make a wise use of what we have acquired is less\ncertain. If books produce an effect, this book of M. Lefébure should\ncertainly make us study with still deeper interest the whole question of\nembroidery, and by those who already work with their needles it will be\nfound full of most fertile suggestion and most admirable advice.\n\nEven to read of the marvellous works of embroidery that were fashioned in\nbygone ages is pleasant. Time has kept a few fragments of Greek\nembroidery of the fourth century B.C. for us. One is figured in M.\nLefébure’s book—a chain-stitch embroidery of yellow flax upon a\nmulberry-coloured worsted material, with graceful spirals and\npalmetto-patterns: and another, a tapestried cloth powdered with ducks,\nwas reproduced in the _Woman’s World_ some months ago for an article by\nMr. Alan Cole. {115} Now and then we find in the tomb of some dead\nEgyptian a piece of delicate work. In the treasury at Ratisbon is\npreserved a specimen of Byzantine embroidery on which the Emperor\nConstantine is depicted riding on a white palfrey, and receiving homage\nfrom the East and West. Metz has a red silk cope wrought with great\neagles, the gift of Charlemagne, and Bayeux the needle-wrought epic of\nQueen Matilda. But where is the great crocus-coloured robe, wrought for\nAthena, on which the gods fought against the giants? Where is the huge\nvelarium that Nero stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, on which was\nrepresented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by steeds?\nHow one would like to see the curious table-napkins wrought for\nHeliogabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that\ncould be wanted for a feast; or the mortuary-cloth of King Chilperic,\nwith its three hundred golden bees; or the fantastic robes that excited\nthe indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, and were embroidered with\n‘lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters—all, in fact, that\npainters can copy from nature.’ Charles of Orleans had a coat, on the\nsleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning\n‘_Madame_, _je suis tout joyeux_,’ the musical accompaniment of the words\nbeing wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those\ndays, formed with four pearls. {116} The room prepared in the palace at\nRheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy was decorated with ‘thirteen\nhundred and twenty-one _papegauts_ (parrots) made in broidery and\nblazoned with the King’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one\nbutterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the Queen’s\narms—the whole worked in fine gold.’ Catherine de Medicis had a\nmourning-bed made for her ‘of black velvet embroidered with pearls and\npowdered with crescents and suns.’ Its curtains were of damask, ‘with\nleafy wreaths and garlands figured upon a gold and silver ground, and\nfringed along the edges with broideries of pearls,’ and it stood in a\nroom hung with rows of the Queen’s devices in cut black velvet on cloth\nof silver. Louis XIV. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high\nin his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of\nSmyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises and pearls, with verses\nfrom the Koran; its supports were of silver-gilt, beautifully chased and\nprofusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. He had taken it\nfrom the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mahomet had\nstood under it. The Duchess de la Ferté wore a dress of reddish-brown\nvelvet, the skirt of which, adjusted in graceful folds, was held up by\nbig butterflies made of Dresden china; the front was a _tablier_ of cloth\nof silver, upon which was embroidered an orchestra of musicians arranged\nin a pyramidal group, consisting of a series of six ranks of performers,\nwith beautiful instruments wrought in raised needle-work. ‘Into the\nnight go one and all,’ as Mr. Henley sings in his charming _Ballade of\nDead Actors_.\n\nMany of the facts related by M. Lefébure about the embroiderers’ guilds\nare also extremely interesting. Etienne Boileau, in his book of crafts,\nto which I have already alluded, tells us that a member of the guild was\nprohibited from using gold of less value than ‘eight sous (about 6s.) the\nskein; he was bound to use the best silk, and never to mix thread with\nsilk, because that made the work false and bad.’ The test or trial piece\nprescribed for a worker who was the son of a master-embroiderer was ‘a\nsingle figure, a sixth of the natural size, to be shaded in gold’; whilst\none not the son of a master was required to produce ‘a complete incident\nwith many figures.’ The book of crafts also mentions ‘cutters-out and\nstencillers and illuminators’ amongst those employed in the industry of\nembroidery. In 1551 the Parisian Corporation of Embroiderers issued a\nnotice that ‘for the future, the colouring in representations of nude\nfigures and faces should be done in three or four gradations of\ncarnation-dyed silk, and not, as formerly, in white silks.’ During the\nfifteenth century every household of any position retained the services\nof an embroiderer by the year. The preparation of colours also, whether\nfor painting or for dyeing threads and textile fabrics, was a matter\nwhich, M. Lefébure points out, received close attention from the artists\nof the Middle Ages. Many undertook long journeys to obtain the more\nfamous recipes, which they filed, subsequently adding to and correcting\nthem as experience dictated. Nor were great artists above making and\nsupplying designs for embroidery. Raphael made designs for Francis I.,\nand Boucher for Louis XV.; and in the Ambras collection at Vienna is a\nsuperb set of sacerdotal robes from designs by the brothers Van Eyck and\ntheir pupils. Early in the sixteenth century books of embroidery designs\nwere produced, and their success was so great that in a few years French,\nGerman, Italian, Flemish, and English publishers spread broadcast books\nof design made by their best engravers. In the same century, in order to\ngive the designers opportunity of studying directly from nature, Jean\nRobin opened a garden with conservatories, in which he cultivated strange\nvarieties of plants then but little known in our latitudes. The rich\nbrocades and brocadelles of the time are characterized by the\nintroduction of large flowery patterns, with pomegranates and other\nfruits with fine foliage.\n\nThe second part of M. Lefébure’s book is devoted to the history of lace,\nand though some may not find it quite as interesting as the earlier\nportion it will more than repay perusal; and those who still work in this\ndelicate and fanciful art will find many valuable suggestions in it, as\nwell as a large number of exceedingly beautiful designs. Compared to\nembroidery, lace seems comparatively modern. M. Lefébure and Mr. Alan\nCole tell us that there is no reliable or documentary evidence to prove\nthe existence of lace before the fifteenth century. Of course in the\nEast, light tissues, such as gauzes, muslins, and nets, were made at very\nearly times, and were used as veils and scarfs after the manner of\nsubsequent laces, and women enriched them with some sort of embroidery,\nor varied the openness of them by here and there drawing out threads.\nThe threads of fringes seem also to have been plaited and knotted\ntogether, and the borders of one of the many fashions of Roman toga were\nof open reticulated weaving. The Egyptian Museum at the Louvre has a\ncurious network embellished with glass beads; and the monk Reginald, who\ntook part in opening the tomb of St. Cuthbert at Durham in the twelfth\ncentury, writes that the Saint’s shroud had a fringe of linen threads an\ninch long, surmounted by a border, ‘worked upon the threads,’ with\nrepresentations of birds and pairs of beasts, there being between each\nsuch pair a branching tree, a survival of the palm of Zoroaster, to which\nI have before alluded. Our authors, however, do not in these examples\nrecognize lace, the production of which involves more refined and\nartistic methods, and postulates a combination of skill and varied\nexecution carried to a higher degree of perfection. Lace, as we know it,\nseems to have had its origin in the habit of embroidering linen. White\nembroidery on linen has, M. Lefébure remarks, a cold and monotonous\naspect; that with coloured threads is brighter and gayer in effect, but\nis apt to fade in frequent washing; but white embroidery relieved by open\nspaces in, or shapes cut from, the linen ground, is possessed of an\nentirely new charm; and from a sense of this the birth may be traced of\nan art in the result of which happy contrasts are effected between\nornamental details of close texture and others of open-work.\n\nSoon, also, was suggested the idea that, instead of laboriously\nwithdrawing threads from stout linen, it would be more convenient to\nintroduce a needle-made pattern into an open network ground, which was\ncalled a _lacis_. Of this kind of embroidery many specimens are extant.\nThe Cluny Museum possesses a linen cap said to have belonged to Charles\nV.; and an alb of linen drawn-thread work, supposed to have been made by\nAnne of Bohemia (1527), is preserved in the cathedral at Prague.\nCatherine de Medicis had a bed draped with squares of _réseuil_, or\n_lacis_, and it is recorded that ‘the girls and servants of her household\nconsumed much time in making squares of _réseuil_.’ The interesting\npattern-books for open-ground embroidery, of which the first was\npublished in 1527 by Pierre Quinty, of Cologne, supply us with the means\nof tracing the stages in the transition from white thread embroidery to\nneedle-point lace. We meet in them with a style of needle-work which\ndiffers from embroidery in not being wrought upon a stuff foundation. It\nis, in fact, true lace, done, as it were, ‘in the air,’ both ground and\npattern being entirely produced by the lace-maker.\n\nThe elaborate use of lace in costume was, of course, largely stimulated\nby the fashion of wearing ruffs, and their companion cuffs or sleeves.\nCatherine de Medicis induced one Frederic Vinciolo to come from Italy and\nmake ruffs and gadrooned collars, the fashion of which she started in\nFrance; and Henry III. was so punctilious over his ruffs that he would\niron and goffer his cuffs and collars himself rather than see their\npleats limp and out of shape. The pattern-books also gave a great\nimpulse to the art. M. Lefébure mentions German books with patterns of\neagles, heraldic emblems, hunting scenes, and plants and leaves belonging\nto Northern vegetation; and Italian books, in which the _motifs_ consist\nof oleander blossoms, and elegant wreaths and scrolls, landscapes with\nmythological scenes, and hunting episodes, less realistic than the\nNorthern ones, in which appear fauns, and nymphs or _amorini_ shooting\narrows. With regard to these patterns, M. Lefébure notices a curious\nfact. The oldest painting in which lace is depicted is that of a lady,\nby Carpaccio, who died about 1523. The cuffs of the lady are edged with\na narrow lace, the pattern of which reappears in Vecellio’s _Corona_, a\nbook not published until 1591. This particular pattern was, therefore,\nin use at least eighty years before it got into circulation with other\npublished patterns.\n\nIt was not, however, till the seventeenth century that lace acquired a\nreally independent character and individuality, and M. Duplessis states\nthat the production of the more noteworthy of early laces owes more to\nthe influence of men than to that of women. The reign of Louis XIV.\nwitnessed the production of the most stately needle-point laces, the\ntransformation of Venetian point, and the growth of _Points d’Alençon_,\n_d’Argentan_, _de Bruxelles_ and _d’Angleterre_.\n\nThe king, aided by Colbert, determined to make France the centre, if\npossible, for lace manufacture, sending for this purpose both to Venice\nand to Flanders for workers. The studio of the Gobelins supplied\ndesigns. The dandies had their huge rabatos or bands falling from\nbeneath the chin over the breast, and great prelates, like Bossuet and\nFénelon, wore their wonderful albs and rochets. It is related of a\ncollar made at Venice for Louis XIV. that the lace-workers, being unable\nto find sufficiently fine horse-hair, employed some of their own hairs\ninstead, in order to secure that marvellous delicacy of work which they\naimed at producing.\n\nIn the eighteenth century, Venice, finding that laces of lighter texture\nwere sought after, set herself to make rose-point; and at the Court of\nLouis XV. the choice of lace was regulated by still more elaborate\netiquette. The Revolution, however, ruined many of the manufactures.\nAlençon survived, and Napoleon encouraged it, and endeavoured to renew\nthe old rules about the necessity of wearing point-lace at Court\nreceptions. A wonderful piece of lace, powdered over with devices of\nbees, and costing 40,000 francs, was ordered. It was begun for the\nEmpress Josephine, but in the course of its making her escutcheons were\nreplaced by those of Marie Louise.\n\nM. Lefébure concludes his interesting history by stating very clearly his\nattitude towards machine-made lace. ‘It would be an obvious loss to\nart,’ he says, ‘should the making of lace by hand become extinct, for\nmachinery, as skilfully devised as possible, cannot do what the hand\ndoes.’ It can give us ‘the results of processes, not the creations of\nartistic handicraft.’ Art is absent ‘where formal calculation pretends\nto supersede emotion’; it is absent ‘where no trace can be detected of\nintelligence guiding handicraft, whose hesitancies even possess peculiar\ncharm . . . cheapness is never commendable in respect of things which are\nnot absolute necessities; it lowers artistic standard.’ These are\nadmirable remarks, and with them we take leave of this fascinating book,\nwith its delightful illustrations, its charming anecdotes, its excellent\nadvice. Mr. Alan Cole deserves the thanks of all who are interested in\nart for bringing this book before the public in so attractive and so\ninexpensive a form.\n\n_Embroidery and Lace_: _Their Manufacture and History from the Remotest\nAntiquity to the Present Day_. Translated and enlarged by Alan S. Cole\nfrom the French of Ernest Lefébure. (Grevel and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nHENLEY’S POEMS\n(_Woman’s World_, December 1888.)\n\n\n‘If I were king,’ says Mr. Henley, in one of his most modest rondeaus,\n\n ‘Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;\n Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;\n And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,\n If I were king.’\n\nAnd these lines contain, if not the best criticism of his own work,\ncertainly a very complete statement of his aim and motive as a poet. His\nlittle _Book of Verses_ reveals to us an artist who is seeking to find\nnew methods of expression and has not merely a delicate sense of beauty\nand a brilliant, fantastic wit, but a real passion also for what is\nhorrible, ugly, or grotesque. No doubt, everything that is worthy of\nexistence is worthy also of art—at least, one would like to think so—but\nwhile echo or mirror can repeat for us a beautiful thing, to render\nartistically a thing that is ugly requires the most exquisite alchemy of\nform, the most subtle magic of transformation. To me there is more of\nthe cry of Marsyas than of the singing of Apollo in the earlier poems of\nMr. Henley’s volume, _In Hospital_: _Rhymes and Rhythms_, as he calls\nthem. But it is impossible to deny their power. Some of them are like\nbright, vivid pastels; others like charcoal drawings, with dull blacks\nand murky whites; others like etchings with deeply-bitten lines, and\nabrupt contrasts, and clever colour-suggestions. In fact, they are like\nanything and everything, except perfected poems—that they certainly are\nnot. They are still in the twilight. They are preludes, experiments,\ninspired jottings in a note-book, and should be heralded by a design of\n‘Genius Making Sketches.’ Rhyme gives architecture as well as melody to\nverse; it gives that delightful sense of limitation which in all the arts\nis so pleasurable, and is, indeed, one of the secrets of perfection; it\nwill whisper, as a French critic has said, ‘things unexpected and\ncharming, things with strange and remote relations to each other,’ and\nbind them together in indissoluble bonds of beauty; and in his constant\nrejection of rhyme, Mr. Henley seems to me to have abdicated half his\npower. He is a _roi en exil_ who has thrown away some of the strings of\nhis lute; a poet who has forgotten the fairest part of his kingdom.\n\nHowever, all work criticizes itself. Here is one of Mr. Henley’s\ninspired jottings. According to the temperament of the reader, it will\nserve either as a model or as the reverse:\n\n As with varnish red and glistening\n Dripped his hair; his feet were rigid;\n Raised, he settled stiffly sideways:\n You could see the hurts were spinal.\n\n He had fallen from an engine,\n And been dragged along the metals.\n It was hopeless, and they knew it;\n So they covered him, and left him.\n\n As he lay, by fits half sentient,\n Inarticulately moaning,\n With his stockinged feet protruded\n Sharp and awkward from the blankets,\n\n To his bed there came a woman,\n Stood and looked and sighed a little,\n And departed without speaking,\n As himself a few hours after.\n\n I was told she was his sweetheart.\n They were on the eve of marriage.\n She was quiet as a statue,\n But her lip was gray and writhen.\n\nIn this poem, the rhythm and the music, such as it is, are\nobvious—perhaps a little too obvious. In the following I see nothing but\ningeniously printed prose. It is a description—and a very accurate\none—of a scene in a hospital ward. The medical students are supposed to\nbe crowding round the doctor. What I quote is only a fragment, but the\npoem itself is a fragment:\n\n So shows the ring\n Seen, from behind, round a conjuror\n Doing his pitch in the street.\n High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,\n Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;\n While from within a voice,\n Gravely and weightily fluent,\n Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly\n (Look at the stress of the shoulders!)\n Out of a quiver of silence,\n Over the hiss of the spray,\n Comes a low cry, and the sound\n Of breath quick intaken through teeth\n Clenched in resolve. And the master\n Breaks from the crowd, and goes,\n Wiping his hands,\n To the next bed, with his pupils\n Flocking and whispering behind him.\n\n Now one can see.\n Case Number One\n Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes\n Stripped up, and showing his foot\n (Alas, for God’s image!)\n Swaddled in wet white lint\n Brilliantly hideous with red.\n\nThéophile Gautier once said that Flaubert’s style was meant to be read,\nand his own style to be looked at. Mr. Henley’s unrhymed rhythms form\nvery dainty designs, from a typographical point of view. From the point\nof view of literature, they are a series of vivid, concentrated\nimpressions, with a keen grip of fact, a terrible actuality, and an\nalmost masterly power of picturesque presentation. But the poetic\nform—what of that?\n\nWell, let us pass to the later poems, to the rondels and rondeaus, the\nsonnets and quatorzains, the echoes and the ballades. How brilliant and\nfanciful this is! The Toyokuni colour-print that suggested it could not\nbe more delightful. It seems to have kept all the wilful fantastic charm\nof the original:\n\n Was I a Samurai renowned,\n Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?\n A histrion angular and profound?\n A priest? a porter?—Child, although\n I have forgotten clean, I know\n That in the shade of Fujisan,\n What time the cherry-orchards blow,\n I loved you once in old Japan.\n\n As here you loiter, flowing-gowned\n And hugely sashed, with pins a-row\n Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,\n Demure, inviting—even so,\n When merry maids in Miyako\n To feel the sweet o’ the year began,\n And green gardens to overflow,\n I loved you once in old Japan.\n\n Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round\n Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,\n A blue canal the lake’s blue bound\n Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!\n Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow,\n I see you turn, with flirted fan,\n Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow . . .\n I loved you once in old Japan!\n\n ENVOY.\n\n Dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago\n But that I was a lucky man\n The Toyokuni here will show:\n I loved you—once—in old Japan!\n\nThis rondel, too—how light it is, and graceful!—\n\n We’ll to the woods and gather may\n Fresh from the footprints of the rain.\n We’ll to the woods, at every vein\n To drink the spirit of the day.\n\n The winds of spring are out at play,\n The needs of spring in heart and brain.\n We’ll to the woods and gather may\n Fresh from the footprints of the rain.\n\n The world’s too near her end, you say?\n Hark to the blackbird’s mad refrain!\n It waits for her, the vast Inane?\n Then, girls, to help her on the way\n We’ll to the woods and gather may.\n\nThere are fine verses, also, scattered through this little book; some of\nthem very strong, as—\n\n Out of the night that covers me,\n Black as the pit from pole to pole,\n I thank whatever gods may be\n For my unconquerable soul.\n\n It matters not how strait the gate,\n How charged with punishments the scroll,\n I am the master of my fate:\n I am the captain of my soul.\n\nOthers with a true touch of romance, as—\n\n Or ever the knightly years were gone\n With the old world to the grave,\n I was a king in Babylon,\n And you were a Christian slave.\n\nAnd here and there we come across such felicitous phrases as—\n\n In the sand\n The gold prow-griffin claws a hold,\n\nor—\n\n The spires\n Shine and are changed,\n\nand many other graceful or fanciful lines, even ‘the green sky’s minor\nthirds’ being perfectly right in its place, and a very refreshing bit of\naffectation in a volume where there is so much that is natural.\n\nHowever, Mr. Henley is not to be judged by samples. Indeed, the most\nattractive thing in the book is no single poem that is in it, but the\nstrong humane personality that stands behind both flawless and faulty\nwork alike, and looks out through many masks, some of them beautiful, and\nsome grotesque, and not a few misshapen. In the case with most of our\nmodern poets, when we have analysed them down to an adjective, we can go\nno further, or we care to go no further; but with this book it is\ndifferent. Through these reeds and pipes blows the very breath of life.\nIt seems as if one could put one’s hand upon the singer’s heart and count\nits pulsations. There is something wholesome, virile and sane about the\nman’s soul. Anybody can be reasonable, but to be sane is not common; and\nsane poets are as rare as blue lilies, though they may not be quite so\ndelightful.\n\n Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,\n Or the gold weather round us mellow slow;\n We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare,\n And we can conquer, though we may not share\n In the rich quiet of the afterglow,\n What is to come,\n\nis the concluding stanza of the last rondeau—indeed, of the last poem in\nthe collection, and the high, serene temper displayed in these lines\nserves at once as keynote and keystone to the book. The very lightness\nand slightness of so much of the work, its careless moods and casual\nfancies, seem to suggest a nature that is not primarily interested in\nart—a nature, like Sordello’s, passionately enamoured of life, one to\nwhich lyre and lute are things of less importance. From this mere joy of\nliving, this frank delight in experience for its own sake, this lofty\nindifference, and momentary unregretted ardours, come all the faults and\nall the beauties of the volume. But there is this difference between\nthem—the faults are deliberate, and the result of much study; the\nbeauties have the air of fascinating impromptus. Mr. Henley’s healthy,\nif sometimes misapplied, confidence in the myriad suggestions of life\ngives him his charm. He is made to sing along the highways, not to sit\ndown and write. If he took himself more seriously, his work would become\ntrivial.\n\n_A Book of Verses_. By William Ernest Henley. (David Nutt.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY LADIES\n(_Woman’s World_, January 1889.)\n\n\nIn a recent article on _English Poetesses_, I ventured to suggest that\nour women of letters should turn their attention somewhat more to prose\nand somewhat less to poetry. Women seem to me to possess just what our\nliterature wants—a light touch, a delicate hand, a graceful mode of\ntreatment, and an unstudied felicity of phrase. We want some one who\nwill do for our prose what Madame de Sévigné did for the prose of France.\nGeorge Eliot’s style was far too cumbrous, and Charlotte Brontë’s too\nexaggerated. However, one must not forget that amongst the women of\nEngland there have been some charming letter-writers, and certainly no\nbook can be more delightful reading than Mrs. Ross’s _Three Generations\nof English Women_, which has recently appeared. The three Englishwomen\nwhose memoirs and correspondence Mrs. Ross has so admirably edited are\nMrs. John Taylor, Mrs. Sarah Austin, and Lady Duff Gordon, all of them\nremarkable personalities, and two of them women of brilliant wit and\nEuropean reputation. Mrs. Taylor belonged to that great Norwich family\nabout whom the Duke of Sussex remarked that they reversed the ordinary\nsaying that it takes nine tailors to make a man, and was for many years\none of the most distinguished figures in the famous society of her native\ntown. Her only daughter married John Austin, the great authority on\njurisprudence, and her _salon_ in Paris was the centre of the intellect\nand culture of her day. Lucie Duff Gordon, the only child of John and\nSarah Austin, inherited the talents of her parents. A beauty, a _femme\nd’esprit_, a traveller, and clever writer, she charmed and fascinated her\nage, and her premature death in Egypt was really a loss to our\nliterature. It is to her daughter that we owe this delightful volume of\nmemoirs.\n\nFirst we are introduced to Mrs. Ross’s great-grandmother, Mrs. Taylor,\nwho ‘was called, by her intimate friends, “Madame Roland of Norwich,”\nfrom her likeness to the portraits of the handsome and unfortunate\nFrenchwoman.’ We hear of her darning her boy’s grey worsted stockings\nwhile holding her own with Southey and Brougham, and dancing round the\nTree of Liberty with Dr. Parr when the news of the fall of the Bastille\nwas first known. Amongst her friends were Sir James Mackintosh, the most\npopular man of the day, ‘to whom Madame de Staël wrote, “Il n’y a pas de\nsociété sans vous.” “C’est très ennuyeux de dîner sans vous; la société\nne va pas quand vous n’êtes pas là”;’ Sir James Smith, the botanist;\nCrabb Robinson; the Gurneys; Mrs. Barbauld; Dr. Alderson and his charming\ndaughter, Amelia Opie; and many other well-known people. Her letters are\nextremely sensible and thoughtful. ‘Nothing at present,’ she says in one\nof them, ‘suits my taste so well as Susan’s Latin lessons, and her\nphilosophical old master. . . . When we get to Cicero’s discussions on\nthe nature of the soul, or Virgil’s fine descriptions, my mind is filled\nup. Life is either a dull round of eating, drinking, and sleeping, or a\nspark of ethereal fire just kindled. . . . The character of girls must\ndepend upon their reading as much as upon the company they keep. Besides\nthe intrinsic pleasure to be derived from solid knowledge, a woman ought\nto consider it as her best resource against poverty.’ This is a somewhat\ncaustic aphorism: ‘A romantic woman is a troublesome friend, as she\nexpects you to be as impudent as herself, and is mortified at what she\ncalls coldness and insensibility.’ And this is admirable: ‘The art of\nlife is not to estrange oneself from society, and yet not to pay too dear\nfor it.’ This, too, is good: ‘Vanity, like curiosity, is wanted as a\nstimulus to exertion; indolence would certainly get the better of us if\nit were not for these two powerful principles’; and there is a keen touch\nof humour in the following: ‘Nothing is so gratifying as the idea that\nvirtue and philanthropy are becoming fashionable.’ Dr. James Martineau,\nin a letter to Mrs. Ross, gives us a pleasant picture of the old lady\nreturning from market ‘weighted by her huge basket, with the shank of a\nleg of mutton thrust out to betray its contents,’ and talking divinely\nabout philosophy, poets, politics, and every intellectual topic of the\nday. She was a woman of admirable good sense, a type of Roman matron,\nand quite as careful as were the Roman matrons to keep up the purity of\nher native tongue.\n\nMrs. Taylor, however, was more or less limited to Norwich. Mrs. Austin\nwas for the world. In London, Paris, and Germany, she ruled and\ndominated society, loved by every one who knew her. ‘She is “My best and\nbrightest” to Lord Jeffrey; “Dear, fair and wise” to Sydney Smith; “My\ngreat ally” to Sir James Stephen; “Sunlight through waste weltering\nchaos” to Thomas Carlyle (while he needed her aid); “La petite mère du\ngenre humain” to Michael Chevalier; “Liebes Mütterlein” to John Stuart\nMill; and “My own Professorin” to Charles Buller, to whom she taught\nGerman, as well as to the sons of Mr. James Mill.’ Jeremy Bentham, when\non his deathbed, gave her a ring with his portrait and some of his hair\nlet in behind. ‘There, my dear,’ he said, ‘it is the only ring I ever\ngave a woman.’ She corresponded with Guizot, Barthelemy de St. Hilaire,\nthe Grotes, Dr. Whewell, the Master of Trinity, Nassau Senior, the\nDuchesse d’Orléans, Victor Cousin, and many other distinguished people.\nHer translation of Ranke’s _History of the Popes_ is admirable; indeed,\nall her literary work was thoroughly well done, and her edition of her\nhusband’s _Province of Jurisprudence_ deserves the very highest praise.\nTwo people more unlike than herself and her husband it would have been\ndifficult to find. He was habitually grave and despondent; she was\nbrilliantly handsome, fond of society, in which she shone, and ‘with an\nalmost superabundance of energy and animal spirits,’ Mrs. Ross tells us.\nShe married him because she thought him perfect, but he never produced\nthe work of which he was worthy, and of which she knew him to be worthy.\nHer estimate of him in the preface to the _Jurisprudence_ is wonderfully\nstriking and simple. ‘He was never sanguine. He was intolerant of any\nimperfection. He was always under the control of severe love of truth.\nHe lived and died a poor man.’ She was terribly disappointed in him, but\nshe loved him. Some years after his death, she wrote to M. Guizot:\n\n In the intervals of my study of his works I read his letters to\n me—_forty-five years of love-letters_, the last as tender and\n passionate as the first. And how full of noble sentiments! The\n midday of our lives was clouded and stormy, full of cares and\n disappointments; but the sunset was bright and serene—as bright as\n the morning, and _more_ serene. Now it is night with me, and must\n remain so till the dawn of another day. I am always alone—that is,\n _I live with him_.\n\nThe most interesting letters in the book are certainly those to M.\nGuizot, with whom she maintained the closest intellectual friendship; but\nthere is hardly one of them that does not contain something clever, or\nthoughtful, or witty, while those addressed to her, in turn, are very\ninteresting. Carlyle writes her letters full of lamentations, the wail\nof a Titan in pain, superbly exaggerated for literary effect.\n\n Literature, one’s sole craft and staff of life, lies broken in\n abeyance; what room for music amid the braying of innumerable\n jackasses, the howling of innumerable hyænas whetting the tooth to\n eat them up? Alas for it! it is a sick disjointed time; neither\n shall we ever mend it; at best let us hope to mend ourselves. I\n declare I sometimes think of throwing down the Pen altogether as a\n worthless weapon; and leading out a colony of these poor starving\n Drudges to the waste places of their old Mother Earth, when for sweat\n of their brow bread _will_ rise for them; it were perhaps the\n worthiest service that at this moment could be rendered our old world\n to throw open for it the doors of the New. Thither must they come at\n last, ‘bursts of eloquence’ will do nothing; men are starving and\n will try many things before they die. But poor I, _ach Gott_! I am\n no Hengist or Alaric; only a writer of Articles in bad prose; stick\n to thy last, O Tutor; the Pen is not worthless, it is omnipotent to\n those who have Faith.\n\nHenri Beyle (Stendhal), the great, I am often tempted to think the\ngreatest of French novelists, writes her a charming letter about\n_nuances_. ‘It seems to me,’ he says, ‘that except when they read\nShakespeare, Byron, or Sterne, no Englishman understands “_nuances_”; we\nadore them. A fool says to a woman “I love you”; the words mean nothing,\nhe might as well say “Olli Batachor”; it is the _nuance_ which gives\nforce to the meaning.’ In 1839 Mrs. Austin writes to Victor Cousin: ‘I\nhave seen young Gladstone, a distinguished Tory who wants to re-establish\neducation based on the Church in quite a Catholic form’; and we find her\ncorresponding with Mr. Gladstone on the subject of education. ‘If you\nare strong enough to provide motives and checks,’ she says to him, ‘you\nmay do two blessed acts—reform your clergy and teach your people. As it\nis, how few of them conceive what it is to teach a people’! Mr.\nGladstone replies at great length, and in many letters, from which we may\nquote this passage:\n\n You are for pressing and urging the people to their profit against\n their inclination: so am I. You set little value upon all merely\n technical instruction, upon all that fails to touch the inner nature\n of man: so do I. And here I find ground of union broad and\n deep-laid. . . .\n\n I more than doubt whether your idea, namely that of raising man to\n social sufficiency and morality, can be accomplished, except through\n the ancient religion of Christ; . . . or whether, the principles of\n eclecticism are legitimately applicable to the Gospel; or whether, if\n we find ourselves in a state of incapacity to work through the\n Church, we can remedy the defect by the adoption of principles\n contrary to hers. . . .\n\n But indeed I am most unfit to pursue the subject; private\n circumstances of no common interest are upon me, as I have become\n very recently engaged to Miss Glynne, and I hope your recollections\n will enable you in some degree to excuse me.\n\nLord Jeffrey has a very curious and suggestive letter on popular\neducation, in which he denies, or at least doubts, the effect of this\neducation on morals. He, however, supports it on the ground ‘that it\nwill increase the enjoyment of individuals,’ which is certainly a very\nsensible claim. Humboldt writes to her about an old Indian language\nwhich was preserved by a parrot, the tribe who spoke it having been\nexterminated, and about ‘young Darwin,’ who had just published his first\nbook. Here are some extracts from her own letters:\n\n I heard from Lord Lansdowne two or three days ago. . . . I think he\n is _ce que nous avons de mieux_. He wants only the energy that great\n ambition gives. He says, ‘We shall have a parliament of railway\n kings’ . . . what can be worse than that?—The deification of money by\n a whole people. As Lord Brougham says, we have no right to give\n ourselves pharisaical airs. I must give you a story sent to me.\n Mrs. Hudson, the railway queen, was shown a bust of Marcus Aurelius\n at Lord Westminster’s, on which she said, ‘I suppose that is not the\n present Marquis.’ To _goûter_ this, you must know that the extreme\n vulgar (hackney coachmen, etc.) in England pronounce ‘marquis’ very\n like ‘Marcus.’\n\n _Dec._ 17_th_.—Went to Savigny’s. Nobody was there but W. Grimm and\n his wife and a few men. Grimm told me he had received two volumes of\n Norwegian fairy-tales, and that they were delightful. Talking of\n them, I said, ‘Your children appear to be the happiest in the world;\n they live in the midst of fairy-tales.’ ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘I must tell\n you about that. When we were at Göttingen, somebody spoke to my\n little son about his father’s _Mährchen_. He had read them but never\n thought of their being mine. He came running to me, and said with an\n offended air, “Father, they say you wrote those fairy-tales; surely\n you never invented such silly rubbish?” He thought it below my\n dignity.’\n\n Savigny told a _Volksmährchen_ too:\n\n ‘St. Anselm was grown old and infirm, and lay on the ground among\n thorns and thistles. _Der liebe Gott_ said to him, “You are very\n badly lodged there; why don’t you build yourself a house?” “Before I\n take the trouble,” said Anselm, “I should like to know how long I\n have to live.” “About thirty years,” said _Der liebe Gott_. “Oh,\n for so short a time,” replied he, “it’s not worth while,” and turned\n himself round among the thistles.’\n\n Dr. Franck told me a story of which I had never heard before.\n Voltaire had for some reason or other taken a grudge against the\n prophet Habakkuk, and affected to find in him things he never wrote.\n Somebody took the Bible and began to demonstrate to him that he was\n mistaken. ‘_C’est égal_,’ he said impatiently, ‘_Habakkuk était\n capable de tout_!’\n\n _Oct._ 30, 1853.\n\n I am not in love with the _Richtung_ (tendency) of our modern\n novelists. There is abundance of talent; but writing a pretty,\n graceful, touching, yet pleasing story is the last thing our writers\n nowadays think of. Their novels are party pamphlets on political or\n social questions, like _Sybil_, or _Alton Locke_, or _Mary Barton_,\n or _Uncle Tom_; or they are the most minute and painful dissections\n of the least agreeable and beautiful parts of our nature, like those\n of Miss Brontë—_Jane Eyre_ and _Villette_; or they are a kind of\n martyrology, like Mrs. Marsh’s _Emilia Wyndham_, which makes you\n almost doubt whether any torments the heroine would have earned by\n being naughty could exceed those she incurred by her virtue.\n\n Where, oh! where is the charming, humane, gentle spirit that dictated\n the _Vicar of Wakefield_—the spirit which Goethe so justly calls\n _versöhnend_ (reconciling), with all the weaknesses and woes of\n humanity? . . . Have you read Thackeray’s _Esmond_? It is a curious\n and very successful attempt to imitate the style of our old\n novelists. . . . Which of Mrs. Gore’s novels are translated? They\n are very clever, lively, worldly, bitter, disagreeable, and\n entertaining. . . . Miss Austen’s—are they translated? They are not\n new, and are Dutch paintings of every-day people—very clever, very\n true, very _unæsthetic_, but amusing. I have not seen _Ruth_, by\n Mrs. Gaskell. I hear it much admired—and blamed. It is one of the\n many proofs of the desire women now have to _friser_ questionable\n topics, and to _poser_ insoluble moral problems. George Sand has\n turned their heads in that direction. I think a few _broad_ scenes\n or hearty jokes _à la_ Fielding were very harmless in comparison.\n They _confounded_ nothing. . . .\n\n The _Heir of Redcliffe_ I have not read. . . . I am not worthy of\n superhuman flights of virtue—in a novel. I want to see how people\n act and suffer who are as good-for-nothing as I am myself. Then I\n have the sinful pretension to be amused, whereas all our novelists\n want to reform us, and to show us what a hideous place this world is:\n _Ma foi_, _je ne le sais que trop_, without their help.\n\n The _Head of the Family_ has some merits. . . . But there is too much\n affliction and misery and frenzy. The heroine is one of those\n creatures now so common (in novels), who remind me of a poor bird\n tied to a stake (as was once the cruel sport of boys) to be ‘shyed’\n at (_i.e._ pelted) till it died; only our gentle lady-writers at the\n end of all untie the poor battered bird, and assure us that it is\n never the worse for all the blows it has had—nay, the better—and that\n now, with its broken wings and torn feathers and bruised body, it is\n going to be quite happy. No, fair ladies, you know that it is not\n so—_resigned_, if you please, but make me no shams of happiness out\n of such wrecks.\n\nIn politics Mrs. Austin was a philosophical Tory. Radicalism she\ndetested, and she and most of her friends seem to have regarded it as\nmoribund. ‘The Radical party is evidently effete,’ she writes to M.\nVictor Cousin; the probable ‘leader of the Tory party’ is Mr. Gladstone.\n‘The people must be instructed, must be guided, must be, in short,\ngoverned,’ she writes elsewhere; and in a letter to Dr. Whewell, she says\nthat the state of things in France fills ‘me with the deepest anxiety on\none point,—the point on which the permanency of our institutions and our\nsalvation as a nation turn. Are our higher classes able to keep the lead\nof the rest? If they are, we are safe; if not, I agree with my poor dear\nCharles Buller—_our_ turn must come. Now Cambridge and Oxford must\nreally look to this.’ The belief in the power of the Universities to\nstem the current of democracy is charming. She grew to regard Carlyle as\n‘one of the dissolvents of the age—as mischievous as his extravagances\nwill let him be’; speaks of Kingsley and Maurice as ‘pernicious’; and\ntalks of John Stuart Mill as a ‘demagogue.’ She was no _doctrinaire_.\n‘One ounce of education demanded is worth a pound imposed. It is no use\nto give the meat before you give the hunger.’ She was delighted at a\nletter of St. Hilaire’s, in which he said, ‘We have a system and no\nresults; you have results and no system.’ Yet she had a deep sympathy\nwith the wants of the people. She was horrified at something Babbage\ntold her of the population of some of the manufacturing towns who are\n_worked out_ before they attain to thirty years of age. ‘But I am\npersuaded that the remedy will not, cannot come from the people,’ she\nadds. Many of her letters are concerned with the question of the higher\neducation of women. She discusses Buckle’s lecture on ‘The Influence of\nWomen upon the Progress of Knowledge,’ admits to M. Guizot that women’s\nintellectual life is largely coloured by the emotions, but adds: ‘One is\nnot precisely a fool because one’s opinions are greatly influenced by\none’s affections. The opinions of men are often influenced by worse\nthings.’ Dr. Whewell consults her about lecturing women on Plato, being\nslightly afraid lest people should think it ridiculous; Comte writes her\nelaborate letters on the relation of women to progress; and Mr. Gladstone\npromises that Mrs. Gladstone will carry out at Hawarden the suggestions\ncontained in one of her pamphlets. She was always very practical, and\nnever lost her admiration for plain sewing.\n\nAll through the book we come across interesting and amusing things. She\ngets St. Hilaire to order a large, sensible bonnet for her in Paris,\nwhich was at once christened the ‘Aristotelian,’ and was supposed to be\nthe only useful bonnet in England. Grote has to leave Paris after the\n_coup d’état_, he tells her, because he cannot bear to see the\nestablishment of a Greek tyrant. Alfred de Vigny, Macaulay, John\nStirling, Southey, Alexis de Tocqueville, Hallam, and Jean Jacques Ampère\nall contribute to these pleasant pages. She seems to have inspired the\nwarmest feelings of friendship in those who knew her. Guizot writes to\nher: ‘Madame de Staël used to say that the best thing in the world was a\nserious Frenchman. I turn the compliment, and say that the best thing in\nthe world is an affectionate Englishman. How much more an Englishwoman!\nGiven equal qualities, a woman is always more charming than a man.’\n\nLucie Austin, afterwards Lady Duff Gordon, was born in 1821. Her chief\nplayfellow was John Stuart Mill, and Jeremy Bentham’s garden was her\nplayground. She was a lovely, romantic child, who was always wanting the\nflowers to talk to her, and used to invent the most wonderful stories\nabout animals, of whom she was passionately fond. In 1834 Mrs. Austin\ndecided on leaving England, and Sydney Smith wrote his immortal letter to\nthe little girl:\n\n Lucie, Lucie, my dear child, don’t tear your frock: tearing frocks is\n not of itself a proof of genius. But write as your mother writes,\n act as your mother acts: be frank, loyal, affectionate, simple,\n honest, and then integrity or laceration of frock is of little\n import. And Lucie, dear child, mind your arithmetic. You know in\n the first sum of yours I ever saw there was a mistake. You had\n carried two (as a cab is licensed to do), and you ought, dear Lucie,\n to have carried but one. Is this a trifle? What would life be\n without arithmetic but a scene of horrors? You are going to\n Boulogne, the city of debts, peopled by men who have never understood\n arithmetic. By the time you return, I shall probably have received\n my first paralytic stroke, and shall have lost all recollection of\n you. Therefore I now give you my parting advice—don’t marry anybody\n who has not a tolerable understanding and a thousand a year. And God\n bless you, dear child.\n\nAt Boulogne she sat next Heine at _table d’hôte_. ‘He heard me speak\nGerman to my mother, and soon began to talk to me, and then said, “When\nyou go back to England, you can tell your friends that you have seen\nHeinrich Heine.” I replied, “And who is Heinrich Heine?” He laughed\nheartily and took no offence at my ignorance; and we used to lounge on\nthe end of the pier together, where he told me stories in which fish,\nmermaids, water-sprites and a very funny old French fiddler with a poodle\nwere mixed up in the most fanciful manner, sometimes humorous, and very\noften pathetic, especially when the water-sprites brought him greetings\nfrom the “Nord See.” He was . . . so kind to me and so sarcastic to\nevery one else.’ Twenty years afterwards the little girl whose ‘braune\nAugen’ Heine had celebrated in his charming poem _Wenn ick an deinem\nHause_, used to go and see the dying poet in Paris. ‘It does one good,’\nhe said to her, ‘to see a woman who does not carry about a broken heart,\nto be mended by all sorts of men, like the women here, who do not see\nthat a total want of heart is their real failing.’ On another occasion\nhe said to her: ‘I have now made peace with the whole world, and at last\nalso with God, who sends thee to me as a beautiful angel of death: I\nshall certainly soon die.’ Lady Duff Gordon said to him: ‘Poor Poet, do\nyou still retain such splendid illusions, that you transform a travelling\nEnglishwoman into Azrael? That used not to be the case, for you always\ndisliked us.’ He answered: ‘Yes, I do not know what possessed me to\ndislike the English, . . . it really was only petulance; I never hated\nthem, indeed, I never knew them. I was only once in England, but knew no\none, and found London very dreary, and the people and the streets odious.\nBut England has revenged herself well; she has sent me most excellent\nfriends—thyself and Milnes, that good Milnes.’\n\nThere are delightful letters from Dicky Doyle here, with the most amusing\ndrawings, one of the present Sir Robert Peel as he made his maiden speech\nin the House being excellent; and the various descriptions of Hassan’s\nperformances are extremely amusing. Hassan was a black boy, who had been\nturned away by his master because he was going blind, and was found by\nLady Duff Gordon one night sitting on her doorstep. She took care of\nhim, and had him cured, and he seems to have been a constant source of\ndelight to every one. On one occasion, ‘when Prince Louis Napoleon (the\nlate Emperor of the French) came in unexpectedly, he gravely said:\n“Please, my lady, I ran out and bought twopennyworth of sprats for the\nPrince, and for the honour of the house.”’ Here is an amusing letter\nfrom Mrs. Norton:\n\n MY DEAR LUCIE,—We have never thanked you for the _red Pots_, which no\n early Christian should be without, and which add that finishing\n stroke to the splendour of our demesne, which was supposed to depend\n on a roc’s egg, in less intelligent times. We have now a warm\n _Pompeian_ appearance, and the constant contemplation of these\n classical objects favours the beauty of the facial line; for what can\n be deducted from the great fact, apparent in all the states of\n antiquity, that _straight noses_ were the ancient custom, but the\n logical assumption that the constant habit of turning up the nose at\n unsightly objects—such as the National Gallery and other offensive\n and obtrusive things—has produced the modern divergence from the true\n and proper line of profile? I rejoice to think that we ourselves are\n exempt. I attribute this to our love of Pompeian Pots (on account of\n the beauty and distinction of this Pot’s shape I spell it with a big\n P), which has kept us straight in a world of crookedness. The\n pursuit of profiles under difficulties—how much more rare than a\n pursuit of knowledge! Talk of setting good examples before our\n children! Bah! let us set good Pompeian Pots before our children,\n and when they grow up they will not depart from them.\n\nLady Duff Gordon’s _Letters from the Cape_, and her brilliant translation\nof _The Amber Witch_, are, of course, well known. The latter book was,\nwith Lady Wilde’s translation of _Sidonia the Sorceress_, my favourite\nromantic reading when a boy. Her letters from Egypt are wonderfully\nvivid and picturesque. Here is an interesting bit of art criticism:\n\n Sheykh Yoosuf laughed so heartily over a print in an illustrated\n paper from a picture of Hilton’s of Rebekah at the well, with the old\n ‘wekeel’ of ‘Sidi Ibraheem’ (Abraham’s chief servant) _kneeling_\n before the girl he was sent to fetch, like an old fool without his\n turban, and Rebekah and the other girls in queer fancy dresses, and\n the camels with snouts like pigs. ‘If the painter could not go into\n “Es Sham” to see how the Arab really look,’ said Sheykh Yoosuf, ‘why\n did he not paint a well in England, with girls like English\n peasants—at least it would have looked natural to English people? and\n the wekeel would not seem so like a madman if he had taken off a\n hat!’ I cordially agree with Yoosuf’s art criticism. _Fancy_\n pictures of Eastern things are hopelessly absurd.\n\nMrs. Ross has certainly produced a most fascinating volume, and her book\nis one of the books of the season. It is edited with tact and judgment.\n\n_Three Generations of English Women_. _Memoirs and Correspondence of\nSusannah Taylor_, _Sarah Austin_, _and Lady Duff Gordon_. By Janet Ross,\nauthor of Italian Sketches, Land of Manfred, etc. (Fisher Unwin.)\n\n\n\n\nPOETRY AND PRISON\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, January 3, 1889.)\n\n\nPrison has had an admirable effect on Mr. Wilfrid Blunt as a poet. The\n_Love Sonnets of Proteus_, in spite of their clever Musset-like\nmodernities and their swift brilliant wit, were but affected or fantastic\nat best. They were simply the records of passing moods and moments, of\nwhich some were sad and others sweet, and not a few shameful. Their\nsubject was not of high or serious import. They contained much that was\nwilful and weak. In _Vinculis_, upon the other hand, is a book that\nstirs one by its fine sincerity of purpose, its lofty and impassioned\nthought, its depth and ardour of intense feeling. ‘Imprisonment,’ says\nMr. Blunt in his preface, ‘is a reality of discipline most useful to the\nmodern soul, lapped as it is in physical sloth and self-indulgence. Like\na sickness or a spiritual retreat it purifies and ennobles; and the soul\nemerges from it stronger and more self-contained.’ To him, certainly, it\nhas been a mode of purification. The opening sonnets, composed in the\nbleak cell of Galway Gaol, and written down on the flyleaves of the\nprisoner’s prayer-book, are full of things nobly conceived and nobly\nuttered, and show that though Mr. Balfour may enforce ‘plain living’ by\nhis prison regulations, he cannot prevent ‘high thinking’ or in any way\nlimit or constrain the freedom of a man’s soul. They are, of course,\nintensely personal in expression. They could not fail to be so. But the\npersonality that they reveal has nothing petty or ignoble about it. The\npetulant cry of the shallow egoist which was the chief characteristic of\nthe _Love Sonnets of Proteus_ is not to be found here. In its place we\nhave wild grief and terrible scorn, fierce rage and flame-like passion.\nSuch a sonnet as the following comes out of the very fire of heart and\nbrain:\n\n God knows, ’twas not with a fore-reasoned plan\n I left the easeful dwellings of my peace,\n And sought this combat with ungodly Man,\n And ceaseless still through years that do not cease\n Have warred with Powers and Principalities.\n My natural soul, ere yet these strifes began,\n Was as a sister diligent to please\n And loving all, and most the human clan.\n\n God knows it. And He knows how the world’s tears\n Touched me. And He is witness of my wrath,\n How it was kindled against murderers\n Who slew for gold, and how upon their path\n I met them. Since which day the World in arms\n Strikes at my life with angers and alarms.\n\nAnd this sonnet has all the strange strength of that despair which is but\nthe prelude to a larger hope:\n\n I thought to do a deed of chivalry,\n An act of worth, which haply in her sight\n Who was my mistress should recorded be\n And of the nations. And, when thus the fight\n Faltered and men once bold with faces white\n Turned this and that way in excuse to flee,\n I only stood, and by the foeman’s might\n Was overborne and mangled cruelly.\n\n Then crawled I to her feet, in whose dear cause\n I made this venture, and ‘Behold,’ I said,\n ‘How I am wounded for thee in these wars.’\n But she, ‘Poor cripple, would’st thou I should wed\n A limbless trunk?’ and laughing turned from me.\n Yet she was fair, and her name ‘Liberty.’\n\nThe sonnet beginning\n\n A prison is a convent without God—\n Poverty, Chastity, Obedience\n Its precepts are:\n\nis very fine; and this, written just after entering the gaol, is\npowerful:\n\n Naked I came into the world of pleasure,\n And naked come I to this house of pain.\n Here at the gate I lay down my life’s treasure,\n My pride, my garments and my name with men.\n The world and I henceforth shall be as twain,\n No sound of me shall pierce for good or ill\n These walls of grief. Nor shall I hear the vain\n Laughter and tears of those who love me still.\n\n Within, what new life waits me! Little ease,\n Cold lying, hunger, nights of wakefulness,\n Harsh orders given, no voice to soothe or please,\n Poor thieves for friends, for books rules meaningless;\n This is the grave—nay, hell. Yet, Lord of Might,\n Still in Thy light my spirit shall see light.\n\nBut, indeed, all the sonnets are worth reading, and _The Canon of\nAughrim_, the longest poem in the book, is a most masterly and dramatic\ndescription of the tragic life of the Irish peasant. Literature is not\nmuch indebted to Mr. Balfour for his sophistical _Defence of Philosophic\nDoubt_, which is one of the dullest books we know, but it must be\nadmitted that by sending Mr. Blunt to gaol he has converted a clever\nrhymer into an earnest and deep-thinking poet. The narrow confines of a\nprison cell seem to suit the ‘sonnet’s scanty plot of ground,’ and an\nunjust imprisonment for a noble cause strengthens as well as deepens the\nnature.\n\n_In Vinculis_. By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, Author of _The Wind and the\nWhirlwind_, _The Love Sonnets of Proteus_, _etc. etc._ (Kegan Paul.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO WALT WHITMAN\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, January 25, 1889.)\n\n\n‘No one will get to my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary\nperformance . . . or as aiming mainly towards art and æstheticism.’\n‘_Leaves of Grass_ . . . has mainly been the outcropping of my own\nemotional and other personal nature—an attempt, from first to last, to\nput _a Person_, a human being (myself, in the latter half of the\nNineteenth Century in America,) freely, fully and truly on record. I\ncould not find any similar personal record in current literature that\nsatisfied me.’ In these words Walt Whitman gives us the true attitude we\nshould adopt towards his work, having, indeed, a much saner view of the\nvalue and meaning of that work than either his eloquent admirers or noisy\ndetractors can boast of possessing. His last book, _November Boughs_, as\nhe calls it, published in the winter of the old man’s life, reveals to\nus, not indeed a soul’s tragedy, for its last note is one of joy and\nhope, and noble and unshaken faith in all that is fine and worthy of such\nfaith, but certainly the drama of a human soul, and puts on record with a\nsimplicity that has in it both sweetness and strength the record of his\nspiritual development, and of the aim and motive both of the manner and\nthe matter of his work. His strange mode of expression is shown in these\npages to have been the result of deliberate and self-conscious choice.\nThe ‘barbaric yawp’ which he sent over ‘the roofs of the world’ so many\nyears ago, and which wrung from Mr. Swinburne’s lip such lofty panegyric\nin song and such loud clamorous censure in prose, appears here in what\nwill be to many an entirely new light. For in his very rejection of art\nWalt Whitman is an artist. He tried to produce a certain effect by\ncertain means and he succeeded. There is much method in what many have\ntermed his madness, too much method, indeed, some may be tempted to\nfancy.\n\nIn the story of his life, as he tells it to us, we find him at the age of\nsixteen beginning a definite and philosophical study of literature:\n\n Summers and falls, I used to go off, sometimes for a week at a\n stretch, down in the country, or to Long Island’s seashores—there, in\n the presence of outdoor influences, I went over thoroughly the Old\n and New Testaments, and absorb’d (probably to better advantage for me\n than in any library or indoor room—it makes such difference _where_\n you read) Shakspere, Ossian, the best translated versions I could get\n of Homer, Eschylus, Sophocles, the old German Nibelungen, the ancient\n Hindoo poems, and one or two other masterpieces, Dante’s among them.\n As it happen’d, I read the latter mostly in an old wood. The _Iliad_\n . . . I read first thoroughly on the peninsula of Orient, northeast\n end of Long Island, in a shelter’d hollow of rock and sand, with the\n sea on each side. (I have wonder’d since why I was not overwhelm’d\n by those mighty masters. Likely because I read them, as described,\n in the full presence of Nature, under the sun, with the far-spreading\n landscapes and vistas, or the sea rolling in.)\n\nEdgar Allan Poe’s amusing bit of dogmatism that, for our occasions and\nour day, ‘there can be no such thing as a long poem,’ fascinated him.\n‘The same thought had been haunting my mind before,’ he said, ‘but Poe’s\nargument . . . work’d the sum out, and proved it to me,’ and the English\ntranslation of the Bible seems to have suggested to him the possibility\nof a poetic form which, while retaining the spirit of poetry, would still\nbe free from the trammels of rhyme and of a definite metrical system.\nHaving thus, to a certain degree, settled upon what one might call the\n‘technique’ of Whitmanism, he began to brood upon the nature of that\nspirit which was to give life to the strange form. The central point of\nthe poetry of the future seemed to him to be necessarily ‘an identical\nbody and soul, a personality,’ in fact, which personality, he tells us\nfrankly, ‘after many considerations and ponderings I deliberately settled\nshould be myself.’ However, for the true creation and revealing of this\npersonality, at first only dimly felt, a new stimulus was needed. This\ncame from the Civil War. After describing the many dreams and passions\nof his boyhood and early manhood, he goes on to say:\n\n These, however, and much more might have gone on and come to naught\n (almost positively would have come to naught,) if a sudden, vast,\n terrible, direct and indirect stimulus for new and national\n declamatory expression had not been given to me. It is certain, I\n say, that although I had made a start before, only from the\n occurrence of the Secession War, and what it show’d me as by flashes\n of lightning, with the emotional depths it sounded and arous’d (of\n course, I don’t mean in my own heart only, I saw it just as plainly\n in others, in millions)—that only from the strong flare and\n provocation of that war’s sights and scenes the final\n reasons-for-being of an autochthonic and passionate song definitely\n came forth.\n\n I went down to the war fields of Virginia . . . lived thenceforward\n in camp—saw great battles and the days and nights afterward—partook\n of all the fluctuations, gloom, despair, hopes again arous’d, courage\n evoked—death readily risk’d—_the cause_, too—along and filling those\n agonistic and lurid following years . . . the real parturition years\n . . . of this henceforth homogeneous Union. Without those three or\n four years and the experiences they gave, _Leaves of Grass_ would not\n now be existing.\n\nHaving thus obtained the necessary stimulus for the quickening and\nawakening of the personal self, some day to be endowed with universality,\nhe sought to find new notes of song, and, passing beyond the mere passion\nfor expression, he aimed at ‘Suggestiveness’ first.\n\n I round and finish little, if anything; and could not, consistently\n with my scheme. The reader will have his or her part to do, just as\n much as I have had mine. I seek less to state or display any theme\n or thought, and more to bring you, reader, into the atmosphere of the\n theme or thought—there to pursue your own flight.\n\nAnother ‘impetus-word’ is Comradeship, and other ‘word-signs’ are Good\nCheer, Content and Hope. Individuality, especially, he sought for:\n\n I have allow’d the stress of my poems from beginning to end to bear\n upon American individuality and assist it—not only because that is a\n great lesson in Nature, amid all her generalizing laws, but as\n counterpoise to the leveling tendencies of Democracy—and for other\n reasons. Defiant of ostensible literary and other conventions, I\n avowedly chant ‘the great pride of man in himself,’ and permit it to\n be more or less a _motif_ of nearly all my verse. I think this pride\n is indispensable to an American. I think it not inconsistent with\n obedience, humility, deference, and self-questioning.\n\nA new theme also was to be found in the relation of the sexes, conceived\nin a natural, simple and healthy form, and he protests against poor Mr.\nWilliam Rossetti’s attempt to Bowdlerise and expurgate his song.\n\n From another point of view _Leaves of Grass_ is avowedly the song of\n Sex and Amativeness, and even Animality—though meanings that do not\n usually go along with these words are behind all, and will duly\n emerge; and all are sought to be lifted into a different light and\n atmosphere. Of this feature, intentionally palpable in a few lines,\n I shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives\n breath to my whole scheme that the bulk of the pieces might as well\n have been left unwritten were those lines omitted. . . .\n\n Universal as are certain facts and symptoms of communities . . .\n there is nothing so rare in modern conventions and poetry as their\n normal recognizance. Literature is always calling in the doctor for\n consultation and confession, and always giving evasions and swathing\n suppressions in place of that ‘heroic nudity’ on which only a genuine\n diagnosis . . . can be built. And in respect to editions of _Leaves\n of Grass_ in time to come (if there should be such) I take occasion\n now to confirm those lines with the settled convictions and\n deliberate renewals of thirty years, and to hereby prohibit, as far\n as word of mine can do so, any elision of them.\n\nBut beyond all these notes and moods and motives is the lofty spirit of a\ngrand and free acceptance of all things that are worthy of existence. He\ndesired, he says, ‘to formulate a poem whose every thought or fact should\ndirectly or indirectly be or connive at an implicit belief in the wisdom,\nhealth, mystery, beauty of every process, every concrete object, every\nhuman or other existence, not only consider’d from the point of view of\nall, but of each.’ His two final utterances are that ‘really great\npoetry is always . . . the result of a national spirit, and not the\nprivilege of a polish’d and select few’; and that ‘the strongest and\nsweetest songs yet remain to be sung.’\n\nSuch are the views contained in the opening essay _A Backward Glance O’er\nTravel’d Roads_, as he calls it; but there are many other essays in this\nfascinating volume, some on poets such as Burns and Lord Tennyson, for\nwhom Walt Whitman has a profound admiration; some on old actors and\nsingers, the elder Booth, Forrest, Alboni and Mario being his special\nfavourites; others on the native Indians, on the Spanish element in\nAmerican nationality, on Western slang, on the poetry of the Bible, and\non Abraham Lincoln. But Walt Whitman is at his best when he is analysing\nhis own work and making schemes for the poetry of the future.\nLiterature, to him, has a distinctly social aim. He seeks to build up\nthe masses by ‘building up grand individuals.’ And yet literature itself\nmust be preceded by noble forms of life. ‘The best literature is always\nthe result of something far greater than itself—not the hero but the\nportrait of the hero. Before there can be recorded history or poem there\nmust be the transaction.’ Certainly, in Walt Whitman’s views there is a\nlargeness of vision, a healthy sanity and a fine ethical purpose. He is\nnot to be placed with the professional littérateurs of his country,\nBoston novelists, New York poets and the like. He stands apart, and the\nchief value of his work is in its prophecy, not in its performance. He\nhas begun a prelude to larger themes. He is the herald to a new era. As\na man he is the precursor of a fresh type. He is a factor in the heroic\nand spiritual evolution of the human being. If Poetry has passed him by,\nPhilosophy will take note of him.\n\n_November Boughs_. By Walt Whitman. (Alexander Gardner.)\n\n\n\n\nIRISH FAIRY TALES\n(_Woman’s World_, February 1889.)\n\n\n‘The various collectors of Irish folk-lore,’ says Mr. W. B. Yeats in his\ncharming little book _Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_,\n‘have, from our point of view, one great merit, and from the point of\nview of others, one great fault.’\n\n They have made their work literature rather than science, and told us\n of the Irish peasantry rather than of the primitive religion of\n mankind, or whatever else the folk-lorists are on the gad after. To\n be considered scientists they should have tabulated all their tales\n in forms like grocers’ bills—item the fairy king, item the queen.\n Instead of this they have caught the very voice of the people, the\n very pulse of life, each giving what was most noticed in his day.\n Croker and Lover, full of the ideas of harum-scarum Irish gentility,\n saw everything humorized. The impulse of the Irish literature of\n their time came from a class that did not—mainly for political\n reasons—take the populace seriously, and imagined the country as a\n humorist’s Arcadia; its passion, its gloom, its tragedy, they knew\n nothing of. What they did was not wholly false; they merely\n magnified an irresponsible type, found oftenest among boatmen,\n carmen, and gentlemen’s servants, into the type of a whole nation,\n and created the stage Irishman. The writers of ’Forty-eight, and the\n famine combined, burst their bubble. Their work had the dash as well\n as the shallowness of an ascendant and idle class, and in Croker is\n touched everywhere with beauty—a gentle Arcadian beauty. Carleton, a\n peasant born, has in many of his stories, . . . more especially in\n his ghost stories, a much more serious way with him, for all his\n humour. Kennedy, an old bookseller in Dublin, who seems to have had\n a something of genuine belief in the fairies, comes next in time. He\n has far less literary faculty, but is wonderfully accurate, giving\n often the very words the stories were told in. But the best book\n since Croker is Lady Wilde’s _Ancient __Legends_. The humour has all\n given way to pathos and tenderness. We have here the innermost heart\n of the Celt in the moments he has grown to love through years of\n persecution, when, cushioning himself about with dreams, and hearing\n fairy-songs in the twilight, he ponders on the soul and on the dead.\n Here is the Celt, only it is the Celt dreaming.\n\nInto a volume of very moderate dimensions, and of extremely moderate\nprice, Mr. Yeats has collected together the most characteristic of our\nIrish folklore stories, grouping them together according to subject.\nFirst come _The Trooping Fairies_. The peasants say that these are\n‘fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be\nlost’; but the Irish antiquarians see in them ‘the gods of pagan\nIreland,’ who, ‘when no longer worshipped and fed with offerings,\ndwindled away in the popular imagination, and now are only a few spans\nhigh.’ Their chief occupations are feasting, fighting, making love, and\nplaying the most beautiful music. ‘They have only one industrious person\namongst them, the _lepra-caun_—the shoemaker.’ It is his duty to repair\ntheir shoes when they wear them out with dancing. Mr. Yeats tells us\nthat ‘near the village of Ballisodare is a little woman who lived amongst\nthem seven years. When she came home she had no toes—she had danced them\noff.’ On May Eve, every seventh year, they fight for the harvest, for\nthe best ears of grain belong to them. An old man informed Mr. Yeats\nthat he saw them fight once, and that they tore the thatch off a house.\n‘Had any one else been near they would merely have seen a great wind\nwhirling everything into the air as it passed.’ When the wind drives the\nleaves and straws before it, ‘that is the fairies, and the peasants take\noff their hats and say “God bless them.”’ When they are gay, they sing.\nMany of the most beautiful tunes of Ireland ‘are only their music, caught\nup by eavesdroppers.’ No prudent peasant would hum _The Pretty Girl\nMilking the Cow_ near a fairy rath, ‘for they are jealous, and do not\nlike to hear their songs on clumsy mortal lips.’ Blake once saw a\nfairy’s funeral. But this, as Mr. Yeats points out, must have been an\nEnglish fairy, for the Irish fairies never die; they are immortal.\n\nThen come _The Solitary Fairies_, amongst whom we find the little\n_Lepracaun_ mentioned above. He has grown very rich, as he possesses all\nthe treasure-crocks buried in war-time. In the early part of this\ncentury, according to Croker, they used to show in Tipperary a little\nshoe forgotten by the fairy shoemaker. Then there are two rather\ndisreputable little fairies—the _Cluricaun_, who gets intoxicated in\ngentlemen’s cellars, and the Red Man, who plays unkind practical jokes.\n‘The _Fear-Gorta_ (Man of Hunger) is an emaciated phantom that goes\nthrough the land in famine time, begging an alms and bringing good luck\nto the giver.’ The _Water-sheerie_ is ‘own brother to the English\nJack-o’-Lantern.’ ‘_The Leanhaun Shee_ (fairy mistress) seeks the love\nof mortals. If they refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent,\nthey are hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their\nplace. The fairy lives on their life, and they waste away. Death is no\nescape from her. She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to\nthose she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless,\nand will not let them remain long on earth.’ The _Pooka_ is essentially\nan animal spirit, and some have considered him the forefather of\nShakespeare’s ‘Puck.’ He lives on solitary mountains, and among old\nruins ‘grown monstrous with much solitude,’ and ‘is of the race of the\nnightmare.’ ‘He has many shapes—is now a horse, . . . now a goat, now an\neagle. Like all spirits, he is only half in the world of form.’ The\n_banshee_ does not care much for our democratic levelling tendencies; she\nloves only old families, and despises the _parvenu_ or the _nouveau\nriche_. When more than one banshee is present, and they wail and sing in\nchorus, it is for the death of some holy or great one. An omen that\nsometimes accompanies the banshee is ‘. . . an immense black coach,\nmounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless horses driven by a\n_Dullahan_.’ A _Dullahan_ is the most terrible thing in the world. In\n1807 two of the sentries stationed outside St. James’s Park saw one\nclimbing the railings, and died of fright. Mr. Yeats suggests that they\nare possibly ‘descended from that Irish giant who swam across the Channel\nwith his head in his teeth.’\n\nThen come the stories of ghosts, of saints and priests, and of giants.\nThe ghosts live in a state intermediary between this world and the next.\nThey are held there by some earthly longing or affection, or some duty\nunfulfilled, or anger against the living; they are those who are too good\nfor hell, and too bad for heaven. Sometimes they ‘take the forms of\ninsects, especially of butterflies.’ The author of the _Parochial Survey\nof Ireland_ ‘heard a woman say to a child who was chasing a butterfly,\n“How do you know it is not the soul of your grandfather?” On November\neve they are abroad, and dance with the fairies.’ As for the saints and\npriests, ‘there are no martyrs in the stories.’ That ancient chronicler\nGiraldus Cambrensis ‘taunted the Archbishop of Cashel, because no one in\nIreland had received the crown of martyrdom. “Our people may be\nbarbarous,” the prelate answered, “but they have never lifted their hands\nagainst God’s saints; but now that a people have come amongst us who know\nhow to make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have\nmartyrs plentifully.”’ The giants were the old pagan heroes of Ireland,\nwho grew bigger and bigger, just as the gods grew smaller and smaller.\nThe fact is they did not wait for offerings; they took them _vi et\narmis_.\n\nSome of the prettiest stories are those that cluster round _Tír-na-n-Og_.\nThis is the Country of the Young, ‘for age and death have not found it;\nneither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it.’ ‘One man has gone\nthere and returned. The bard, Oisen, who wandered away on a white horse,\nmoving on the surface of the foam with his fairy Niamh, lived there three\nhundred years, and then returned looking for his comrades. The moment\nhis foot touched the earth his three hundred years fell on him, and he\nwas bowed double, and his beard swept the ground. He described his\nsojourn in the Land of Youth to Patrick before he died.’ Since then,\naccording to Mr. Yeats, ‘many have seen it in many places; some in the\ndepths of lakes, and have heard rising therefrom a vague sound of bells;\nmore have seen it far off on the horizon, as they peered out from the\nwestern cliffs. Not three years ago a fisherman imagined that he saw\nit.’\n\nMr. Yeats has certainly done his work very well. He has shown great\ncritical capacity in his selection of the stories, and his little\nintroductions are charmingly written. It is delightful to come across a\ncollection of purely imaginative work, and Mr. Yeats has a very quick\ninstinct in finding out the best and the most beautiful things in Irish\nfolklore.\n\nI am also glad to see that he has not confined himself entirely to prose,\nbut has included Allingham’s lovely poem on _The Fairies_:\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren’t go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trooping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl’s feather!\n\n Down along the rocky shore\n Some make their home,\n They live on crispy pancakes\n Of yellow tide-foam;\n Some in the reeds\n Of the black mountain lake,\n With frogs for their watch-dogs\n All night awake.\n\n High on the hill-top\n The old King sits;\n He is now so old and gray\n He’s nigh lost his wits.\n With a bridge of white mist\n Columbkill he crosses,\n On his stately journeys\n From Slieveleague to Rosses;\n Or going up with music,\n On cold starry nights,\n To sup with the Queen\n Of the gay Northern Lights.\n\nAll lovers of fairy tales and folklore should get this little book. _The\nHorned Women_, _The Priest’s Soul_, {157} and _Teig O’Kane_, are really\nmarvellous in their way; and, indeed, there is hardly a single story that\nis not worth reading and thinking over.\n\n_Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_. Edited and Selected by W.\nB. Yeats. (Walter Scott.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. W. B. YEATS\n(_Woman’s World_, March 1889.)\n\n\n‘_The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems_ is, I believe, the first\nvolume of poems that Mr. Yeats has published, and it is certainly full of\npromise. It must be admitted that many of the poems are too fragmentary,\ntoo incomplete. They read like stray scenes out of unfinished plays,\nlike things only half remembered, or, at best, but dimly seen. But the\narchitectonic power of construction, the power to build up and make\nperfect a harmonious whole, is nearly always the latest, as it certainly\nis the highest, development of the artistic temperament. It is somewhat\nunfair to expect it in early work. One quality Mr. Yeats has in a marked\ndegree, a quality that is not common in the work of our minor poets, and\nis therefore all the more welcome to us—I mean the romantic temper. He\nis essentially Celtic, and his verse, at its best, is Celtic also.\nStrongly influenced by Keats, he seems to study how to ‘load every rift\nwith ore,’ yet is more fascinated by the beauty of words than by the\nbeauty of metrical music. The spirit that dominates the whole book is\nperhaps more valuable than any individual poem or particular passage, but\nthis from _The Wanderings of Oisin_ is worth quoting. It describes the\nride to the Island of Forgetfulness:\n\n And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow light,\n For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world\n and the sun,\n Ceased on our hands and faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,\n And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world\n was one;\n\n Till the horse gave a whinny; for cumbrous with stems of the hazel\n and oak,\n Of hollies, and hazels, and oak-trees, a valley was sloping away\n From his hoofs in the heavy grasses, with monstrous slumbering folk,\n Their mighty and naked and gleaming bodies heaped loose where they\n lay.\n\n More comely than man may make them, inlaid with silver and gold,\n Were arrow and shield and war-axe, arrow and spear and blade,\n And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollows a child of three years old\n Could sleep on a couch of rushes, round and about them laid.\n\nAnd this, which deals with the old legend of the city lying under the\nwaters of a lake, is strange and interesting:\n\n The maker of the stars and worlds\n Sat underneath the market cross,\n And the old men were walking, walking,\n And little boys played pitch-and-toss.\n\n ‘The props,’ said He, ‘of stars and worlds\n Are prayers of patient men and good.\n The boys, the women, and old men,\n Listening, upon their shadows stood.\n\n A grey professor passing cried,\n ‘How few the mind’s intemperance rule!\n What shallow thoughts about deep things!\n The world grows old and plays the fool.’\n\n The mayor came, leaning his left ear—\n There were some talking of the poor—\n And to himself cried, ‘Communist!’\n And hurried to the guardhouse door.\n\n The bishop came with open book,\n Whispering along the sunny path;\n There was some talking of man’s God,\n His God of stupor and of wrath.\n\n The bishop murmured, ‘Atheist!\n How sinfully the wicked scoff!’\n And sent the old men on their way,\n And drove the boys and women off.\n\n The place was empty now of people;\n A cock came by upon his toes;\n An old horse looked across the fence,\n And rubbed along the rail his nose.\n\n The maker of the stars and worlds\n To His own house did Him betake,\n And on that city dropped a tear,\n And now that city is a lake.\n\nMr. Yeats has a great deal of invention, and some of the poems in his\nbook, such as _Mosada_, _Jealousy_, and _The Island of Statues_, are very\nfinely conceived. It is impossible to doubt, after reading his present\nvolume, that he will some day give us work of high import. Up to this he\nhas been merely trying the strings of his instrument, running over the\nkeys.\n\n_The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems_. By W. B. Yeats. (Kegan\nPaul.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. YEATS’S _WANDERINGS OF OISIN_\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, July 12, 1889.)\n\n\nBooks of poetry by young writers are usually promissory notes that are\nnever met. Now and then, however, one comes across a volume that is so\nfar above the average that one can hardly resist the fascinating\ntemptation of recklessly prophesying a fine future for its author. Such\na book Mr. Yeats’s _Wanderings of Oisin_ certainly is. Here we find\nnobility of treatment and nobility of subject-matter, delicacy of poetic\ninstinct and richness of imaginative resource. Unequal and uneven much\nof the work must be admitted to be. Mr. Yeats does not try to ‘out-baby’\nWordsworth, we are glad to say; but he occasionally succeeds in\n‘out-glittering’ Keats, and, here and there, in his book we come across\nstrange crudities and irritating conceits. But when he is at his best he\nis very good. If he has not the grand simplicity of epic treatment, he\nhas at least something of the largeness of vision that belongs to the\nepical temper. He does not rob of their stature the great heroes of\nCeltic mythology. He is very naïve and very primitive and speaks of his\ngiants with the air of a child. Here is a characteristic passage from\nthe account of Oisin’s return from the Island of Forgetfulness:\n\n And I rode by the plains of the sea’s edge, where all is barren and\n grey,\n Grey sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping\n trees,\n Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away\n Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the\n seas.\n\n Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast,\n Snatching the bird in secret, nor knew I, embosomed apart,\n When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast,\n For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my\n heart.\n\n Till fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay\n Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell\n down;\n Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,\n From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-winds\n brown.\n\n If I were as I once was, the gold hooves crushing the sand and the\n shells,\n Coming forth from the sea like the morning with red lips murmuring\n a song,\n Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the\n bells,\n I would leave no Saint’s head on his body, though spacious his\n lands were and strong.\n\n Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path,\n Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattle and woodwork made,\n Thy bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the\n earth,\n And a small and feeble populace stooping with mattock and spade.\n\nIn one or two places the music is faulty, the construction is sometimes\ntoo involved, and the word ‘populace’ in the last line is rather\ninfelicitous; but, when all is said, it is impossible not to feel in\nthese stanzas the presence of the true poetic spirit.\n\n_The Wanderings of Oisin and other Poems_. By W. B. Yeats. (Kegan\nPaul.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. WILLIAM MORRIS’S LAST BOOK\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, March 2, 1889.)\n\n\nMr. Morris’s last book is a piece of pure art workmanship from beginning\nto end, and the very remoteness of its style from the common language and\nordinary interests of our day gives to the whole story a strange beauty\nand an unfamiliar charm. It is written in blended prose and verse, like\nthe mediæval ‘cante-fable,’ and tells the tale of the House of the\nWolfings in its struggles against the legionaries of Rome then advancing\ninto Northern Germany. It is a kind of Saga, and the language in which\nthe folk-epic, as we may call it, is set forth recalls the antique\ndignity and directness of our English tongue four centuries ago. From an\nartistic point of view it may be described as an attempt to return by a\nself-conscious effort to the conditions of an earlier and a fresher age.\nAttempts of this kind are not uncommon in the history of art. From some\nsuch feeling came the Pre-Raphaelite movement of our own day and the\narchaistic movement of later Greek sculpture. When the result is\nbeautiful the method is justified, and no shrill insistence upon a\nsupposed necessity for absolute modernity of form can prevail against the\nvalue of work that has the incomparable excellence of style. Certainly,\nMr. Morris’s work possesses this excellence. His fine harmonies and rich\ncadences create in the reader that spirit by which alone can its own\nspirit be interpreted, awake in him something of the temper of romance\nand, by taking him out of his own age, place him in a truer and more\nvital relation to the great masterpieces of all time. It is a bad thing\nfor an age to be always looking in art for its own reflection. It is\nwell that, now and then, we are given work that is nobly imaginative in\nits method and purely artistic in its aim. As we read Mr. Morris’s story\nwith its fine alternations of verse and prose, its decorative and\ndescriptive beauties, its wonderful handling of romantic and adventurous\nthemes, we cannot but feel that we are as far removed from the ignoble\nfiction as we are from the ignoble facts of our own day. We breathe a\npurer air, and have dreams of a time when life had a kind of poetical\nquality of its own, and was simple and stately and complete.\n\nThe tragic interest of _The House of the Wolfings_ centres round the\nfigure of Thiodolf, the great hero of the tribe. The goddess who loves\nhim gives him, as he goes to battle against the Romans, a magical hauberk\non which rests this strange fate: that he who wears it shall save his own\nlife and destroy the life of his land. Thiodolf, finding out this\nsecret, brings the hauberk back to the Wood-Sun, as she is called, and\nchooses death for himself rather than the ruin of his cause, and so the\nstory ends.\n\nBut Mr. Morris has always preferred romance to tragedy, and set the\ndevelopment of action above the concentration of passion. His story is\nlike some splendid old tapestry crowded with stately images and enriched\nwith delicate and delightful detail. The impression it leaves on us is\nnot of a single central figure dominating the whole, but rather of a\nmagnificent design to which everything is subordinated, and by which\neverything becomes of enduring import. It is the whole presentation of\nthe primitive life that really fascinates. What in other hands would\nhave been mere archæology is here transformed by quick artistic instinct\nand made wonderful for us, and human and full of high interest. The\nancient world seems to have come to life again for our pleasure.\n\nOf a work so large and so coherent, completed with no less perfection\nthan it is conceived, it is difficult by mere quotation to give any\nadequate idea. This, however, may serve as an example of its narrative\npower. The passage describes the visit of Thiodolf to the Wood-Sun:\n\n The moonlight lay in a great flood on the grass without, and the dew\n was falling in the coldest hour of the night, and the earth smelled\n sweetly: the whole habitation was asleep now, and there was no sound\n to be known as the sound of any creature, save that from the distant\n meadow came the lowing of a cow that had lost her calf, and that a\n white owl was flitting about near the eaves of the Roof with her wild\n cry that sounded like the mocking of merriment now silent. Thiodolf\n turned toward the wood, and walked steadily through the scattered\n hazel-trees, and thereby into the thick of the beech-trees, whose\n boles grew smooth and silver-grey, high and close-set: and so on and\n on he went as one going by a well-known path, though there was no\n path, till all the moonlight was quenched under the close roof of the\n beech-leaves, though yet for all the darkness, no man could go there\n and not feel that the roof was green above him. Still he went on in\n despite of the darkness, till at last there was a glimmer before him,\n that grew greater till he came unto a small wood-lawn whereon the\n turf grew again, though the grass was but thin, because little\n sunlight got to it, so close and thick were the tall trees round\n about it. . . . Nought looked Thiodolf either at the heavens above,\n or the trees, as he strode from off the husk-strewn floor of the\n beech wood on to the scanty grass of the lawn, but his eyes looked\n straight before him at that which was amidmost of the lawn: and\n little wonder was that; for there on a stone chair sat a woman\n exceeding fair, clad in glittering raiment, her hair lying as pale in\n the moonlight on the grey stone as the barley acres in the August\n night before the reaping-hook goes in amongst them. She sat there as\n though she were awaiting some one, and he made no stop nor stay, but\n went straight up to her, and took her in his arms, and kissed her\n mouth and her eyes, and she him again; and then he sat himself down\n beside her.\n\nAs an example of the beauty of the verse we would take this from the song\nof the Wood-Sun. It at least shows how perfectly the poetry harmonizes\nwith the prose, and how natural the transition is from the one to the\nother:\n\n In many a stead Doom dwelleth, nor sleepeth day nor night:\n The rim of the bowl she kisseth, and beareth the chambering light\n When the kings of men wend happy to the bride-bed from the board.\n It is little to say that she wendeth the edge of the grinded sword,\n When about the house half builded she hangeth many a day;\n The ship from the strand she shoveth, and on his wonted way\n By the mountain hunter fareth where his foot ne’er failed before:\n She is where the high bank crumbles at last on the river’s shore:\n The mower’s scythe she whetteth; and lulleth the shepherd to sleep\n Where the deadly ling-worm wakeneth in the desert of the sheep.\n Now we that come of the God-kin of her redes for ourselves we wot,\n But her will with the lives of men-folk and their ending know we not.\n So therefore I bid thee not fear for thyself of Doom and her deed.\n But for me: and I bid thee hearken to the helping of my need.\n Or else—Art thou happy in life, or lusteth thou to die\n In the flower of thy days, when thy glory and thy longing bloom on\n high?\n\nThe last chapter of the book in which we are told of the great feast made\nfor the dead is so finely written that we cannot refrain from quoting\nthis passage:\n\n Now was the glooming falling upon the earth; but the Hall was bright\n within even as the Hall-Sun had promised. Therein was set forth the\n Treasure of the Wolfings; fair cloths were hung on the walls, goodly\n broidered garments on the pillars: goodly brazen cauldrons and\n fair-carven chests were set down in nooks where men could see them\n well, and vessels of gold and silver were set all up and down the\n tables of the feast. The pillars also were wreathed with flowers,\n and flowers hung garlanded from the walls over the precious hangings;\n sweet gums and spices were burning in fair-wrought censers of brass,\n and so many candles were alight under the Roof, that scarce had it\n looked more ablaze when the Romans had litten the faggots therein for\n its burning amidst the hurry of the Morning Battle.\n\n There then they fell to feasting, hallowing in the high-tide of their\n return with victory in their hands: and the dead corpses of Thiodolf\n and Otter, clad in precious glittering raiment, looked down on them\n from the High-seat, and the kindreds worshipped them and were glad;\n and they drank the Cup to them before any others, were they Gods or\n men.\n\nIn days of uncouth realism and unimaginative imitation, it is a high\npleasure to welcome work of this kind. It is a work in which all lovers\nof literature cannot fail to delight.\n\n_A Tale of the House of the Wolfings and all the Kindreds of the Mark_.\nWritten in Prose and in Verse by William Morris. (Reeves and Turner.)\n\n\n\n\nSOME LITERARY NOTES\n(_Woman’s World_, April 1889.)\n\n\n‘In modern life,’ said Matthew Arnold once, ‘you cannot well enter a\nmonastery; but you can enter the Wordsworth Society.’ I fear that this\nwill sound to many a somewhat uninviting description of this admirable\nand useful body, whose papers and productions have been recently\npublished by Professor Knight, under the title of _Wordsworthiana_.\n‘Plain living and high thinking’ are not popular ideals. Most people\nprefer to live in luxury, and to think with the majority. However, there\nis really nothing in the essays and addresses of the Wordsworth Society\nthat need cause the public any unnecessary alarm; and it is gratifying to\nnote that, although the society is still in the first blush of\nenthusiasm, it has not yet insisted upon our admiring Wordsworth’s\ninferior work. It praises what is worthy of praise, reverences what\nshould be reverenced, and explains what does not require explanation.\nOne paper is quite delightful; it is from the pen of Mr. Rawnsley, and\ndeals with such reminiscences of Wordsworth as still linger among the\npeasantry of Westmoreland. Mr. Rawnsley grew up, he tells us, in the\nimmediate vicinity of the present Poet-Laureate’s old home in\nLincolnshire, and had been struck with the swiftness with which,\n\n As year by year the labourer tills\n His wonted glebe, or lops the glades,\n\nthe memories of the poet of the Somersby Wold had ‘faded from off the\ncircle of the hills’—had, indeed, been astonished to note how little real\ninterest was taken in him or his fame, and how seldom his works were met\nwith in the houses of the rich or poor in the very neighbourhood.\nAccordingly, when he came to reside in the Lake Country, he endeavoured\nto find out what of Wordsworth’s memory among the men of the Dales still\nlingered on—how far he was still a moving presence among them—how far his\nworks had made their way into the cottages and farmhouses of the valleys.\nHe also tried to discover how far the race of Westmoreland and Cumberland\nfarm-folk—the ‘Matthews’ and the ‘Michaels’ of the poet, as described by\nhim—were real or fancy pictures, or how far the characters of the\nDalesmen had been altered in any remarkable manner by tourist influences\nduring the thirty-two years that have passed since the Lake poet was laid\nto rest.\n\nWith regard to the latter point, it will be remembered that Mr. Ruskin,\nwriting in 1876, said that ‘the Border peasantry, painted with absolute\nfidelity by Scott and Wordsworth,’ are, as hitherto, a scarcely injured\nrace; that in his fields at Coniston he had men who might have fought\nwith Henry V. at Agincourt without being distinguished from any of his\nknights; that he could take his tradesmen’s word for a thousand pounds,\nand need never latch his garden gate; and that he did not fear\nmolestation, in wood or on moor, for his girl guests. Mr. Rawnsley,\nhowever, found that a certain beauty had vanished which the simple\nretirement of old valley days fifty years ago gave to the men among whom\nWordsworth lived. ‘The strangers,’ he says, ‘with their gifts of gold,\ntheir vulgarity, and their requirements, have much to answer for.’ As\nfor their impressions of Wordsworth, to understand them one must\nunderstand the vernacular of the Lake District. ‘What was Mr. Wordsworth\nlike in personal appearance?’ said Mr. Rawnsley once to an old retainer,\nwho still lives not far from Rydal Mount. ‘He was a ugly-faäced man, and\na meän-liver,’ was the answer; but all that was really meant was that he\nwas a man of marked features, and led a very simple life in matters of\nfood and raiment. Another old man, who believed that Wordsworth ‘got\nmost of his poetry out of Hartley,’ spoke of the poet’s wife as ‘a very\nonpleasant woman, very onpleasant indeed. A close-fisted woman, that’s\nwhat she was.’ This, however, seems to have been merely a tribute to\nMrs. Wordsworth’s admirable housekeeping qualities.\n\nThe first person interviewed by Mr. Rawnsley was an old lady who had been\nonce in service at Rydal Mount, and was, in 1870, a lodging-house keeper\nat Grasmere. She was not a very imaginative person, as may be gathered\nfrom the following anecdote:—Mr. Rawnsley’s sister came in from a late\nevening walk, and said, ‘O Mrs. D---, have you seen the wonderful\nsunset?’ The good lady turned sharply round and, drawing herself to her\nfull height, as if mortally offended, answered: ‘No, miss; I’m a tidy\ncook, I know, and “they say” a decentish body for a landlady, but I don’t\nknaw nothing about sunsets or them sort of things, they’ve never been in\nmy line.’ Her reminiscence of Wordsworth was as worthy of tradition as\nit was explanatory, from her point of view, of the method in which\nWordsworth composed, and was helped in his labours by his enthusiastic\nsister. ‘Well, you know,’ she said, ‘Mr. Wordsworth went humming and\nbooing about, and she, Miss Dorothy, kept close behint him, and she\npicked up the bits as he let ’em fall, and tak’ ’em down, and put ’em\ntogether on paper for him. And you may be very well sure as how she\ndidn’t understand nor make sense out of ’em, and I doubt that he didn’t\nknow much about them either himself, but, howivver, there’s a great many\nfolk as do, I dare say.’ Of Wordsworth’s habit of talking to himself,\nand composing aloud, we hear a great deal. ‘Was Mr. Wordsworth a\nsociable man?’ asked Mr. Rawnsley of a Rydal farmer. ‘Wudsworth, for a’\nhe had noa pride nor nowt,’ was the answer, ‘was a man who was quite one\nto hissel, ye kna. He was not a man as folks could crack wi’, nor not a\nman as could crack wi’ folks. But there was another thing as kep’ folk\noff, he had a ter’ble girt deep voice, and ye might see his faace agaan\nfor long enuff. I’ve knoan folks, village lads and lasses, coming over\nby old road above, which runs from Grasmere to Rydal, flayt a’most to\ndeath there by Wishing Gaate to hear the girt voice a groanin’ and\nmutterin’ and thunderin’ of a still evening. And he had a way of\nstandin’ quite still by the rock there in t’ path under Rydal, and folks\ncould hear sounds like a wild beast coming from the rocks, and childer\nwere scared fit to be dead a’most.’\n\nWordsworth’s description of himself constantly recurs to one:\n\n And who is he with modest looks,\n And clad in sober russet gown?\n He murmurs by the running brooks,\n A music sweeter than their own;\n He is retired as noontide dew,\n Or fountain in a noonday grove.\n\nBut the corroboration comes in strange guise. Mr. Rawnsley asked one of\nthe Dalesmen about Wordsworth’s dress and habits. This was the reply:\n‘Wudsworth wore a Jem Crow, never seed him in a boxer in my life,—a Jem\nCrow and an old blue cloak was his rig, and _as for his habits_, _he had\nnoan_; niver knew him with a pot i’ his hand, or a pipe i’ his mouth.\nBut he was a greät skater, for a’ that—noan better in these parts—why, he\ncould cut his own naäme upo’ the ice, could Mr. Wudsworth.’ Skating\nseems to have been Wordsworth’s one form of amusement. He was ‘over\nfeckless i’ his hands’—could not drive or ride—‘not a bit of fish in\nhim,’ and ‘nowt of a mountaineer.’ But he could skate. The rapture of\nthe time when, as a boy, on Esthwaite’s frozen lake, he had\n\n wheeled about,\n Proud and exulting like an untired horse\n That cares not for his home, and, shod with steel,\n Had hissed along the polished ice,\n\nwas continued, Mr. Rawnsley tells us, into manhood’s later day; and Mr.\nRawnsley found many proofs that the skill the poet had gained, when\n\n Not seldom from the uproar he retired,\n Into a silent bay, or sportively\n Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng\n To cut across the reflex of a star,\n\nwas of such a kind as to astonish the natives among whom he dwelt. The\nrecollection of a fall he once had, when his skate caught on a stone,\nstill lingers in the district. A boy had been sent to sweep the snow\nfrom the White Moss Tarn for him. ‘Did Mr. Wudsworth gie ye owt?’ he was\nasked, when he returned from his labour. ‘Na, but I seed him tumlle,\nthough!’ was the answer. ‘He was a ter’ble girt skater, was Wudsworth\nnow,’ says one of Mr. Rawnsley’s informants; ‘he would put one hand i’\nhis breast (he wore a frill shirt i’ them days), and t’ other hand i’ his\nwaistband, same as shepherds does to keep their hands warm, and he would\nstand up straight and sway and swing away grandly.’\n\nOf his poetry they did not think much, and whatever was good in it they\nascribed to his wife, his sister, and Hartley Coleridge. He wrote\npoetry, they said, ‘because he couldn’t help it—because it was his\nhobby’—for sheer love, and not for money. They could not understand his\ndoing work ‘for nowt,’ and held his occupation in somewhat light esteem\nbecause it did not bring in ‘a deal o’ brass to the pocket.’ ‘Did you\never read his poetry, or see any books about in the farmhouses?’ asked\nMr. Rawnsley. The answer was curious: ‘Ay, ay, time or two. But ya’re\nweel aware there’s potry and potry. There’s potry wi’ a li’le bit\npleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can laugh at or the childer\nunderstand, and some as takes a deal of mastery to make out what’s said,\nand a deal of Wudsworth’s was this sort, ye kna. You could tell fra the\nman’s faace his potry would niver have no laugh in it. His potry was\nquite different work from li’le Hartley. Hartley ’ud goa running along\nbeside o’ the brooks and mak his, and goa in the first oppen door and\nwrite what he had got upo’ paper. But Wudsworth’s potry was real hard\nstuff, and bided a deal of makking, and he’d keep it in his head for long\nenough. Eh, but it’s queer, mon, different ways folks hes of making\npotry now. . . . Not but what Mr. Wudsworth didn’t stand very high, and\nwas a well-spoken man enough.’ The best criticism on Wordsworth that Mr.\nRawnsley heard was this: ‘He was an open-air man, and a great critic of\ntrees.’\n\nThere are many useful and well-written essays in Professor Knight’s\nvolume, but Mr. Rawnsley’s is far the most interesting of all. It gives\nus a graphic picture of the poet as he appeared in outward semblance and\nmanner to those about whom he wrote.\n\n_Wordsworthiana_: _A Selection from Papers read to the Wordsworth\nSociety_. Edited by William Knight. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. SWINBURNE’S _POEMS AND BALLADS_ (THIRD SERIES)\n(_Pall Mall Gazette_, June 27, 1889.)\n\n\nMr. Swinburne once set his age on fire by a volume of very perfect and\nvery poisonous poetry. Then he became revolutionary and pantheistic, and\ncried out against those that sit in high places both in heaven and on\nearth. Then he invented Marie Stuart and laid upon us the heavy burden\nof _Bothwell_. Then he retired to the nursery and wrote poems about\nchildren of a somewhat over-subtle character. He is now extremely\npatriotic, and manages to combine with his patriotism a strong affection\nfor the Tory party. He has always been a great poet. But he has his\nlimitations, the chief of which is, curiously enough, the entire lack of\nany sense of limit. His song is nearly always too loud for his subject.\nHis magnificent rhetoric, nowhere more magnificent than in the volume\nthat now lies before us, conceals rather than reveals. It has been said\nof him, and with truth, that he is a master of language, but with still\ngreater truth it may be said that Language is his master. Words seem to\ndominate him. Alliteration tyrannizes over him. Mere sound often\nbecomes his lord. He is so eloquent that whatever he touches becomes\nunreal.\n\nLet us turn to the poem on the Armada:\n\n The wings of the south-west wind are widened; the breath of his\n fervent lips,\n More keen than a sword’s edge, fiercer than fire, falls full on the\n plunging ships.\n The pilot is he of the northward flight, their stay and their\n steersman he;\n A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength to\n constrain the sea.\n And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand as\n a bird in the toils:\n For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are mightier than man’s,\n whom he slays and spoils.\n And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labour of wavering\n will,\n The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star\n shine still.\n\nSomehow we seem to have heard all this before. Does it come from the\nfact that of all the poets who ever lived Mr. Swinburne is the one who is\nthe most limited in imagery? It must be admitted that he is so. He has\nwearied us with his monotony. ‘Fire’ and the ‘Sea’ are the two words\never on his lips. We must confess also that this shrill\nsinging—marvellous as it is—leaves us out of breath. Here is a passage\nfrom a poem called _A Word with the Wind_:\n\n Be the sunshine bared or veiled, the sky superb or shrouded,\n Still the waters, lax and languid, chafed and foiled,\n Keen and thwarted, pale and patient, clothed with fire or clouded,\n Vex their heart in vain, or sleep like serpents coiled.\n Thee they look for, blind and baffled, wan with wrath and weary,\n Blown for ever back by winds that rock the bird:\n Winds that seamews breast subdue the sea, and bid the dreary\n Waves be weak as hearts made sick with hope deferred.\n Let the clarion sound from westward, let the south bear token\n How the glories of thy godhead sound and shine:\n Bid the land rejoice to see the land-wind’s broad wings broken,\n Bid the sea take comfort, bid the world be thine.\n\nVerse of this kind may be justly praised for the sustained strength and\nvigour of its metrical scheme. Its purely technical excellence is\nextraordinary. But is it more than an oratorical _tour de force_? Does\nit really convey much? Does it charm? Could we return to it again and\nagain with renewed pleasure? We think not. It seems to us empty.\n\nOf course, we must not look to these poems for any revelation of human\nlife. To be at one with the elements seems to be Mr. Swinburne’s aim.\nHe seeks to speak with the breath of wind and wave. The roar of the fire\nis ever in his ears. He puts his clarion to the lips of Spring and bids\nher blow, and the Earth wakes from her dreams and tells him her secret.\nHe is the first lyric poet who has tried to make an absolute surrender of\nhis own personality, and he has succeeded. We hear the song, but we\nnever know the singer. We never even get near to him. Out of the\nthunder and splendour of words he himself says nothing. We have often\nhad man’s interpretation of Nature; now we have Nature’s interpretation\nof man, and she has curiously little to say. Force and Freedom form her\nvague message. She deafens us with her clangours.\n\nBut Mr. Swinburne is not always riding the whirlwind and calling out of\nthe depths of the sea. Romantic ballads in Border dialect have not lost\ntheir fascination for him, and this last volume contains some very\nsplendid examples of this curious artificial kind of poetry. The amount\nof pleasure one gets out of dialect is a matter entirely of temperament.\nTo say ‘mither’ instead of ‘mother’ seems to many the acme of romance.\nThere are others who are not quite so ready to believe in the pathos of\nprovincialism. There is, however, no doubt of Mr. Swinburne’s mastery\nover the form, whether the form be quite legitimate or not. _The __Weary\nWedding_ has the concentration and colour of a great drama, and the\nquaintness of its style lends it something of the power of a grotesque.\nThe ballad of _The Witch-Mother_, a mediæval Medea who slays her children\nbecause her lord is faithless, is worth reading on account of its\nhorrible simplicity. _The Bride’s Tragedy_, with its strange refrain of\n\n In, in, out and in,\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin:\n\nThe _Jacobite’s Exile_—\n\n O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,\n And loud the dark Durance:\n But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne\n Than a’ the fields of France;\n And the waves of Till that speak sae still\n Gleam goodlier where they glance:\n\n_The Tyneside Widow_ and _A Reiver’s Neck-verse_ are all poems of fine\nimaginative power, and some of them are terrible in their fierce\nintensity of passion. There is no danger of English poetry narrowing\nitself to a form so limited as the romantic ballad in dialect. It is of\ntoo vital a growth for that. So we may welcome Mr. Swinburne’s masterly\nexperiments with the hope that things which are inimitable will not be\nimitated. The collection is completed by a few poems on children, some\nsonnets, a threnody on John William Inchbold, and a lovely lyric entitled\n_The Interpreters_.\n\n In human thought have all things habitation;\n Our days\n Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no station\n That stays.\n\n But thought and faith are mightier things than time\n Can wrong,\n Made splendid once by speech, or made sublime\n By song.\n\n Remembrance, though the tide of change that rolls\n Wax hoary,\n Gives earth and heaven, for song’s sake and the soul’s,\n Their glory.\n\nCertainly, ‘for song’s sake’ we should love Mr. Swinburne’s work, cannot,\nindeed, help loving it, so marvellous a music-maker is he. But what of\nthe soul? For the soul we must go elsewhere.\n\n_Poems and Ballads_. Third Series. By Algernon Charles Swinburne.\n(Chatto and Windus.)\n\n\n\n\nA CHINESE SAGE\n(_Speaker_, February 8, 1890.)\n\n\nAn eminent Oxford theologian once remarked that his only objection to\nmodern progress was that it progressed forward instead of backward—a view\nthat so fascinated a certain artistic undergraduate that he promptly\nwrote an essay upon some unnoticed analogies between the development of\nideas and the movements of the common sea-crab. I feel sure the\n_Speaker_ will not be suspected even by its most enthusiastic friends of\nholding this dangerous heresy of retrogression. But I must candidly\nadmit that I have come to the conclusion that the most caustic criticism\nof modern life I have met with for some time is that contained in the\nwritings of the learned Chuang Tzŭ, recently translated into the vulgar\ntongue by Mr. Herbert Giles, Her Majesty’s Consul at Tamsui.\n\nThe spread of popular education has no doubt made the name of this great\nthinker quite familiar to the general public, but, for the sake of the\nfew and the over-cultured, I feel it my duty to state definitely who he\nwas, and to give a brief outline of the character of his philosophy.\n\nChuang Tzŭ, whose name must carefully be pronounced as it is not written,\nwas born in the fourth century before Christ, by the banks of the Yellow\nRiver, in the Flowery Land; and portraits of the wonderful sage seated on\nthe flying dragon of contemplation may still be found on the simple\ntea-trays and pleasing screens of many of our most respectable suburban\nhouseholds. The honest ratepayer and his healthy family have no doubt\noften mocked at the dome-like forehead of the philosopher, and laughed\nover the strange perspective of the landscape that lies beneath him. If\nthey really knew who he was, they would tremble. Chuang Tzŭ spent his\nlife in preaching the great creed of Inaction, and in pointing out the\nuselessness of all useful things. ‘Do nothing, and everything will be\ndone,’ was the doctrine which he inherited from his great master Lao Tzŭ.\nTo resolve action into thought, and thought into abstraction, was his\nwicked transcendental aim. Like the obscure philosopher of early Greek\nspeculation, he believed in the identity of contraries; like Plato, he\nwas an idealist, and had all the idealist’s contempt for utilitarian\nsystems; he was a mystic like Dionysius, and Scotus Erigena, and Jacob\nBöhme, and held, with them and with Philo, that the object of life was to\nget rid of self-consciousness, and to become the unconscious vehicle of a\nhigher illumination. In fact, Chuang Tzŭ may be said to have summed up\nin himself almost every mood of European metaphysical or mystical\nthought, from Heraclitus down to Hegel. There was something in him of\nthe Quietist also; and in his worship of Nothing he may be said to have\nin some measure anticipated those strange dreamers of mediæval days who,\nlike Tauler and Master Eckhart, adored the _purum nihil_ and the Abyss.\nThe great middle classes of this country, to whom, as we all know, our\nprosperity, if not our civilization, is entirely due, may shrug their\nshoulders over all this and ask, with a certain amount of reason, what is\nthe identity of contraries to them, and why they should get rid of that\nself-consciousness which is their chief characteristic. But Chuang Tzŭ\nwas something more than a metaphysician and an illuminist. He sought to\ndestroy society, as we know it, as the middle classes know it; and the\nsad thing is that he combines with the passionate eloquence of a Rousseau\nthe scientific reasoning of a Herbert Spencer. There is nothing of the\nsentimentalist in him. He pities the rich more than the poor, if he even\npities at all, and prosperity seems to him as tragic a thing as\nsuffering. He has nothing of the modern sympathy with failures, nor does\nhe propose that the prizes should always be given on moral grounds to\nthose who come in last in the race. It is the race itself that he\nobjects to; and as for active sympathy, which has become the profession\nof so many worthy people in our own day, he thinks that trying to make\nothers good is as silly an occupation as ‘beating a drum in a forest in\norder to find a fugitive.’ It is a mere waste of energy. That is all.\nWhile, as for a thoroughly sympathetic man, he is, in the eyes of Chuang\nTzŭ, simply a man who is always trying to be somebody else, and so misses\nthe only possible excuse for his own existence.\n\nYes; incredible as it may seem, this curious thinker looked back with a\nsigh of regret to a certain Golden Age when there were no competitive\nexaminations, no wearisome educational systems, no missionaries, no penny\ndinners for the people, no Established Churches, no Humanitarian\nSocieties, no dull lectures about one’s duty to one’s neighbour, and no\ntedious sermons about any subject at all. In those ideal days, he tells\nus, people loved each other without being conscious of charity, or\nwriting to the newspapers about it. They were upright, and yet they\nnever published books upon Altruism. As every man kept his knowledge to\nhimself, the world escaped the curse of scepticism; and as every man kept\nhis virtues to himself, nobody meddled in other people’s business. They\nlived simple and peaceful lives, and were contented with such food and\nraiment as they could get. Neighbouring districts were in sight, and\n‘the cocks and dogs of one could be heard in the other,’ yet the people\ngrew old and died without ever interchanging visits. There was no\nchattering about clever men, and no laudation of good men. The\nintolerable sense of obligation was unknown. The deeds of humanity left\nno trace, and their affairs were not made a burden for prosperity by\nfoolish historians.\n\nIn an evil moment the Philanthropist made his appearance, and brought\nwith him the mischievous idea of Government. ‘There is such a thing,’\nsays Chuang Tzŭ, ‘as leaving mankind alone: there has never been such a\nthing as governing mankind.’ All modes of government are wrong. They\nare unscientific, because they seek to alter the natural environment of\nman; they are immoral because, by interfering with the individual, they\nproduce the most aggressive forms of egotism; they are ignorant, because\nthey try to spread education; they are self-destructive, because they\nengender anarchy. ‘Of old,’ he tells us, ‘the Yellow Emperor first\ncaused charity and duty to one’s neighbour to interfere with the natural\ngoodness of the heart of man. In consequence of this, Yao and Shun wore\nthe hair off their legs in endeavouring to feed their people. They\ndisturbed their internal economy in order to find room for artificial\nvirtues. They exhausted their energies in framing laws, and they were\nfailures.’ Man’s heart, our philosopher goes on to say, may be ‘forced\ndown or stirred up,’ and in either case the issue is fatal. Yao made the\npeople too happy, so they were not satisfied. Chieh made them too\nwretched, so they grew discontented. Then every one began to argue about\nthe best way of tinkering up society. ‘It is quite clear that something\nmust be done,’ they said to each other, and there was a general rush for\nknowledge. The results were so dreadful that the Government of the day\nhad to bring in Coercion, and as a consequence of this ‘virtuous men\nsought refuge in mountain caves, while rulers of state sat trembling in\nancestral halls.’ Then, when everything was in a state of perfect chaos,\nthe Social Reformers got up on platforms, and preached salvation from the\nills that they and their system had caused. The poor Social Reformers!\n‘They know not shame, nor what it is to blush,’ is the verdict of Chuang\nTzŭ upon them.\n\nThe economic question, also, is discussed by this almond-eyed sage at\ngreat length, and he writes about the curse of capital as eloquently as\nMr. Hyndman. The accumulation of wealth is to him the origin of evil.\nIt makes the strong violent, and the weak dishonest. It creates the\npetty thief, and puts him in a bamboo cage. It creates the big thief,\nand sets him on a throne of white jade. It is the father of competition,\nand competition is the waste, as well as the destruction, of energy. The\norder of nature is rest, repetition, and peace. Weariness and war are\nthe results of an artificial society based upon capital; and the richer\nthis society gets, the more thoroughly bankrupt it really is, for it has\nneither sufficient rewards for the good nor sufficient punishments for\nthe wicked. There is also this to be remembered—that the prizes of the\nworld degrade a man as much as the world’s punishments. The age is\nrotten with its worship of success. As for education, true wisdom can\nneither be learnt nor taught. It is a spiritual state, to which he who\nlives in harmony with nature attains. Knowledge is shallow if we compare\nit with the extent of the unknown, and only the unknowable is of value.\nSociety produces rogues, and education makes one rogue cleverer than\nanother. That is the only result of School Boards. Besides, of what\npossible philosophic importance can education be, when it serves simply\nto make each man differ from his neighbour? We arrive ultimately at a\nchaos of opinions, doubt everything, and fall into the vulgar habit of\narguing; and it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Look at\nHui Tzu. ‘He was a man of many ideas. His work would fill five carts.\nBut his doctrines were paradoxical.’ He said that there were feathers in\nan egg, because there were feathers on a chicken; that a dog could be a\nsheep, because all names were arbitrary; that there was a moment when a\nswift-flying arrow was neither moving nor at rest; that if you took a\nstick a foot long, and cut it in half every day, you would never come to\nthe end of it; and that a bay horse and a dun cow were three, because\ntaken separately they were two, and taken together they were one, and one\nand two made up three. ‘He was like a man running a race with his own\nshadow, and making a noise in order to drown the echo. He was a clever\ngadfly, that was all. What was the use of him?’\n\nMorality is, of course, a different thing. It went out of fashion, says\nChuang Tzŭ, when people began to moralize. Men ceased then to be\nspontaneous and to act on intuition. They became priggish and\nartificial, and were so blind as to have a definite purpose in life.\nThen came Governments and Philanthropists, those two pests of the age.\nThe former tried to coerce people into being good, and so destroyed the\nnatural goodness of man. The latter were a set of aggressive busybodies\nwho caused confusion wherever they went. They were stupid enough to have\nprinciples, and unfortunate enough to act up to them. They all came to\nbad ends, and showed that universal altruism is as bad in its results as\nuniversal egotism. ‘They tripped people up over charity, and fettered\nthem with duties to their neighbours.’ They gushed over music, and\nfussed over ceremonies. As a consequence of all this, the world lost its\nequilibrium, and has been staggering ever since.\n\nWho, then, according to Chuang Tzŭ, is the perfect man? And what is his\nmanner of life? The perfect man does nothing beyond gazing at the\nuniverse. He adopts no absolute position. ‘In motion, he is like water.\nAt rest, he is like a mirror. And, like Echo, he answers only when he is\ncalled upon.’ He lets externals take care of themselves. Nothing\nmaterial injures him; nothing spiritual punishes him. His mental\nequilibrium gives him the empire of the world. He is never the slave of\nobjective existences. He knows that, ‘just as the best language is that\nwhich is never spoken, so the best action is that which is never done.’\nHe is passive, and accepts the laws of life. He rests in inactivity, and\nsees the world become virtuous of itself. He does not try to ‘bring\nabout his own good deeds.’ He never wastes himself on effort. He is not\ntroubled about moral distinctions. He knows that things are what they\nare, and that their consequences will be what they will be. His mind is\nthe ‘speculum of creation,’ and he is ever at peace.\n\nAll this is of course excessively dangerous, but we must remember that\nChuang Tzŭ lived more than two thousand years ago, and never had the\nopportunity of seeing our unrivalled civilization. And yet it is\npossible that, were he to come back to earth and visit us, he might have\nsomething to say to Mr. Balfour about his coercion and active\nmisgovernment in Ireland; he might smile at some of our philanthropic\nardours, and shake his head over many of our organized charities; the\nSchool Board might not impress him, nor our race for wealth stir his\nadmiration; he might wonder at our ideals, and grow sad over what we have\nrealized. Perhaps it is well that Chuang Tzŭ cannot return.\n\nMeanwhile, thanks to Mr. Giles and Mr. Quaritch, we have his book to\nconsole us, and certainly it is a most fascinating and delightful volume.\nChuang Tzŭ is one of the Darwinians before Darwin. He traces man from\nthe germ, and sees his unity with nature. As an anthropologist he is\nexcessively interesting, and he describes our primitive arboreal ancestor\nliving in trees through his terror of animals stronger than himself, and\nknowing only one parent, the mother, with all the accuracy of a lecturer\nat the Royal Society. Like Plato, he adopts the dialogue as his mode of\nexpression, ‘putting words into other people’s mouths,’ he tells us, ‘in\norder to gain breadth of view.’ As a story-teller he is charming. The\naccount of the visit of the respectable Confucius to the great Robber Chê\nis most vivid and brilliant, and it is impossible not to laugh over the\nultimate discomfiture of the sage, the barrenness of whose moral\nplatitudes is ruthlessly exposed by the successful brigand. Even in his\nmetaphysics, Chuang Tzŭ is intensely humorous. He personifies his\nabstractions, and makes them act plays before us. The Spirit of the\nClouds, when passing eastward through the expanse of air, happened to\nfall in with the Vital Principle. The latter was slapping his ribs and\nhopping about: whereupon the Spirit of the Clouds said, ‘Who are you, old\nman, and what are you doing?’ ‘Strolling!’ replied the Vital Principle,\nwithout stopping, for all activities are ceaseless. ‘I want to _know_\nsomething,’ continued the Spirit of the Clouds. ‘Ah!’ cried the Vital\nPrinciple, in a tone of disapprobation, and a marvellous conversation\nfollows, that is not unlike the dialogue between the Sphinx and the\nChimera in Flaubert’s curious drama. Talking animals, also, have their\nplace in Chuang Tzŭ’s parables and stories, and through myth and poetry\nand fancy his strange philosophy finds musical utterance.\n\nOf course it is sad to be told that it is immoral to be consciously good,\nand that doing anything is the worst form of idleness. Thousands of\nexcellent and really earnest philanthropists would be absolutely thrown\nupon the rates if we adopted the view that nobody should be allowed to\nmeddle in what does not concern him. The doctrine of the uselessness of\nall useful things would not merely endanger our commercial supremacy as a\nnation, but might bring discredit upon many prosperous and serious-minded\nmembers of the shop-keeping classes. What would become of our popular\npreachers, our Exeter Hall orators, our drawing-room evangelists, if we\nsaid to them, in the words of Chuang Tzŭ, ‘Mosquitoes will keep a man\nawake all night with their biting, and just in the same way this talk of\ncharity and duty to one’s neighbour drives us nearly crazy. Sirs, strive\nto keep the world to its own original simplicity, and, as the wind\nbloweth where it listeth, so let Virtue establish itself. Wherefore this\nundue energy?’ And what would be the fate of governments and\nprofessional politicians if we came to the conclusion that there is no\nsuch thing as governing mankind at all? It is clear that Chuang Tzŭ is a\nvery dangerous writer, and the publication of his book in English, two\nthousand years after his death, is obviously premature, and may cause a\ngreat deal of pain to many thoroughly respectable and industrious\npersons. It may be true that the ideal of self-culture and\nself-development, which is the aim of his scheme of life, and the basis\nof his scheme of philosophy, is an ideal somewhat needed by an age like\nours, in which most people are so anxious to educate their neighbours\nthat they have actually no time left in which to educate themselves. But\nwould it be wise to say so? It seems to me that if we once admitted the\nforce of any one of Chuang Tzŭ’s destructive criticisms we should have to\nput some check on our national habit of self-glorification; and the only\nthing that ever consoles man for the stupid things he does is the praise\nhe always gives himself for doing them. There may, however, be a few who\nhave grown wearied of that strange modern tendency that sets enthusiasm\nto do the work of the intellect. To these, and such as these, Chuang Tzŭ\nwill be welcome. But let them only read him. Let them not talk about\nhim. He would be disturbing at dinner-parties, and impossible at\nafternoon teas, and his whole life was a protest against platform\nspeaking. ‘The perfect man ignores self; the divine man ignores action;\nthe true sage ignores reputation.’ These are the principles of Chuang\nTzŭ.\n\n_Chuang Tzŭ_: _Mystic_, _Moralist_, _and Social Reformer_. Translated\nfrom the Chinese by Herbert A. Giles, H.B.M.’s Consul at Tamsui.\n(Bernard Quaritch.)\n\n\n\n\nMR. PATER’S _APPRECIATIONS_\n(_Speaker_, March 22, 1890.)\n\n\nWhen I first had the privilege—and I count it a very high one—of meeting\nMr. Walter Pater, he said to me, smiling, ‘Why do you always write\npoetry? Why do you not write prose? Prose is so much more difficult.’\n\nIt was during my undergraduate days at Oxford; days of lyrical ardour and\nof studious sonnet-writing; days when one loved the exquisite intricacy\nand musical repetitions of the ballade, and the villanelle with its\nlinked long-drawn echoes and its curious completeness; days when one\nsolemnly sought to discover the proper temper in which a triolet should\nbe written; delightful days, in which, I am glad to say, there was far\nmore rhyme than reason.\n\nI may frankly confess now that at the time I did not quite comprehend\nwhat Mr. Pater really meant; and it was not till I had carefully studied\nhis beautiful and suggestive essays on the Renaissance that I fully\nrealized what a wonderful self-conscious art the art of English\nprose-writing really is, or may be made to be. Carlyle’s stormy\nrhetoric, Ruskin’s winged and passionate eloquence, had seemed to me to\nspring from enthusiasm rather than from art. I do not think I knew then\nthat even prophets correct their proofs. As for Jacobean prose, I\nthought it too exuberant; and Queen Anne prose appeared to me terribly\nbald, and irritatingly rational. But Mr. Pater’s essays became to me\n‘the golden book of spirit and sense, the holy writ of beauty.’ They are\nstill this to me. It is possible, of course, that I may exaggerate about\nthem. I certainly hope that I do; for where there is no exaggeration\nthere is no love, and where there is no love there is no understanding.\nIt is only about things that do not interest one, that one can give a\nreally unbiassed opinion; and this is no doubt the reason why an\nunbiassed opinion is always valueless.\n\nBut I must not allow this brief notice of Mr. Pater’s new volume to\ndegenerate into an autobiography. I remember being told in America that\nwhenever Margaret Fuller wrote an essay upon Emerson the printers had\nalways to send out to borrow some additional capital ‘I’s,’ and I feel it\nright to accept this transatlantic warning.\n\n_Appreciations_, in the fine Latin sense of the word, is the title given\nby Mr. Pater to his book, which is an exquisite collection of exquisite\nessays, of delicately wrought works of art—some of them being almost\nGreek in their purity of outline and perfection of form, others mediæval\nin their strangeness of colour and passionate suggestion, and all of them\nabsolutely modern, in the true meaning of the term modernity. For he to\nwhom the present is the only thing that is present, knows nothing of the\nage in which he lives. To realize the nineteenth century one must\nrealize every century that has preceded it, and that has contributed to\nits making. To know anything about oneself, one must know all about\nothers. There must be no mood with which one cannot sympathize, no dead\nmode of life that one cannot make alive. The legacies of heredity may\nmake us alter our views of moral responsibility, but they cannot but\nintensify our sense of the value of Criticism; for the true critic is he\nwho bears within himself the dreams and ideas and feelings of myriad\ngenerations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional\nimpulse obscure.\n\nPerhaps the most interesting, and certainly the least successful, of the\nessays contained in the present volume is that on _Style_. It is the\nmost interesting because it is the work of one who speaks with the high\nauthority that comes from the noble realization of things nobly\nconceived. It is the least successful, because the subject is too\nabstract. A true artist like Mr. Pater is most felicitous when he deals\nwith the concrete, whose very limitations give him finer freedom, while\nthey necessitate more intense vision. And yet what a high ideal is\ncontained in these few pages! How good it is for us, in these days of\npopular education and facile journalism, to be reminded of the real\nscholarship that is essential to the perfect writer, who, ‘being a true\nlover of words for their own sake, a minute and constant observer of\ntheir physiognomy,’ will avoid what is mere rhetoric, or ostentatious\nornament, or negligent misuse of terms, or ineffective surplusage, and\nwill be known by his tact of omission, by his skilful economy of means,\nby his selection and self-restraint, and perhaps above all by that\nconscious artistic structure which is the expression of mind in style. I\nthink I have been wrong in saying that the subject is too abstract. In\nMr. Pater’s hands it becomes very real to us indeed, and he shows us how,\nbehind the perfection of a man’s style, must lie the passion of a man’s\nsoul.\n\nAs one passes to the rest of the volume, one finds essays on Wordsworth\nand on Coleridge, on Charles Lamb and on Sir Thomas Browne, on some of\nShakespeare’s plays and on the English kings that Shakespeare fashioned,\non Dante Rossetti, and on William Morris. As that on Wordsworth seems to\nbe Mr. Pater’s last work, so that on the singer of the _Defence of\nGuenevere_ is certainly his earliest, or almost his earliest, and it is\ninteresting to mark the change that has taken place in his style. This\nchange is, perhaps, at first sight not very apparent. In 1868 we find\nMr. Pater writing with the same exquisite care for words, with the same\nstudied music, with the same temper, and something of the same mode of\ntreatment. But, as he goes on, the architecture of the style becomes\nricher and more complex, the epithet more precise and intellectual.\nOccasionally one may be inclined to think that there is, here and there,\na sentence which is somewhat long, and possibly, if one may venture to\nsay so, a little heavy and cumbersome in movement. But if this be so, it\ncomes from those side-issues suddenly suggested by the idea in its\nprogress, and really revealing the idea more perfectly; or from those\nfelicitous after-thoughts that give a fuller completeness to the central\nscheme, and yet convey something of the charm of chance; or from a desire\nto suggest the secondary shades of meaning with all their accumulating\neffect, and to avoid, it may be, the violence and harshness of too\ndefinite and exclusive an opinion. For in matters of art, at any rate,\nthought is inevitably coloured by emotion, and so is fluid rather than\nfixed, and, recognizing its dependence upon the moods and upon the\npassion of fine moments, will not accept the rigidity of a scientific\nformula or a theological dogma. The critical pleasure, too, that we\nreceive from tracing, through what may seem the intricacies of a\nsentence, the working of the constructive intelligence, must not be\noverlooked. As soon as we have realized the design, everything appears\nclear and simple. After a time, these long sentences of Mr. Pater’s come\nto have the charm of an elaborate piece of music, and the unity of such\nmusic also.\n\nI have suggested that the essay on Wordsworth is probably the most recent\nbit of work contained in this volume. If one might choose between so\nmuch that is good, I should be inclined to say it is the finest also.\nThe essay on Lamb is curiously suggestive; suggestive, indeed, of a\nsomewhat more tragic, more sombre figure, than men have been wont to\nthink of in connection with the author of the _Essays of Elia_. It is an\ninteresting aspect under which to regard Lamb, but perhaps he himself\nwould have had some difficulty in recognizing the portrait given of him.\nHe had, undoubtedly, great sorrows, or motives for sorrow, but he could\nconsole himself at a moment’s notice for the real tragedies of life by\nreading any one of the Elizabethan tragedies, provided it was in a folio\nedition. The essay on Sir Thomas Browne is delightful, and has the\nstrange, personal, fanciful charm of the author of the _Religio Medici_,\nMr. Pater often catching the colour and accent and tone of whatever\nartist, or work of art, he deals with. That on Coleridge, with its\ninsistence on the necessity of the cultivation of the relative, as\nopposed to the absolute spirit in philosophy and in ethics, and its high\nappreciation of the poet’s true position in our literature, is in style\nand substance a very blameless work. Grace of expression and delicate\nsubtlety of thought and phrase, characterize the essays on Shakespeare.\nBut the essay on Wordsworth has a spiritual beauty of its own. It\nappeals, not to the ordinary Wordsworthian with his uncritical temper,\nand his gross confusion of ethical and æsthetical problems, but rather to\nthose who desire to separate the gold from the dross, and to reach at the\ntrue Wordsworth through the mass of tedious and prosaic work that bears\nhis name, and that serves often to conceal him from us. The presence of\nan alien element in Wordsworth’s art is, of course, recognized by Mr.\nPater, but he touches on it merely from the psychological point of view,\npointing out how this quality of higher and lower moods gives the effect\nin his poetry ‘of a power not altogether his own, or under his control’;\na power which comes and goes when it wills, ‘so that the old fancy which\nmade the poet’s art an enthusiasm, a form of divine possession, seems\nalmost true of him.’ Mr. Pater’s earlier essays had their _purpurei\npanni_, so eminently suitable for quotation, such as the famous passage\non _Mona Lisa_, and that other in which Botticelli’s strange conception\nof the Virgin is so strangely set forth. From the present volume it is\ndifficult to select any one passage in preference to another as specially\ncharacteristic of Mr. Pater’s treatment. This, however, is worth quoting\nat length. It contains a truth eminently suitable for our age:\n\n That the end of life is not action but contemplation—_being_ as\n distinct from _doing_—a certain disposition of the mind: is, in some\n shape or other, the principle of all the higher morality. In poetry,\n in art, if you enter into their true spirit at all, you touch this\n principle in a measure; these, by their sterility, are a type of\n beholding for the mere joy of beholding. To treat life in the spirit\n of art is to make life a thing in which means and ends are\n identified: to encourage such treatment, the true moral significance\n of art and poetry. Wordsworth, and other poets who have been like\n him in ancient or more recent times, are the masters, the experts, in\n this art of impassioned contemplation. Their work is not to teach\n lessons, or enforce rules, or even to stimulate us to noble ends, but\n to withdraw the thoughts for a while from the mere machinery of life,\n to fix them, with appropriate emotions, on the spectacle of those\n great facts in man’s existence which no machinery affects, ‘on the\n great and universal passions of men, the most general and interesting\n of their occupations, and the entire world of nature’—on ‘the\n operations of the elements and the appearances of the visible\n universe, on storm and sunshine, on the revolutions of the seasons,\n on cold and heat, on loss of friends and kindred, on injuries and\n resentments, on gratitude and hope, on fear and sorrow.’ To witness\n this spectacle with appropriate emotions is the aim of all culture;\n and of these emotions poetry like Wordsworth’s is a great nourisher\n and stimulant. He sees nature full of sentiment and excitement; he\n sees men and women as parts of nature, passionate, excited, in\n strange grouping and connection with the grandeur and beauty of the\n natural world:—images, in his own words, ‘of men suffering; amid\n awful forms and powers.’\n\nCertainly the real secret of Wordsworth has never been better expressed.\nAfter having read and reread Mr. Pater’s essay—for it requires\nre-reading—one returns to the poet’s work with a new sense of joy and\nwonder, and with something of eager and impassioned expectation. And\nperhaps this might be roughly taken as the test or touchstone of the\nfinest criticism.\n\nFinally, one cannot help noticing the delicate instinct that has gone to\nfashion the brief epilogue that ends this delightful volume. The\ndifference between the classical and romantic spirits in art has often,\nand with much over-emphasis, been discussed. But with what a light sure\ntouch does Mr. Pater write of it! How subtle and certain are his\ndistinctions! If imaginative prose be really the special art of this\ncentury, Mr. Pater must rank amongst our century’s most characteristic\nartists. In certain things he stands almost alone. The age has produced\nwonderful prose styles, turbid with individualism, and violent with\nexcess of rhetoric. But in Mr. Pater, as in Cardinal Newman, we find the\nunion of personality with perfection. He has no rival in his own sphere,\nand he has escaped disciples. And this, not because he has not been\nimitated, but because in art so fine as his there is something that, in\nits essence, is inimitable.\n\n_Appreciations_, _with an Essay on Style_. By Walter Pater, Fellow of\nBrasenose College. (Macmillan and Co.)\n\n\n\n\nSENTENTIAE\n(_Extracted from Reviews_)\n\n\nPerhaps he will write poetry some day. If he does we would earnestly\nappeal to him to give up calling a cock ‘proud chanticleer.’ Few\nsynonyms are so depressing.\n\nA young writer can gain more from the study of a literary poet than from\nthe study of a lyrist.\n\nI have seen many audiences more interesting than the actors, and have\noften heard better dialogue in the _foyer_ than I have on the stage.\n\nThe Dramatic College might take up the education of spectators as well as\nthat of players, and teach people that there is a proper moment for the\nthrowing of flowers as well as a proper method.\n\nLife remains eternally unchanged; it is art which, by presenting it to us\nunder various forms, enables us to realize its many-sided mysteries, and\nto catch the quality of its most fiery-coloured moments. The\noriginality, I mean, which we ask from the artist, is originality of\ntreatment, not of subject. It is only the unimaginative who ever\ninvents. The true artist is known by the use he makes of what he\nannexes, and he annexes everything.\n\nIf I ventured on a bit of advice, which I feel most reluctant to do, it\nwould be to the effect that while one should always study the method of a\ngreat artist, one should never imitate his manner. The manner of an\nartist is essentially individual, the method of an artist is absolutely\nuniversal. The first is personality, which no one should copy; the\nsecond is perfection, which all should aim at.\n\nA critic who posed as an authority on field sports assured me that no one\never went out hunting when roses were in full bloom. Personally, that is\nexactly the season I would select for the chase, but then I know more\nabout flowers than I do about foxes, and like them much better.\n\nThe nineteenth century may be a prosaic age, but we fear that, if we are\nto judge by the general run of novels, it is not an age of prose.\n\nPerhaps in this century we are too altruistic to be really artistic.\n\nI am led to hope that the University will some day have a theatre of its\nown, and that proficiency in scene-painting will be regarded as a\nnecessary qualification for the Slade Professorship. On the stage,\nliterature returns to life and archæology becomes art. A fine theatre is\na temple where all the muses may meet, a second Parnassus.\n\nIt would be sad indeed if the many volumes of poems that are every year\npublished in London found no readers but the authors themselves and the\nauthors’ relations; and the real philanthropist should recognize it as\npart of his duties to buy every new book of verse that appears.\n\nA fifteen-line sonnet is as bad a monstrosity as a sonnet in dialogue.\n\nAntiquarian books, as a rule, are extremely dull reading. They give us\nfacts without form, science without style, and learning without life.\n\nThe Roman patron, in fact, kept the Roman poet alive, and we fancy that\nmany of our modern bards rather regret the old system. Better, surely,\nthe humiliation of the _sportula_ than the indignity of a bill for\nprinting! Better to accept a country-house as a gift than to be in debt\nto one’s landlady! On the whole, the patron was an excellent\ninstitution, if not for poetry at least for the poets; . . . every poet\nlongs for a Mæcenas.\n\nThe two things the Greeks valued most in actors were grace of gesture and\nmusic of voice. Indeed, to gain these virtues their actors used to\nsubject themselves to a regular course of gymnastics and a particular\nregime of diet, health being to the Greeks not merely a quality of art,\nbut a condition of its production.\n\nOne should not be too severe on English novels: they are the only\nrelaxation of the intellectually unemployed.\n\nMost modern novels are more remarkable for their crime than for their\nculture.\n\nNot that a tramp’s mode of life is at all unsuited to the development of\nthe poetic faculty. Far from it! He, if any one, should possess that\nfreedom of mood which is so essential to the artist, for he has no taxes\nto pay and no relations to worry him. The man who possesses a permanent\naddress, and whose name is to be found in the Directory, is necessarily\nlimited and localized. Only the tramp has absolute liberty of living.\nWas not Homer himself a vagrant, and did not Thespis go about in a\ncaravan?\n\nIn art as in life the law of heredity holds good. _On est toujours fils\nde quelqu’un_.\n\nHe has succeeded in studying a fine poet without stealing from him—a very\ndifficult thing to do.\n\nMorocco is a sort of paradox among countries, for though it lies westward\nof Piccadilly, yet it is purely Oriental in character, and though it is\nbut three hours’ sail from Europe, yet it makes you feel (to use the\nforcible expression of an American writer) as if you had been taken up by\nthe scruff of the neck and set down in the Old Testament.\n\nAs children themselves are the perfect flowers of life, so a collection\nof the best poems written on children should be the most perfect of all\nanthologies.\n\nNo English poet has written of children with more love and grace and\ndelicacy [than Herrick]. His _Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour_, his poem\n_To His Saviour_, _A Child_: _A Present by a Child_, his _Graces for\nChildren_, and his many lovely epitaphs on children are all of them\nexquisite works of art, simple, sweet and sincere.\n\nAs the cross-benches form a refuge for those who have no minds to make\nup, so those who cannot make up their minds always take to Homeric\nstudies. Many of our leaders have sulked in their tents with Achilles\nafter some violent political crisis and, enraged at the fickleness of\nfortune, more than one has given up to poetry what was obviously meant\nfor party.\n\nThere are two ways of misunderstanding a poem. One is to misunderstand\nit and the other to praise it for qualities it does not possess.\n\nMost modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding\nus that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly\nuninteresting event. It is true that such aphorisms as\n\n Graves are a _mother’s dimples_\n When we complain,\n\nor\n\n The primrose wears a constant smile,\n And captive takes the heart,\n\ncan hardly be said to belong to the very highest order of poetry, still,\nthey are preferable, on the whole, to the date of Hannah More’s birth, or\nof the burning down of Exeter Change, or of the opening of the Great\nExhibition; and though it would be dangerous to make calendars the basis\nof Culture, we should all be much improved if we began each day with a\nfine passage of English poetry.\n\nEven the most uninteresting poet cannot survive bad editing.\n\nPrefixed to the Calendar is an introductory note . . . displaying that\nintimate acquaintance with Sappho’s lost poems which is the privilege\nonly of those who are not acquainted with Greek literature.\n\nMediocre critics are usually safe in their generalities; it is in their\nreasons and examples that they come so lamentably to grief.\n\nAll premature panegyrics bring their own punishment upon themselves.\n\nNo one survives being over-estimated.\n\nHenry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the first true men of letters\nAmerica produced, and as such deserves a high place in any history of\nAmerican civilization. To a land out of breath in its greed for gain he\nshowed the example of a life devoted entirely to the study of literature;\nhis lectures, though not by any means brilliant, were still productive of\nmuch good; he had a most charming and gracious personality, and he wrote\nsome pretty poems. But his poems are not of the kind that call for\nintellectual analysis or for elaborate description or, indeed, for any\nserious discussion at all.\n\nThough the _Psalm of Life_ be shouted from Maine to California, that\nwould not make it true poetry.\n\nLongfellow has no imitators, for of echoes themselves there are no echoes\nand it is only style that makes a school.\n\nPoe’s marvellous lines _To Helen_, a poem as beautiful as a Greek gem and\nas musical as Apollo’s lute.\n\nGood novelists are much rarer than good sons, and none of us would part\nreadily with Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby. Still, the fact remains that a\nman who was affectionate and loving to his children, generous and\nwarm-hearted to his friends, and whose books are the very bacchanalia of\nbenevolence, pilloried his parents to make the groundlings laugh, and\nthis fact every biographer of Dickens should face and, if possible,\nexplain.\n\nNo age ever borrows the slang of its predecessor.\n\nWhat we do not know about Shakespeare is a most fascinating subject, and\none that would fill a volume, but what we do know about him is so meagre\nand inadequate that when it is collected together the result is rather\ndepressing.\n\nThey show a want of knowledge that must be the result of years of study.\n\nRossetti’s was a great personality, and personalities such as his do not\neasily survive shilling primers.\n\nWe are sorry to find an English dramatic critic misquoting Shakespeare,\nas we had always been of opinion that this was a privilege reserved\nspecially for our English actors.\n\nBiographies of this kind rob life of much of its dignity and its wonder,\nadd to death itself a new terror, and make one wish that all art were\nanonymous.\n\nA pillar of fire to the few who knew him, and of cloud to the many who\nknew him not, Dante Gabriel Rossetti lived apart from the gossip and\ntittle-tattle of a shallow age. He never trafficked with the merchants\nfor his soul, nor brought his wares into the market-place for the idle to\ngape at. Passionate and romantic though he was, yet there was in his\nnature something of high austerity. He loved seclusion, and hated\nnotoriety, and would have shuddered at the idea that within a few years\nafter his death he was to make his appearance in a series of popular\nbiographies, sandwiched between the author of _Pickwick_ and the Great\nLexicographer.\n\nWe sincerely hope that a few more novels like these will be published, as\nthe public will then find out that a bad book is very dear at a shilling.\n\nThe only form of fiction in which real characters do not seem out of\nplace is history. In novels they are detestable.\n\nShilling literature is always making demands on our credulity without\never appealing to our imagination.\n\nPathology is rapidly becoming the basis of sensational literature, and in\nart, as in politics, there is a great future for monsters.\n\nIt is only mediocrities and old maids who consider it a grievance to be\nmisunderstood.\n\nAs truly religious people are resigned to everything, even to mediocre\npoetry, there is no reason at all why Madame Guyon’s verses should not be\npopular with a large section of the community.\n\nA simile committing suicide is always a depressing spectacle.\n\nSuch novels as _Scamp_ are possibly more easy to write than they are to\nread.\n\nWe have no doubt that when Bailey wrote to Lord Houghton that\ncommon-sense and gentleness were Keats’s two special characteristics the\nworthy Archdeacon meant extremely well, but we prefer the real Keats,\nwith his passionate wilfulness, his fantastic moods and his fine\ninconsistence. Part of Keats’s charm as a man is his fascinating\nincompleteness.\n\nThe Apostolic dictum, that women should not be suffered to teach, is no\nlonger applicable to a society such as ours, with its solidarity of\ninterests, its recognition of natural rights, and its universal\neducation, however suitable it may have been to the Greek cities under\nRoman rule. Nothing in the United States struck me more than the fact\nthat the remarkable intellectual progress of that country is very largely\ndue to the efforts of American women, who edit many of the most powerful\nmagazines and newspapers, take part in the discussion of every question\nof public interest, and exercise an important influence upon the growth\nand tendencies of literature and art. Indeed, the women of America are\nthe one class in the community that enjoys that leisure which is so\nnecessary for culture. The men are, as a rule, so absorbed in business,\nthat the task of bringing some element of form into the chaos of daily\nlife is left almost entirely to the opposite sex, and an eminent\nBostonian once assured me that in the twentieth century the whole culture\nof his country would be in petticoats. By that time, however, it is\nprobable that the dress of the two sexes will be assimilated, as\nsimilarity of costume always follows similarity of pursuits.\n\nThe aim of social comedy, in Menander no less than in Sheridan, is to\nmirror the manners, not to reform the morals, of its day, and the censure\nof the Puritan, whether real or affected, is always out of place in\nliterary criticism, and shows a want of recognition of the essential\ndistinction between art and life. After all, it is only the Philistine\nwho thinks of blaming Jack Absolute for his deception, Bob Acres for his\ncowardice, and Charles Surface for his extravagance, and there is very\nlittle use in airing one’s moral sense at the expense of one’s artistic\nappreciation.\n\nThe _Æneid_ bears almost the same relation to the _Iliad_ that the\n_Idylls of the King_ do to the old Celtic romances of Arthur. Like them\nit is full of felicitous modernisms, of exquisite literary echoes and of\ndelicate and delightful pictures; as Lord Tennyson loves England so did\nVirgil love Rome; the pageants of history and the purple of empire are\nequally dear to both poets; but neither of them has the grand simplicity\nor the large humanity of the early singers, and, as a hero, Æneas is no\nless a failure than Arthur.\n\nThere is always a certain amount of danger in any attempt to cultivate\nimpossible virtues.\n\nAs far as the serious presentation of life is concerned, what we require\nis more imaginative treatment, greater freedom from theatric language and\ntheatric convention. It may be questioned, also, whether the consistent\nreward of virtue and punishment of wickedness be really the healthiest\nideal for an art that claims to mirror nature.\n\nTrue originality is to be found rather in the use made of a model than in\nthe rejection of all models and masters. _Dans l’art comme dans la\nnature on est toujours fils de quelqu’un_, and we should not quarrel with\nthe reed if it whispers to us the music of the lyre. A little child once\nasked me if it was the nightingale who taught the linnets how to sing.\n\nIn France they have had one great genius, Balzac, who invented the modern\nmethod of looking at life; and one great artist, Flaubert, who is the\nimpeccable master of style; and to the influence of these two men we may\ntrace almost all contemporary French fiction. But in England we have had\nno schools worth speaking of. The fiery torch lit by the Brontës has not\nbeen passed on to other hands; Dickens has influenced only journalism;\nThackeray’s delightful superficial philosophy, superb narrative power,\nand clever social satire have found no echoes; nor has Trollope left any\ndirect successors behind him—a fact which is not much to be regretted,\nhowever, as, admirable though Trollope undoubtedly is for rainy\nafternoons and tedious railway journeys, from the point of view of\nliterature he is merely the perpetual curate of Pudlington Parva.\n\nGeorge Meredith’s style is chaos illumined by brilliant flashes of\nlightning. As a writer he has mastered everything, except language; as a\nnovelist he can do everything, except tell a story; as an artist he is\neverything, except articulate. Too strange to be popular, too individual\nto have imitators, the author of _Richard Feverel_ stands absolutely\nalone. It is easy to disarm criticism, but he has disarmed the disciple.\nHe gives us his philosophy through the medium of wit, and is never so\npathetic as when he is humorous. To turn truth into a paradox is not\ndifficult, but George Meredith makes all his paradoxes truths, and no\nTheseus can thread his labyrinth, no Œdipus solve his secret.\n\nThe most perfect and the most poisonous of all modern French poets once\nremarked that a man can live for three days without bread, but that no\none can live for three days without poetry. This, however, can hardly be\nsaid to be a popular view, or one that commends itself to that curiously\nuncommon quality which is called common-sense. I fancy that most people,\nif they do not actually prefer a salmis to a sonnet, certainly like their\nculture to repose on a basis of good cookery.\n\nA cynical critic once remarked that no great poet is intelligible and no\nlittle poet worth understanding, but that otherwise poetry is an\nadmirable thing. This, however, seems to us a somewhat harsh view of the\nsubject. Little poets are an extremely interesting study. The best of\nthem have often some new beauty to show us, and though the worst of them\nmay bore yet they rarely brutalize.\n\nIt is a curious thing that when minor poets write choruses to a play they\nshould always consider it necessary to adopt the style and language of a\nbad translator. We fear that Mr. Bohn has much to answer for.\n\nIn one sonnet he makes a distinct attempt to be original and the result\nis extremely depressing.\n\n Earth wears her grandest robe, by autumn spun,\n _Like some stout matron who of youth has run_\n _The course_, . . .\n\nis the most dreadful simile we have ever come across even in poetry. Mr.\nGriffiths should beware of originality. Like beauty, it is a fatal gift.\n\nThere is a wide difference between the beautiful Tuscan city and the\nsea-city of the Adriatic. Florence is a city full of memories of the\ngreat figures of the past. The traveller cannot pass along her streets\nwithout treading in the very traces of Dante, without stepping on soil\nmade memorable by footprints never to be effaced. The greatness of the\nsurroundings, the palaces, churches, and frowning mediæval castles in the\nmidst of the city, are all thrown into the background by the greatness,\nthe individuality, the living power and vigour of the men who are their\noriginators, and at the same time their inspiring soul. But when we turn\nto Venice the effect is very different. We do not think of the makers of\nthat marvellous city, but rather of what they made. The idealized image\nof Venice herself meets us everywhere. The mother is not overshadowed by\nthe too great glory of any of her sons. In her records the city is\neverything—the republic, the worshipped ideal of a community in which\nevery man for the common glory seems to have been willing to sink his\nown. We know that Dante stood within the red walls of the arsenal, and\nsaw the galleys making and mending, and the pitch flaming up to heaven;\nPetrarch came to visit the great Mistress of the Sea, taking refuge\nthere, ‘in this city, true home of the human race,’ from trouble, war and\npestilence outside; and Byron, with his facile enthusiasms and fervent\neloquence, made his home for a time in one of the stately, decaying\npalaces; but with these exceptions no great poet has ever associated\nhimself with the life of Venice. She had architects, sculptors and\npainters, but no singer of her own.\n\nTo realize the popularity of the great poets one should turn to the minor\npoets and see whom they follow, what master they select, whose music they\necho.\n\nOrdinary theology has long since converted its gold into lead, and words\nand phrases that once touched the heart of the world have become\nwearisome and meaningless through repetition. If Theology desires to\nmove us, she must re-write her formulas.\n\nIt takes a great artist to be thoroughly modern. Nature is always a\nlittle behind the age.\n\nMr. Nash, who styles himself ‘a humble soldier in the army of Faith,’\nexpresses a hope that his book may ‘invigorate devotional feeling,\nespecially among the young, to whom verse is perhaps more attractive than\nto their elders,’ but we should be sorry to think that people of any age\ncould admire such a paraphrase as the following:\n\n Foxes have holes in which to slink for rest,\n The birds of air find shelter in the nest;\n But He, the Son of Man and Lord of all,\n Has no abiding place His own to call.\n\nIt is a curious fact that the worst work is always done with the best\nintentions, and that people are never so trivial as when they take\nthemselves very seriously.\n\nMr. Foster is an American poet who has read Hawthorne, which is wise of\nhim, and imitated Longfellow, which is not quite so commendable.\n\n_Andiatoroctè_ is the title of a volume of poems by the Rev. Clarence\nWalworth, of Albany, N.Y. It is a word borrowed from the Indians, and\nshould, we think, be returned to them as soon as possible. The most\ncurious poem of the book is called _Scenes at the Holy Home_:\n\n Jesus and Joseph at work! Hurra!\n Sight never to see again,\n A prentice Deity plies the saw,\n While the Master ploughs with the plane.\n\nPoems of this kind were popular in the Middle Ages when the cathedrals of\nevery Christian country served as its theatres. They are anachronisms\nnow, and it is odd that they should come to us from the United States.\nIn matters of this kind we should have some protection.\n\nAs for the triolets, and the rondels, and the careful study of metrical\nsubtleties, these things are merely the signs of a desire for perfection\nin small things and of the recognition of poetry as an art. They have\nhad certainly one good result—they have made our minor poets readable,\nand have not left us entirely at the mercy of geniuses.\n\nPoetry has many modes of music; she does not blow through one pipe alone.\nDirectness of utterance is good, but so is the subtle recasting of\nthought into a new and delightful form. Simplicity is good, but\ncomplexity, mystery, strangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have\ntheir value. Indeed, properly speaking, there is no such thing as Style;\nthere are merely styles, that is all.\n\nWriters of poetical prose are rarely good poets.\n\nPoetry may be said to need far more self-restraint than prose. Its\nconditions are more exquisite. It produces its effects by more subtle\nmeans. It must not be allowed to degenerate into mere rhetoric or mere\neloquence. It is, in one sense, the most self-conscious of all the arts,\nas it is never a means to an end but always an end in itself.\n\nIt may be difficult for a poet to find English synonyms for Asiatic\nexpressions, but even if it were impossible it is none the less a poet’s\nduty to find them. As it is, Sir Edwin Arnold has translated Sa’di and\nsome one must translate Sir Edwin Arnold.\n\nLounging in the open air is not a bad school for poets, but it largely\ndepends on the lounger.\n\nPeople are so fond of giving away what they do not want themselves, that\ncharity is largely on the increase. But with this kind of charity I have\nnot much sympathy. If one gives away a book, it should be a charming\nbook—so charming, that one regrets having given it.\n\nMr. Whistler, for some reason or other, always adopted the phraseology of\nthe minor prophets. Possibly it was in order to emphasize his well-known\nclaims to verbal inspiration, or perhaps he thought with Voltaire that\n_Habakkuk était capable de tout_, and wished to shelter himself under the\nshield of a definitely irresponsible writer none of whose prophecies,\naccording to the French philosopher, has ever been fulfilled. The idea\nwas clever enough at the beginning, but ultimately the manner became\nmonotonous. The spirit of the Hebrews is excellent but their mode of\nwriting is not to be imitated, and no amount of American jokes will give\nit that modernity which is essential to a good literary style. Admirable\nas are Mr. Whistler’s fireworks on canvas, his fireworks in prose are\nabrupt, violent and exaggerated.\n\n‘The decisive events of the world,’ as has been well said, ‘take place in\nthe intellect,’ and as for Board-schools, academic ceremonies, hospital\nwards and the like, they may be well left to the artists of the\nillustrated papers, who do them admirably and quite as well as they need\nbe done. Indeed, the pictures of contemporary events, Royal marriages,\nnaval reviews and things of this kind that appear in the Academy every\nyear, are always extremely bad; while the very same subjects treated in\nblack and white in the _Graphic_ or the _London News_ are excellent.\nBesides, if we want to understand the history of a nation through the\nmedium of art, it is to the imaginative and ideal arts that we have to go\nand not to the arts that are definitely imitative. The visible aspect of\nlife no longer contains for us the secret of life’s spirit.\n\nThe difficulty under which the novelists of our day labour seems to me to\nbe this: if they do not go into society, their books are unreadable; and\nif they do go into society, they have no time left for writing.\n\nI must confess that most modern mysticism seems to me to be simply a\nmethod of imparting useless knowledge in a form that no one can\nunderstand. Allegory, parable, and vision have their high artistic uses,\nbut their philosophical and scientific uses are very small.\n\nThe object of most modern fiction is not to give pleasure to the artistic\ninstinct, but rather to portray life vividly for us, to draw attention to\nsocial anomalies, and social forms of injustice. Many of our novelists\nare really pamphleteers, reformers masquerading as story-tellers, earnest\nsociologists seeking to mend as well as to mirror life.\n\nThe book is certainly characteristic of an age so practical and so\nliterary as ours, an age in which all social reforms have been preceded\nand have been largely influenced by fiction.\n\nMr. Stopford Brooke said some time ago that Socialism and the socialistic\nspirit would give our poets nobler and loftier themes for song, would\nwiden their sympathies and enlarge the horizon of their vision, and would\ntouch, with the fire and fervour of a new faith, lips that had else been\nsilent, hearts that but for this fresh gospel had been cold. What Art\ngains from contemporary events is always a fascinating problem and a\nproblem that is not easy to solve. It is, however, certain that\nSocialism starts well equipped. She has her poets and her painters, her\nart lecturers and her cunning designers, her powerful orators and her\nclever writers. If she fails it will not be for lack of expression. If\nshe succeeds her triumph will not be a triumph of mere brute force.\n\nSocialism is not going to allow herself to be trammelled by any hard and\nfast creed or to be stereotyped into an iron formula. She welcomes many\nand multiform natures. She rejects none and has room for all. She has\nthe attraction of a wonderful personality and touches the heart of one\nand the brain of another, and draws this man by his hatred and injustice,\nand his neighbour by his faith in the future, and a third, it may be, by\nhis love of art or by his wild worship of a lost and buried past. And\nall of this is well. For, to make men Socialists is nothing, but to make\nSocialism human is a great thing.\n\nThe Reformation gained much from the use of popular hymn-tunes, and the\nSocialists seem determined to gain by similar means a similar hold upon\nthe people. However, they must not be too sanguine about the result.\nThe walls of Thebes rose up to the sound of music, and Thebes was a very\ndull city indeed.\n\nWe really must protest against Mr. Matthews’ efforts to confuse the\npoetry of Piccadilly with the poetry of Parnassus. To tell us, for\ninstance, that Mr. Austin Dobson’s verse ‘has not the condensed clearness\nnor the incisive vigor of Mr. Locker’s’ is really too bad even for\nTransatlantic criticism. Nobody who lays claim to the slightest\nknowledge of literature and the forms of literature should ever bring the\ntwo names into conjunction.\n\nMr. Dobson has produced work that is absolutely classical in its\nexquisite beauty of form. Nothing more artistically perfect in its way\nthan the _Lines to a Greek Girl_ has been written in our time. This\nlittle poem will be remembered in literature as long as _Thyrsis_ is\nremembered, and _Thyrsis_ will never be forgotten. Both have that note\nof distinction that is so rare in these days of violence, exaggeration\nand rhetoric. Of course, to suggest, as Mr. Matthews does, that Mr.\nDobson’s poems belong to ‘the literature of power’ is ridiculous. Power\nis not their aim, nor is it their effect. They have other qualities, and\nin their own delicately limited sphere they have no contemporary rivals;\nthey have none even second to them.\n\nThe heroine is a sort of well-worn Becky Sharp, only much more beautiful\nthan Becky, or at least than Thackeray’s portraits of her, which,\nhowever, have always seemed to me rather ill-natured. I feel sure that\nMrs. Rawdon Crawley was extremely pretty, and I have never understood how\nit was that Thackeray could caricature with his pencil so fascinating a\ncreation of his pen.\n\nA critic recently remarked of Adam Lindsay Gordon that through him\nAustralia had found her first fine utterance in song. This, however, is\nan amiable error. There is very little of Australia in Gordon’s poetry.\nHis heart and mind and fancy were always preoccupied with memories and\ndreams of England and such culture as England gave him. He owed nothing\nto the land of his adoption. Had he stayed at home he would have done\nmuch better work.\n\nThat Australia, however, will some day make amends by producing a poet of\nher own we cannot doubt, and for him there will be new notes to sound and\nnew wonders to tell of.\n\nThe best that we can say of him is that he wrote imperfectly in Australia\nthose poems that in England he might have made perfect.\n\nJudges, like the criminal classes, have their lighter moments.\n\nThere seems to be some curious connection between piety and poor rhymes.\n\nThe South African poets, as a class, are rather behind the age. They\nseem to think that ‘Aurora’ is a very novel and delightful epithet for\nthe dawn. On the whole they depress us.\n\nThe only original thing in the volume is the description of Mr. Robert\nBuchanan’s ‘grandeur of mind.’ This is decidedly new.\n\nDr. Cockle tells us that Müllner’s _Guilt_ and _The Ancestress_ of\nGrillparzer are the masterpieces of German fate-tragedy. His translation\nof the first of these two masterpieces does not make us long for any\nfurther acquaintance with the school. Here is a specimen from the fourth\nact of the fate-tragedy.\n\n SCENE VIII.\n\n ELVIRA. HUGO.\n\n ELVIRA (_after long silence_, _leaving the harp_, _steps to Hugo_,\n _and seeks his gaze_).\n\n HUGO (_softly_). Though I made sacrifice of thy sweet life, the\n Father has forgiven. Can the wife—forgive?\n\n ELVIRA (_on his breast_). She can!\n\n HUGO (_with all the warmth of love_). Dear wife!\n\n ELVIRA (_after a pause_, _in deep sorrow_). Must it be so, beloved\n one?\n\n HUGO (_sorry to have betrayed himself_). What?\n\nThe Renaissance had for its object the development of great\npersonalities. The perfect freedom of the temperament in matters of art,\nthe perfect freedom of the intellect in intellectual matters, the full\ndevelopment of the individual, were the things it aimed at. As we study\nits history we find it full of great anarchies. It solved no political\nor social problems; it did not seek to solve them. The ideal of the\n‘Grand Siècle,’ and of Richelieu, in whom the forces of that great age\nwere incarnate, was different. The ideas of citizenship, of the building\nup of a great nation, of the centralization of forces, of collective\naction, of ethnic unity of purpose, came before the world.\n\nThe creation of a formal tradition upon classical lines is never without\nits danger, and it is sad to find the provincial towns of France, once so\nvaried and individual in artistic expression, writing to Paris for\ndesigns and advice. And yet, through Colbert’s great centralizing scheme\nof State supervision and State aid, France was the one country in Europe,\nand has remained the one country in Europe, where the arts are not\ndivorced from industry.\n\nHawthorne re-created for us the America of the past with the incomparable\ngrace of a very perfect artist, but Mr. Bret Harte’s emphasized modernity\nhas, in its own sphere, won equal, or almost equal, triumphs.\n\nIt is pleasant to come across a heroine [Bret Harte’s _Cressy_] who is\nnot identified with any great cause, and represents no important\nprinciple, but is simply a wonderful nymph from American backwoods, who\nhas in her something of Artemis, and not a little of Aphrodite.\n\nIt is always a pleasure to come across an American poet who is not\nnational, and who tries to give expression to the literature that he\nloves rather than to the land in which he lives. The Muses care so\nlittle for geography!\n\nBlue-books are generally dull reading, but Blue-books on Ireland have\nalways been interesting. They form the record of one of the great\ntragedies of modern Europe. In them England has written down her\nindictment against herself and has given to the world the history of her\nshame. If in the last century she tried to govern Ireland with an\ninsolence that was intensified by race hatred and religious prejudice,\nshe has sought to rule her in this century with a stupidity that is\naggravated by good intentions.\n\nLike most penmen he [Froude] overrates the power of the sword. Where\nEngland has had to struggle she has been wise. Where physical strength\nhas been on her side, as in Ireland, she has been made unwieldy by that\nstrength. Her own strong hands have blinded her. She has had force but\nno direction.\n\nThere are some who will welcome with delight the idea of solving the\nIrish question by doing away with the Irish people. There are others who\nwill remember that Ireland has extended her boundaries, and that we have\nnow to reckon with her not merely in the Old World but in the New.\n\nPlastic simplicity of outline may render for us the visible aspect of\nlife; it is different when we come to deal with those secrets which\nself-consciousness alone contains, and which self-consciousness itself\ncan but half reveal. Action takes place in the sunlight, but the soul\nworks in the dark. There is something curiously interesting in the\nmarked tendency of modern poetry to become obscure. Many critics,\nwriting with their eyes fixed on the masterpieces of past literature,\nhave ascribed this tendency to wilfulness and to affectation. Its origin\nis rather to be found in the complexity of the new problems, and in the\nfact that self-consciousness is not yet adequate to explain the contents\nof the Ego. In Mr. Browning’s poems, as in life itself, which has\nsuggested, or rather necessitated, the new method, thought seems to\nproceed not on logical lines, but on lines of passion. The unity of the\nindividual is being expressed through its inconsistencies and its\ncontradictions. In a strange twilight man is seeking for himself, and\nwhen he has found his own image, he cannot understand it. Objective\nforms of art, such as sculpture and the drama, sufficed one for the\nperfect presentation of life; they can no longer so suffice.\n\nAs he is not a genius he, naturally, behaves admirably on every occasion.\n\nCertainly dialect is dramatic. It is a vivid method of re-creating a\npast that never existed. It is something between ‘A Return to Nature’\nand ‘A Return to the Glossary.’ It is so artificial that it is really\nnaïve. From the point of view of mere music, much may be said for it.\nWonderful diminutives lend new notes of tenderness to the song. There\nare possibilities of fresh rhymes, and in search for a fresh rhyme poets\nmay be excused if they wander from the broad highroad of classical\nutterance into devious byways and less-trodden paths. Sometimes one is\ntempted to look on dialect as expressing simply the pathos of\nprovincialisms, but there is more in it than mere mispronunciation. With\nthat revival of an antique form, often comes the revival of an antique\nspirit. Through limitations that are sometimes uncouth, and always\nnarrow, comes Tragedy herself; and though she may stammer in her\nutterance, and deck herself in cast-off weeds and trammelling raiment,\nstill we must hold ourselves in readiness to accept her, so rare are her\nvisits to us now, so rare her presence in an age that demands a happy\nending from every play, and that sees in the theatre merely a source of\namusement.\n\nThere is a great deal to be said in favour of reading a novel backwards.\nThe last page is, as a rule, the most interesting, and when one begins\nwith the catastrophe or the _dénoûment_ one feels on pleasant terms of\nequality with the author. It is like going behind the scenes of a\ntheatre. One is no longer taken in, and the hairbreadth escapes of the\nhero and the wild agonies of the heroine leave one absolutely unmoved.\n\nHe has every form of sincerity except the sincerity of the artist, a\ndefect that he shares with most of our popular writers.\n\nOn the whole _Primavera_ is a pleasant little book, and we are glad to\nwelcome it. It is charmingly ‘got up,’ and undergraduates might read it\nwith advantage during lecture hours.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty\n at the Edinburgh University Press\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{2} Reverently some well-meaning persons have placed a marble slab on\nthe wall of the cemetery with a medallion-profile of Keats on it and some\nmediocre lines of poetry. The face is ugly, and rather hatchet-shaped,\nwith thick sensual lips, and is utterly unlike the poet himself, who was\nvery beautiful to look upon. ‘His countenance,’ says a lady who saw him\nat one of Hazlitt’s lectures, ‘lives in my mind as one of singular beauty\nand brightness; it had the expression as if he had been looking on some\nglorious sight.’ And this is the idea which Severn’s picture of him\ngives. Even Haydon’s rough pen-and-ink sketch of him is better than this\n‘marble libel,’ which I hope will soon be taken down. I think the best\nrepresentation of the poet would be a coloured bust, like that of the\nyoung Rajah of Koolapoor at Florence, which is a lovely and lifelike work\nof art.\n\n{5} ‘Make’ is of course a mere printer’s error for ‘mock,’ and was\nsubsequently corrected by Lord Houghton. The sonnet as given in _The\nGarden_ of _Florence_ reads ‘orbs for ‘those.’\n\n{63} _The Margravine of Baireuth and Voltaire_. (David Stott, 1888.)\n\n{115} September 1888.\n\n{116} See _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, chapter xi., page 222.\n\n{157} From Lady Wilde’ _Ancient Legends of Ireland_.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CRITIC IN PALL MALL***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 30191-0.txt or 30191-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/1/9/30191\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,\nset forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to\ncopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to\nprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, De Profundis, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: De Profundis\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: April 13, 2007 [eBook #921]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS***\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org. Note that later editions of De Profundis contained\nmore material. The most complete editions are still in copyright in the\nU.S.A.\n\n\n\n\n\nDE PROFUNDIS\n\n\n. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.\nWe can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time\nitself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one\ncentre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance\nof which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and\ndrink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to\nthe inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes\neach dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to\ncommunicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose\nexistence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers\nbending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the\nvines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or\nstrewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.\n\nFor us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and\nmoon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the\nlight that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small\niron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is\nalways twilight in one\'s cell, as it is always twilight in one\'s heart.\nAnd in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion\nis no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or\ncan easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-\nmorrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of\nwhy I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .\n\nA week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my\nmother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death\nwas terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in\nwhich to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had\nbequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in\nliterature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of\nmy own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name\neternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged\nit through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make\nit brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.\nWhat I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper\nto record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I\nshould hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was,\nall the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of\nso irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me\nfrom all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known\nme personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote\nto ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me.\n. . .\n\nThree months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that\nhangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written\nupon it, tells me that it is May. . . .\n\nProsperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in\nfibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is\nnothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not\nvibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of\ntremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see\nis in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but\nthat of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in\npain.\n\nWhere there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise\nwhat that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and\nnatures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison\nto the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long\ndreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and\nsimple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,\nhandcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven\nfor smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode\nof love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or\nstooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single\nword to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment\nwhether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a\nthing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it\nin the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that\nI am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept\nsweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been\nprofitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of\nthose who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my\nmouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed\nfor me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and\nbrought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the\nwounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to\nunderstand, not merely how beautiful ---\'s action was, but why it meant\nso much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will\nrealise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .\n\nThe poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we\nare. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man\'s life, a misfortune, a\ncasuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of\none who is in prison as of one who is \'in trouble\' simply. It is the\nphrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love\nin it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison\nmakes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air\nand sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome\nwhen we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our\nvery children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are\nbroken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are\ndenied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring\nbalm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .\n\nI must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small\ncan be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am\ntrying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.\nThis pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible\nas was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more\nterrible still.\n\nI was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my\nage. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and\nhad forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position\nin their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually\ndiscerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long\nafter both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was\ndifferent. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a\nsymbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its\nweariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more permanent,\nof more vital issue, of larger scope.\n\nThe gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into\nlong spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a\n_flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the\nsmaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own\ngenius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of\nbeing on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for\nnew sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,\nperversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,\nwas a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of\nothers. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot\nthat every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,\nand that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some\nday to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I\nwas no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed\npleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only\none thing for me now, absolute humility.\n\nI have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come\nwild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;\nterrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept\naloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have\npassed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth\nhimself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said--\n\n \'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark\n And has the nature of infinity.\'\n\nBut while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings\nwere to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I\nfind hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that\nnothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all.\nThat something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is\nHumility.\n\nIt is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at\nwhich I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has\ncome to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper\ntime. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of\nit, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have\nrefused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the\none thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _Vita\nNuova_ for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire\nit, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one\nhas lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.\n\nNow I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to\ndo; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not\nsay that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit\nnone. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems\nto me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My\nnature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am\nconcerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free\nmyself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.\n\nI am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse\nthings in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather\nthan go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the\nworld, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I\ngot nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house\nof the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little\nalways share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in\nsummer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm\nclose-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I\nhad love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no\nimportance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have\narrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and \'where I\nwalk there are thorns.\'\n\nOf course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and\nthat if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write\nsonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for\nme on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol,\nnot merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others\nbesides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen\nmonths at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at\nleast read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I\nhope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.\n\nBut were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were\nthere not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet\nand ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all\nresentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with\nmuch more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and\nfine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.\n\nAnd I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you\nwill find it waiting for you.\n\nI need not say that my task does not end there. It would be\ncomparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have\nhills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I\nhave to get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason\ncan help me at all.\n\nMorality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those\nwho are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is\nnothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in\nwhat one becomes. It is well to have learned that.\n\nReligion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,\nI give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made\nwith hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made\nperfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of\nthose who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not\nmerely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think\nabout religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for\nthose who _cannot_ believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might\ncall it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose\nheart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a\nchalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.\nAnd agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown\nits martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having\nhidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must\nbe nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only\nthat is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret\nwithin myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it\nwill never come to me.\n\nReason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am\nconvicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have\nsuffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make\nboth of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is\nonly concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to\noneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one\'s character. I\nhave got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The\nplank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till\none\'s finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each\nday begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to\nnecessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,\nthe silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things I have\nto transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single\ndegradation of the body which I must not try and make into a\nspiritualising of the soul.\n\nI want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and\nwithout affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were\nwhen my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I\nwill not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to\nme: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.\nI would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child\nof my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity\'s sake, I\nturned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life\nto good.\n\nWhat is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The\nimportant thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to\ndo, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and\nincomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to\nmake it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.\nThe supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.\n\nWhen first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget\nwho I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am\nthat I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try\non my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know\nthat would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be\nhaunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that\nare meant for me as much as for anybody else--the beauty of the sun and\nmoon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence\nof great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping\nover the grass and making it silver--would all be tainted for me, and\nlose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy. To\nregret one\'s own experiences is to arrest one\'s own development. To deny\none\'s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one\'s own life. It\nis no less than a denial of the soul.\n\nFor just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and\nunclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and\nconverts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful\nmuscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of\nthe hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive\nfunctions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and\npassions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay,\nmore, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often\nreveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or\ndestroy.\n\nThe fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must\nfrankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall\nhave to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a\npunishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just\nas well never have been punished at all. Of course there are many things\nof which I was convicted that I had not done, but then there are many\nthings of which I was convicted that I had done, and a still greater\nnumber of things in my life for which I was never indicted at all. And\nas the gods are strange, and punish us for what is good and humane in us\nas much as for what is evil and perverse, I must accept the fact that one\nis punished for the good as well as for the evil that one does. I have\nno doubt that it is quite right one should be. It helps one, or should\nhelp one, to realise both, and not to be too conceited about either. And\nif I then am not ashamed of my punishment, as I hope not to be, I shall\nbe able to think, and walk, and live with freedom.\n\nMany men on their release carry their prison about with them into the\nair, and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, and at length,\nlike poor poisoned things, creep into some hole and die. It is wretched\nthat they should have to do so, and it is wrong, terribly wrong, of\nsociety that it should force them to do so. Society takes upon itself\nthe right to inflict appalling punishment on the individual, but it also\nhas the supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realise what it has\ndone. When the man\'s punishment is over, it leaves him to himself; that\nis to say, it abandons him at the very moment when its highest duty\ntowards him begins. It is really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns\nthose whom it has punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they\ncannot pay, or one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an\nirremediable wrong. I can claim on my side that if I realise what I have\nsuffered, society should realise what it has inflicted on me; and that\nthere should be no bitterness or hate on either side.\n\nOf course I know that from one point of view things will be made\ndifferent for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature of the\ncase, be made so. The poor thieves and outcasts who are imprisoned here\nwith me are in many respects more fortunate than I am. The little way in\ngrey city or green field that saw their sin is small; to find those who\nknow nothing of what they have done they need go no further than a bird\nmight fly between the twilight and the dawn; but for me the world is\nshrivelled to a handsbreadth, and everywhere I turn my name is written on\nthe rocks in lead. For I have come, not from obscurity into the\nmomentary notoriety of crime, but from a sort of eternity of fame to a\nsort of eternity of infamy, and sometimes seem to myself to have shown,\nif indeed it required showing, that between the famous and the infamous\nthere is but one step, if as much as one.\n\nStill, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever I go, and\nknow all about my life, as far as its follies go, I can discern something\ngood for me. It will force on me the necessity of again asserting myself\nas an artist, and as soon as I possibly can. If I can produce only one\nbeautiful work of art I shall be able to rob malice of its venom, and\ncowardice of its sneer, and to pluck out the tongue of scorn by the\nroots.\n\nAnd if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less a problem\nto life. People must adopt some attitude towards me, and so pass\njudgment, both on themselves and me. I need not say I am not talking of\nparticular individuals. The only people I would care to be with now are\nartists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and\nthose who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. Nor am I making\nany demands on life. In all that I have said I am simply concerned with\nmy own mental attitude towards life as a whole; and I feel that not to be\nashamed of having been punished is one of the first points I must attain\nto, for the sake of my own perfection, and because I am so imperfect.\n\nThen I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or thought I knew it,\nby instinct. It was always springtime once in my heart. My temperament\nwas akin to joy. I filled my life to the very brim with pleasure, as one\nmight fill a cup to the very brim with wine. Now I am approaching life\nfrom a completely new standpoint, and even to conceive happiness is often\nextremely difficult for me. I remember during my first term at Oxford\nreading in Pater\'s _Renaissance_--that book which has had such strange\ninfluence over my life--how Dante places low in the Inferno those who\nwilfully live in sadness; and going to the college library and turning to\nthe passage in the _Divine Comedy_ where beneath the dreary marsh lie\nthose who were \'sullen in the sweet air,\' saying for ever and ever\nthrough their sighs--\n\n \'Tristi fummo\n Nell aer dolce che dal sol s\'allegra.\'\n\nI knew the church condemned _accidia_, but the whole idea seemed to me\nquite fantastic, just the sort of sin, I fancied, a priest who knew\nnothing about real life would invent. Nor could I understand how Dante,\nwho says that \'sorrow remarries us to God,\' could have been so harsh to\nthose who were enamoured of melancholy, if any such there really were. I\nhad no idea that some day this would become to me one of the greatest\ntemptations of my life.\n\nWhile I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die. It was my one desire.\nWhen after two months in the infirmary I was transferred here, and found\nmyself growing gradually better in physical health, I was filled with\nrage. I determined to commit suicide on the very day on which I left\nprison. After a time that evil mood passed away, and I made up my mind\nto live, but to wear gloom as a king wears purple: never to smile again:\nto turn whatever house I entered into a house of mourning: to make my\nfriends walk slowly in sadness with me: to teach them that melancholy is\nthe true secret of life: to maim them with an alien sorrow: to mar them\nwith my own pain. Now I feel quite differently. I see it would be both\nungrateful and unkind of me to pull so long a face that when my friends\ncame to see me they would have to make their faces still longer in order\nto show their sympathy; or, if I desired to entertain them, to invite\nthem to sit down silently to bitter herbs and funeral baked meats. I\nmust learn how to be cheerful and happy.\n\nThe last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my friends here, I\ntried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show my cheerfulness, in\norder to make them some slight return for their trouble in coming all the\nway from town to see me. It is only a slight return, I know, but it is\nthe one, I feel certain, that pleases them most. I saw R--- for an hour\non Saturday week, and I tried to give the fullest possible expression of\nthe delight I really felt at our meeting. And that, in the views and\nideas I am here shaping for myself, I am quite right is shown to me by\nthe fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment I have a real\ndesire for life.\n\nThere is before me so much to do, that I would regard it as a terrible\ntragedy if I died before I was allowed to complete at any rate a little\nof it. I see new developments in art and life, each one of which is a\nfresh mode of perfection. I long to live so that I can explore what is\nno less than a new world to me. Do you want to know what this new world\nis? I think you can guess what it is. It is the world in which I have\nbeen living. Sorrow, then, and all that it teaches one, is my new world.\n\nI used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned suffering and sorrow of\nevery kind. I hated both. I resolved to ignore them as far as possible:\nto treat them, that is to say, as modes of imperfection. They were not\npart of my scheme of life. They had no place in my philosophy. My\nmother, who knew life as a whole, used often to quote to me Goethe\'s\nlines--written by Carlyle in a book he had given her years ago, and\ntranslated by him, I fancy, also:--\n\n \'Who never ate his bread in sorrow,\n Who never spent the midnight hours\n Weeping and waiting for the morrow,--\n He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.\'\n\nThey were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia, whom Napoleon\ntreated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her humiliation and\nexile; they were the lines my mother often quoted in the troubles of her\nlater life. I absolutely declined to accept or admit the enormous truth\nhidden in them. I could not understand it. I remember quite well how I\nused to tell her that I did not want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to\npass any night weeping and watching for a more bitter dawn.\n\nI had no idea that it was one of the special things that the Fates had in\nstore for me: that for a whole year of my life, indeed, I was to do\nlittle else. But so has my portion been meted out to me; and during the\nlast few months I have, after terrible difficulties and struggles, been\nable to comprehend some of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain.\nClergymen and people who use phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of\nsuffering as a mystery. It is really a revelation. One discerns things\none never discerned before. One approaches the whole of history from a\ndifferent standpoint. What one had felt dimly, through instinct, about\nart, is intellectually and emotionally realised with perfect clearness of\nvision and absolute intensity of apprehension.\n\nI now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable,\nis at once the type and test of all great art. What the artist is always\nlooking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and\nindivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which\nform reveals. Of such modes of existence there are not a few: youth and\nthe arts preoccupied with youth may serve as a model for us at one\nmoment: at another we may like to think that, in its subtlety and\nsensitiveness of impression, its suggestion of a spirit dwelling in\nexternal things and making its raiment of earth and air, of mist and city\nalike, and in its morbid sympathy of its moods, and tones, and colours,\nmodern landscape art is realising for us pictorially what was realised in\nsuch plastic perfection by the Greeks. Music, in which all subject is\nabsorbed in expression and cannot be separated from it, is a complex\nexample, and a flower or a child a simple example, of what I mean; but\nsorrow is the ultimate type both in life and art.\n\nBehind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and\ncallous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike\npleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between\nthe essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the\nresemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to\nthe form itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than\nit is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to the\nmoon and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a thing\nwith itself: the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made\nincarnate: the body instinct with spirit. For this reason there is no\ntruth comparable to sorrow. There are times when sorrow seems to me to\nbe the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the\nappetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow\nhave the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there\nis pain.\n\nMore than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary\nreality. I have said of myself that I was one who stood in symbolic\nrelations to the art and culture of my age. There is not a single\nwretched man in this wretched place along with me who does not stand in\nsymbolic relation to the very secret of life. For the secret of life is\nsuffering. It is what is hidden behind everything. When we begin to\nlive, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what is bitter so bitter, that\nwe inevitably direct all our desires towards pleasures, and seek not\nmerely for a \'month or twain to feed on honeycomb,\' but for all our years\nto taste no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be\nstarving the soul.\n\nI remember talking once on this subject to one of the most beautiful\npersonalities I have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy and noble\nkindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my imprisonment,\nhave been beyond power and description; one who has really assisted me,\nthough she does not know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than\nany one else in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of her\nexistence, through her being what she is--partly an ideal and partly an\ninfluence: a suggestion of what one might become as well as a real help\ntowards becoming it; a soul that renders the common air sweet, and makes\nwhat is spiritual seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea: one\nfor whom beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same message.\nOn the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said to\nher that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to show\nthat God did not love man, and that wherever there was any sorrow, though\nbut that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a fault that it\nhad or had not committed, the whole face of creation was completely\nmarred. I was entirely wrong. She told me so, but I could not believe\nher. I was not in the sphere in which such belief was to be attained to.\nNow it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible\nexplanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the\nworld. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am convinced that\nthere is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as I have said, been\nbuilt of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no\nother way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the\nfull stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the beautiful body, but\npain for the beautiful soul.\n\nWhen I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much\npride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It\nis so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer\'s\nday. And so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different.\nOne can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long\nhours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep \'heights\nthat the soul is competent to gain.\' We think in eternity, but we move\nslowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I\nneed not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back\ninto one\'s cell, and into the cell of one\'s heart, with such strange\ninsistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one\'s house for\ntheir coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave\nwhose slave it is one\'s chance or choice to be.\n\nAnd, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe, it\nis true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness and\ncomfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is for\nme, who begin the day by going down on my knees and washing the floor of\nmy cell. For prison life with its endless privations and restrictions\nmakes one rebellious. The most terrible thing about it is not that it\nbreaks one\'s heart--hearts are made to be broken--but that it turns one\'s\nheart to stone. One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of\nbrass and a lip of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And he\nwho is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of\nwhich the Church is so fond--so rightly fond, I dare say--for in life as\nin art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the soul, and\nshuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these lessons here, if I\nam to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet are on\nthe right road and my face set towards \'the gate which is called\nbeautiful,\' though I may fall many times in the mire and often in the\nmist go astray.\n\nThis New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call it,\nis of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by means of\ndevelopment, and evolution, of my former life. I remember when I was at\nOxford saying to one of my friends as we were strolling round Magdalen\'s\nnarrow bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before I took my\ndegree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden\nof the world, and that I was going out into the world with that passion\nin my soul. And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake\nwas that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to\nme the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its\nshadow and its gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair,\nsuffering, tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain,\nremorse that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns, self-\nabasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head, the\nanguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its own drink\nputs gall:--all these were things of which I was afraid. And as I had\ndetermined to know nothing of them, I was forced to taste each of them in\nturn, to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no other food at\nall.\n\nI don\'t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it\nto the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no\npleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup\nof wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived\non honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong\nbecause it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half\nof the garden had its secrets for me also. Of course all this is\nforeshadowed and prefigured in my books. Some of it is in _The Happy\nPrince_, some of it in _The Young King_, notably in the passage where the\nbishop says to the kneeling boy, \'Is not He who made misery wiser than\nthou art\'? a phrase which when I wrote it seemed to me little more than a\nphrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom that like a\npurple thread runs through the texture of _Dorian Gray_; in _The Critic\nas Artist_ it is set forth in many colours; in _The Soul of Man_ it is\nwritten down, and in letters too easy to read; it is one of the refrains\nwhose recurring _motifs_ make _Salome_ so like a piece of music and bind\nit together as a ballad; in the prose poem of the man who from the bronze\nof the image of the \'Pleasure that liveth for a moment\' has to make the\nimage of the \'Sorrow that abideth for ever\' it is incarnate. It could\nnot have been otherwise. At every single moment of one\'s life one is\nwhat one is going to be no less than what one has been. Art is a symbol,\nbecause man is a symbol.\n\nIt is, if I can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation of the\nartistic life. For the artistic life is simply self-development.\nHumility in the artist is his frank acceptance of all experiences, just\nas love in the artist is simply the sense of beauty that reveals to the\nworld its body and its soul. In _Marius the Epicurean_ Pater seeks to\nreconcile the artistic life with the life of religion, in the deep,\nsweet, and austere sense of the word. But Marius is little more than a\nspectator: an ideal spectator indeed, and one to whom it is given \'to\ncontemplate the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions,\' which\nWordsworth defines as the poet\'s true aim; yet a spectator merely, and\nperhaps a little too much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of\nthe sanctuary to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is\ngazing at.\n\nI see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true life\nof Christ and the true life of the artist; and I take a keen pleasure in\nthe reflection that long before sorrow had made my days her own and bound\nme to her wheel I had written in _The Soul of Man_ that he who would lead\na Christ-like life must be entirely and absolutely himself, and had taken\nas my types not merely the shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in\nhis cell, but also the painter to whom the world is a pageant and the\npoet for whom the world is a song. I remember saying once to Andre Gide,\nas we sat together in some Paris _cafe_, that while meta-physics had but\nlittle real interest for me, and morality absolutely none, there was\nnothing that either Plato or Christ had said that could not be\ntransferred immediately into the sphere of Art and there find its\ncomplete fulfilment.\n\nNor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close union of\npersonality with perfection which forms the real distinction between the\nclassical and romantic movement in life, but the very basis of his nature\nwas the same as that of the nature of the artist--an intense and\nflamelike imagination. He realised in the entire sphere of human\nrelations that imaginative sympathy which in the sphere of Art is the\nsole secret of creation. He understood the leprosy of the leper, the\ndarkness of the blind, the fierce misery of those who live for pleasure,\nthe strange poverty of the rich. Some one wrote to me in trouble, \'When\nyou are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.\' How remote was\nthe writer from what Matthew Arnold calls \'the Secret of Jesus.\' Either\nwould have taught him that whatever happens to another happens to\noneself, and if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at\nnight-time, and for pleasure or for pain, write up on the walls of your\nhouse in letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver, \'Whatever\nhappens to oneself happens to another.\'\n\nChrist\'s place indeed is with the poets. His whole conception of\nHumanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realised by\nit. What God was to the pantheist, man was to Him. He was the first to\nconceive the divided races as a unity. Before his time there had been\ngods and men, and, feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in\nhimself each had been made incarnate, he calls himself the Son of the one\nor the Son of the other, according to his mood. More than any one else\nin history he wakes in us that temper of wonder to which romance always\nappeals. There is still something to me almost incredible in the idea of\na young Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own\nshoulders the burden of the entire world; all that had already been done\nand suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins of\nNero, of Caesar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and of him who was Emperor of\nRome and Priest of the Sun: the sufferings of those whose names are\nlegion and whose dwelling is among the tombs: oppressed nationalities,\nfactory children, thieves, people in prison, outcasts, those who are dumb\nunder oppression and whose silence is heard only of God; and not merely\nimagining this but actually achieving it, so that at the present moment\nall who come in contact with his personality, even though they may\nneither bow to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way find\nthat the ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their\nsorrow revealed to them.\n\nI had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets. That is true. Shelley\nand Sophocles are of his company. But his entire life also is the most\nwonderful of poems. For \'pity and terror\' there is nothing in the entire\ncycle of Greek tragedy to touch it. The absolute purity of the\nprotagonist raises the entire scheme to a height of romantic art from\nwhich the sufferings of Thebes and Pelops\' line are by their very horror\nexcluded, and shows how wrong Aristotle was when he said in his treatise\non the drama that it would be impossible to bear the spectacle of one\nblameless in pain. Nor in AEschylus nor Dante, those stern masters of\ntenderness, in Shakespeare, the most purely human of all the great\nartists, in the whole of Celtic myth and legend, where the loveliness of\nthe world is shown through a mist of tears, and the life of a man is no\nmore than the life of a flower, is there anything that, for sheer\nsimplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of tragic effect,\ncan be said to equal or even approach the last act of Christ\'s passion.\nThe little supper with his companions, one of whom has already sold him\nfor a price; the anguish in the quiet moon-lit garden; the false friend\ncoming close to him so as to betray him with a kiss; the friend who still\nbelieved in him, and on whom as on a rock he had hoped to build a house\nof refuge for Man, denying him as the bird cried to the dawn; his own\nutter loneliness, his submission, his acceptance of everything; and along\nwith it all such scenes as the high priest of orthodoxy rending his\nraiment in wrath, and the magistrate of civil justice calling for water\nin the vain hope of cleansing himself of that stain of innocent blood\nthat makes him the scarlet figure of history; the coronation ceremony of\nsorrow, one of the most wonderful things in the whole of recorded time;\nthe crucifixion of the Innocent One before the eyes of his mother and of\nthe disciple whom he loved; the soldiers gambling and throwing dice for\nhis clothes; the terrible death by which he gave the world its most\neternal symbol; and his final burial in the tomb of the rich man, his\nbody swathed in Egyptian linen with costly spices and perfumes as though\nhe had been a king\'s son. When one contemplates all this from the point\nof view of art alone one cannot but be grateful that the supreme office\nof the Church should be the playing of the tragedy without the shedding\nof blood: the mystical presentation, by means of dialogue and costume and\ngesture even, of the Passion of her Lord; and it is always a source of\npleasure and awe to me to remember that the ultimate survival of the\nGreek chorus, lost elsewhere to art, is to be found in the servitor\nanswering the priest at Mass.\n\nYet the whole life of Christ--so entirely may sorrow and beauty be made\none in their meaning and manifestation--is really an idyll, though it\nends with the veil of the temple being rent, and the darkness coming over\nthe face of the earth, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre.\nOne always thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his companions, as\nindeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd straying through a\nvalley with his sheep in search of green meadow or cool stream; as a\nsinger trying to build out of the music the walls of the City of God; or\nas a lover for whose love the whole world was too small. His miracles\nseem to me to be as exquisite as the coming of spring, and quite as\nnatural. I see no difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm\nof his personality that his mere presence could bring peace to souls in\nanguish, and that those who touched his garments or his hands forgot\ntheir pain; or that as he passed by on the highway of life people who had\nseen nothing of life\'s mystery, saw it clearly, and others who had been\ndeaf to every voice but that of pleasure heard for the first time the\nvoice of love and found it as \'musical as Apollo\'s lute\'; or that evil\npassions fled at his approach, and men whose dull unimaginative lives had\nbeen but a mode of death rose as it were from the grave when he called\nthem; or that when he taught on the hillside the multitude forgot their\nhunger and thirst and the cares of this world, and that to his friends\nwho listened to him as he sat at meat the coarse food seemed delicate,\nand the water had the taste of good wine, and the whole house became full\nof the odour and sweetness of nard.\n\nRenan in his _Vie de Jesus_--that gracious fifth gospel, the gospel\naccording to St. Thomas, one might call it--says somewhere that Christ\'s\ngreat achievement was that he made himself as much loved after his death\nas he had been during his lifetime. And certainly, if his place is among\nthe poets, he is the leader of all the lovers. He saw that love was the\nfirst secret of the world for which the wise men had been looking, and\nthat it was only through love that one could approach either the heart of\nthe leper or the feet of God.\n\nAnd above all, Christ is the most supreme of individualists. Humility,\nlike the artistic, acceptance of all experiences, is merely a mode of\nmanifestation. It is man\'s soul that Christ is always looking for. He\ncalls it \'God\'s Kingdom,\' and finds it in every one. He compares it to\nlittle things, to a tiny seed, to a handful of leaven, to a pearl. That\nis because one realises one\'s soul only by getting rid of all alien\npassions, all acquired culture, and all external possessions, be they\ngood or evil.\n\nI bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will and much\nrebellion of nature, till I had absolutely nothing left in the world but\none thing. I had lost my name, my position, my happiness, my freedom, my\nwealth. I was a prisoner and a pauper. But I still had my children\nleft. Suddenly they were taken away from me by the law. It was a blow\nso appalling that I did not know what to do, so I flung myself on my\nknees, and bowed my head, and wept, and said, \'The body of a child is as\nthe body of the Lord: I am not worthy of either.\' That moment seemed to\nsave me. I saw then that the only thing for me was to accept everything.\nSince then--curious as it will no doubt sound--I have been happier. It\nwas of course my soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached. In\nmany ways I had been its enemy, but I found it waiting for me as a\nfriend. When one comes in contact with the soul it makes one simple as a\nchild, as Christ said one should be.\n\nIt is tragic how few people ever \'possess their souls\' before they die.\n\'Nothing is more rare in any man,\' says Emerson, \'than an act of his\nown.\' It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts\nare some one else\'s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a\nquotation. Christ was not merely the supreme individualist, but he was\nthe first individualist in history. People have tried to make him out an\nordinary philanthropist, or ranked him as an altruist with the scientific\nand sentimental. But he was really neither one nor the other. Pity he\nhas, of course, for the poor, for those who are shut up in prisons, for\nthe lowly, for the wretched; but he has far more pity for the rich, for\nthe hard hedonists, for those who waste their freedom in becoming slaves\nto things, for those who wear soft raiment and live in kings\' houses.\nRiches and pleasure seemed to him to be really greater tragedies than\npoverty or sorrow. And as for altruism, who knew better than he that it\nis vocation not volition that determines us, and that one cannot gather\ngrapes of thorns or figs from thistles?\n\nTo live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed. It\nwas not the basis of his creed. When he says, \'Forgive your enemies,\' it\nis not for the sake of the enemy, but for one\'s own sake that he says so,\nand because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own entreaty to the\nyoung man, \'Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor,\' it is not of\nthe state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young\nman, the soul that wealth was marring. In his view of life he is one\nwith the artist who knows that by the inevitable law of self-perfection,\nthe poet must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze, and the painter\nmake the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as certainly as the\nhawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn turn to gold at harvest-\ntime, and the moon in her ordered wanderings change from shield to\nsickle, and from sickle to shield.\n\nBut while Christ did not say to men, \'Live for others,\' he pointed out\nthat there was no difference at all between the lives of others and one\'s\nown life. By this means he gave to man an extended, a Titan personality.\nSince his coming the history of each separate individual is, or can be\nmade, the history of the world. Of course, culture has intensified the\npersonality of man. Art has made us myriad-minded. Those who have the\nartistic temperament go into exile with Dante and learn how salt is the\nbread of others, and how steep their stairs; they catch for a moment the\nserenity and calm of Goethe, and yet know but too well that Baudelaire\ncried to God--\n\n \'O Seigneur, donnez moi la force et le courage\n De contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans degout.\'\n\nOut of Shakespeare\'s sonnets they draw, to their own hurt it may be, the\nsecret of his love and make it their own; they look with new eyes on\nmodern life, because they have listened to one of Chopin\'s nocturnes, or\nhandled Greek things, or read the story of the passion of some dead man\nfor some dead woman whose hair was like threads of fine gold, and whose\nmouth was as a pomegranate. But the sympathy of the artistic temperament\nis necessarily with what has found expression. In words or in colours,\nin music or in marble, behind the painted masks of an AEschylean play, or\nthrough some Sicilian shepherds\' pierced and jointed reeds, the man and\nhis message must have been revealed.\n\nTo the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can conceive\nlife at all. To him what is dumb is dead. But to Christ it was not so.\nWith a width and wonder of imagination that fills one almost with awe, he\ntook the entire world of the inarticulate, the voiceless world of pain,\nas his kingdom, and made of himself its eternal mouthpiece. Those of\nwhom I have spoken, who are dumb under oppression, and \'whose silence is\nheard only of God,\' he chose as his brothers. He sought to become eyes\nto the blind, ears to the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose\ntongues had been tied. His desire was to be to the myriads who had found\nno utterance a very trumpet through which they might call to heaven. And\nfeeling, with the artistic nature of one to whom suffering and sorrow\nwere modes through which he could realise his conception of the\nbeautiful, that an idea is of no value till it becomes incarnate and is\nmade an image, he made of himself the image of the Man of Sorrows, and as\nsuch has fascinated and dominated art as no Greek god ever succeeded in\ndoing.\n\nFor the Greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their fair fleet\nlimbs, were not really what they appeared to be. The curved brow of\nApollo was like the sun\'s disc crescent over a hill at dawn, and his feet\nwere as the wings of the morning, but he himself had been cruel to\nMarsyas and had made Niobe childless. In the steel shields of Athena\'s\neyes there had been no pity for Arachne; the pomp and peacocks of Hera\nwere all that was really noble about her; and the Father of the Gods\nhimself had been too fond of the daughters of men. The two most deeply\nsuggestive figures of Greek Mythology were, for religion, Demeter, an\nEarth Goddess, not one of the Olympians, and for art, Dionysus, the son\nof a mortal woman to whom the moment of his birth had proved also the\nmoment of her death.\n\nBut Life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere produced one far\nmore marvellous than the mother of Proserpina or the son of Semele. Out\nof the Carpenter\'s shop at Nazareth had come a personality infinitely\ngreater than any made by myth and legend, and one, strangely enough,\ndestined to reveal to the world the mystical meaning of wine and the real\nbeauties of the lilies of the field as none, either on Cithaeron or at\nEnna, had ever done.\n\nThe song of Isaiah, \'He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows\nand acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him,\' had\nseemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the prophecy was\nfulfilled. We must not be afraid of such a phrase. Every single work of\nart is the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the\nconversion of an idea into an image. Every single human being should be\nthe fulfilment of a prophecy: for every human being should be the\nrealisation of some ideal, either in the mind of God or in the mind of\nman. Christ found the type and fixed it, and the dream of a Virgilian\npoet, either at Jerusalem or at Babylon, became in the long progress of\nthe centuries incarnate in him for whom the world was waiting.\n\nTo me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that the\nChrist\'s own renaissance, which has produced the Cathedral at Chartres,\nthe Arthurian cycle of legends, the life of St. Francis of Assisi, the\nart of Giotto, and Dante\'s _Divine Comedy_, was not allowed to develop on\nits own lines, but was interrupted and spoiled by the dreary classical\nRenaissance that gave us Petrarch, and Raphael\'s frescoes, and Palladian\narchitecture, and formal French tragedy, and St. Paul\'s Cathedral, and\nPope\'s poetry, and everything that is made from without and by dead\nrules, and does not spring from within through some spirit informing it.\nBut wherever there is a romantic movement in art there somehow, and under\nsome form, is Christ, or the soul of Christ. He is in _Romeo and\nJuliet_, in the _Winter\'s Tale_, in Provencal poetry, in the _Ancient\nMariner_, in _La Belle Dame sans merci_, and in Chatterton\'s _Ballad of\nCharity_.\n\nWe owe to him the most diverse things and people. Hugo\'s _Les\nMiserables_, Baudelaire\'s _Fleurs du Mal_, the note of pity in Russian\nnovels, Verlaine and Verlaine\'s poems, the stained glass and tapestries\nand the quattro-cento work of Burne-Jones and Morris, belong to him no\nless than the tower of Giotto, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tannhauser, the\ntroubled romantic marbles of Michael Angelo, pointed architecture, and\nthe love of children and flowers--for both of which, indeed, in classical\nart there was but little place, hardly enough for them to grow or play\nin, but which, from the twelfth century down to our own day, have been\ncontinually making their appearances in art, under various modes and at\nvarious times, coming fitfully and wilfully, as children, as flowers, are\napt to do: spring always seeming to one as if the flowers had been in\nhiding, and only came out into the sun because they were afraid that\ngrown up people would grow tired of looking for them and give up the\nsearch; and the life of a child being no more than an April day on which\nthere is both rain and sun for the narcissus.\n\nIt is the imaginative quality of Christ\'s own nature that makes him this\npalpitating centre of romance. The strange figures of poetic drama and\nballad are made by the imagination of others, but out of his own\nimagination entirely did Jesus of Nazareth create himself. The cry of\nIsaiah had really no more to do with his coming than the song of the\nnightingale has to do with the rising of the moon--no more, though\nperhaps no less. He was the denial as well as the affirmation of\nprophecy. For every expectation that he fulfilled there was another that\nhe destroyed. \'In all beauty,\' says Bacon, \'there is some strangeness of\nproportion,\' and of those who are born of the spirit--of those, that is\nto say, who like himself are dynamic forces--Christ says that they are\nlike the wind that \'bloweth where it listeth, and no man can tell whence\nit cometh and whither it goeth.\' That is why he is so fascinating to\nartists. He has all the colour elements of life: mystery, strangeness,\npathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. He appeals to the temper of wonder,\nand creates that mood in which alone he can be understood.\n\nAnd to me it is a joy to remember that if he is \'of imagination all\ncompact,\' the world itself is of the same substance. I said in _Dorian\nGray_ that the great sins of the world take place in the brain: but it is\nin the brain that everything takes place. We know now that we do not see\nwith the eyes or hear with the ears. They are really channels for the\ntransmission, adequate or inadequate, of sense impressions. It is in the\nbrain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark\nsings.\n\nOf late I have been studying with diligence the four prose poems about\nChrist. At Christmas I managed to get hold of a Greek Testament, and\nevery morning, after I had cleaned my cell and polished my tins, I read a\nlittle of the Gospels, a dozen verses taken by chance anywhere. It is a\ndelightful way of opening the day. Every one, even in a turbulent, ill-\ndisciplined life, should do the same. Endless repetition, in and out of\nseason, has spoiled for us the freshness, the naivete, the simple\nromantic charm of the Gospels. We hear them read far too often and far\ntoo badly, and all repetition is anti-spiritual. When one returns to the\nGreek; it is like going into a garden of lilies out of some, narrow and\ndark house.\n\nAnd to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is extremely\nprobable that we have the actual terms, the _ipsissima verba_, used by\nChrist. It was always supposed that Christ talked in Aramaic. Even\nRenan thought so. But now we know that the Galilean peasants, like the\nIrish peasants of our own day, were bilingual, and that Greek was the\nordinary language of intercourse all over Palestine, as indeed all over\nthe Eastern world. I never liked the idea that we knew of Christ\'s own\nwords only through a translation of a translation. It is a delight to me\nto think that as far as his conversation was concerned, Charmides might\nhave listened to him, and Socrates reasoned with him, and Plato\nunderstood him: that he really said [Greek text], that when he thought of\nthe lilies of the field and how they neither toil nor spin, his absolute\nexpression was [Greek text], and that his last word when he cried out \'my\nlife has been completed, has reached its fulfilment, has been perfected,\'\nwas exactly as St. John tells us it was: [Greek text]--no more.\n\nWhile in reading the Gospels--particularly that of St. John himself, or\nwhatever early Gnostic took his name and mantle--I see the continual\nassertion of the imagination as the basis of all spiritual and material\nlife, I see also that to Christ imagination was simply a form of love,\nand that to him love was lord in the fullest meaning of the phrase. Some\nsix weeks ago I was allowed by the doctor to have white bread to eat\ninstead of the coarse black or brown bread of ordinary prison fare. It\nis a great delicacy. It will sound strange that dry bread could possibly\nbe a delicacy to any one. To me it is so much so that at the close of\neach meal I carefully eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or\nhave fallen on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not to soil\none\'s table; and I do so not from hunger--I get now quite sufficient\nfood--but simply in order that nothing should be wasted of what is given\nto me. So one should look on love.\n\nChrist, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of not merely\nsaying beautiful things himself, but of making other people say beautiful\nthings to him; and I love the story St. Mark tells us about the Greek\nwoman, who, when as a trial of her faith he said to her that he could not\ngive her the bread of the children of Israel, answered him that the\nlittle dogs--([Greek text], \'little dogs\' it should be rendered)--who are\nunder the table eat of the crumbs that the children let fall. Most\npeople live for love and admiration. But it is by love and admiration\nthat we should live. If any love is shown us we should recognise that we\nare quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved. The fact that\nGod loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal things it is\nwritten that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally unworthy.\nOr if that phrase seems to be a bitter one to bear, let us say that every\none is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. Love is a\nsacrament that should be taken kneeling, and _Domine, non sum dignus_\nshould be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.\n\nIf ever I write again, in the sense of producing artistic work, there are\njust two subjects on which and through which I desire to express myself:\none is \'Christ as the precursor of the romantic movement in life\': the\nother is \'The artistic life considered in its relation to conduct.\' The\nfirst is, of course, intensely fascinating, for I see in Christ not\nmerely the essentials of the supreme romantic type, but all the\naccidents, the wilfulnesses even, of the romantic temperament also. He\nwas the first person who ever said to people that they should live\n\'flower-like lives.\' He fixed the phrase. He took children as the type\nof what people should try to become. He held them up as examples to\ntheir elders, which I myself have always thought the chief use of\nchildren, if what is perfect should have a use. Dante describes the soul\nof a man as coming from the hand of God \'weeping and laughing like a\nlittle child,\' and Christ also saw that the soul of each one should be _a\nguisa di fanciulla che piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia_. He felt that\nlife was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it to be stereotyped\ninto any form was death. He saw that people should not be too serious\nover material, common interests: that to be unpractical was to be a great\nthing: that one should not bother too much over affairs. The birds\ndidn\'t, why should man? He is charming when he says, \'Take no thought\nfor the morrow; is not the soul more than meat? is not the body more than\nraiment?\' A Greek might have used the latter phrase. It is full of\nGreek feeling. But only Christ could have said both, and so summed up\nlife perfectly for us.\n\nHis morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be. If the only\nthing that he ever said had been, \'Her sins are forgiven her because she\nloved much,\' it would have been worth while dying to have said it. His\njustice is all poetical justice, exactly what justice should be. The\nbeggar goes to heaven because he has been unhappy. I cannot conceive a\nbetter reason for his being sent there. The people who work for an hour\nin the vineyard in the cool of the evening receive just as much reward as\nthose who have toiled there all day long in the hot sun. Why shouldn\'t\nthey? Probably no one deserved anything. Or perhaps they were a\ndifferent kind of people. Christ had no patience with the dull lifeless\nmechanical systems that treat people as if they were things, and so treat\neverybody alike: for him there were no laws: there were exceptions\nmerely, as if anybody, or anything, for that matter, was like aught else\nin the world!\n\nThat which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the proper\nbasis of natural life. He saw no other basis. And when they brought him\none, taken in the very act of sin and showed him her sentence written in\nthe law, and asked him what was to be done, he wrote with his finger on\nthe ground as though he did not hear them, and finally, when they pressed\nhim again, looked up and said, \'Let him of you who has never sinned be\nthe first to throw the stone at her.\' It was worth while living to have\nsaid that.\n\nLike all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. He knew that in the\nsoul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea. But\nhe could not stand stupid people, especially those who are made stupid by\neducation: people who are full of opinions not one of which they even\nunderstand, a peculiarly modern type, summed up by Christ when he\ndescribes it as the type of one who has the key of knowledge, cannot use\nit himself, and does not allow other people to use it, though it may be\nmade to open the gate of God\'s Kingdom. His chief war was against the\nPhilistines. That is the war every child of light has to wage.\nPhilistinism was the note of the age and community in which he lived. In\ntheir heavy inaccessibility to ideas, their dull respectability, their\ntedious orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success, their entire\npreoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and their\nridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the Jews of\nJerusalem in Christ\'s day were the exact counterpart of the British\nPhilistine of our own. Christ mocked at the \'whited sepulchre\' of\nrespectability, and fixed that phrase for ever. He treated worldly\nsuccess as a thing absolutely to be despised. He saw nothing in it at\nall. He looked on wealth as an encumbrance to a man. He would not hear\nof life being sacrificed to any system of thought or morals. He pointed\nout that forms and ceremonies were made for man, not man for forms and\nceremonies. He took sabbatarianism as a type of the things that should\nbe set at nought. The cold philanthropies, the ostentatious public\ncharities, the tedious formalisms so dear to the middle-class mind, he\nexposed with utter and relentless scorn. To us, what is termed orthodoxy\nis merely a facile unintelligent acquiescence; but to them, and in their\nhands, it was a terrible and paralysing tyranny. Christ swept it aside.\nHe showed that the spirit alone was of value. He took a keen pleasure in\npointing out to them that though they were always reading the law and the\nprophets, they had not really the smallest idea of what either of them\nmeant. In opposition to their tithing of each separate day into the\nfixed routine of prescribed duties, as they tithe mint and rue, he\npreached the enormous importance of living completely for the moment.\n\nThose whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful\nmoments in their lives. Mary Magdalen, when she sees Christ, breaks the\nrich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had given her, and\nspills the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet, and for that one\nmoment\'s sake sits for ever with Ruth and Beatrice in the tresses of the\nsnow-white rose of Paradise. All that Christ says to us by the way of a\nlittle warning is that every moment should be beautiful, that the soul\nshould always be ready for the coming of the bridegroom, always waiting\nfor the voice of the lover, Philistinism being simply that side of man\'s\nnature that is not illumined by the imagination. He sees all the lovely\ninfluences of life as modes of light: the imagination itself is the world\nof light. The world is made by it, and yet the world cannot understand\nit: that is because the imagination is simply a manifestation of love,\nand it is love and the capacity for it that distinguishes one human being\nfrom another.\n\nBut it is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most romantic, in\nthe sense of most real. The world had always loved the saint as being\nthe nearest possible approach to the perfection of God. Christ, through\nsome divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as\nbeing the nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. His\nprimary desire was not to reform people, any more than his primary desire\nwas to a relieve suffering. To turn an interesting thief into a tedious\nhonest man was not his aim. He would have thought little of the\nPrisoners\' Aid Society and other modern movements of the kind. The\nconversion of a publican into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a\ngreat achievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the world he\nregarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy things\nand modes of perfection.\n\nIt seems a very dangerous idea. It is--all great ideas are dangerous.\nThat it was Christ\'s creed admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed\nI don\'t doubt myself.\n\nOf course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he\nwould be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is\nthe moment of initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one\nalters one\'s past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say\nin their Gnomic aphorisms, \'Even the Gods cannot alter the past.\' Christ\nshowed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing\nhe could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said--I feel quite\ncertain about it--that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and\nwept, he made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-\nherding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments\nin his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. I dare\nsay one has to go to prison to understand it. If so, it may be worth\nwhile going to prison.\n\nThere is something so unique about Christ. Of course just as there are\nfalse dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of sudden\nsunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into squandering its gold\nbefore its time, and make some foolish bird call to its mate to build on\nbarren boughs, so there were Christians before Christ. For that we\nshould be grateful. The unfortunate thing is that there have been none\nsince. I make one exception, St. Francis of Assisi. But then God had\ngiven him at his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite young\nhad in mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the soul of\na poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not\ndifficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like him. We do not\nrequire the Liber Conformitatum to teach us that the life of St. Francis\nwas the true _Imitatio Christi_, a poem compared to which the book of\nthat name is merely prose.\n\nIndeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is just like\na work of art. He does not really teach one anything, but by being\nbrought into his presence one becomes something. And everybody is\npredestined to his presence. Once at least in his life each man walks\nwith Christ to Emmaus.\n\nAs regards the other subject, the Relation of the Artistic Life to\nConduct, it will no doubt seem strange to you that I should select it.\nPeople point to Reading Gaol and say, \'That is where the artistic life\nleads a man.\' Well, it might lead to worse places. The more mechanical\npeople to whom life is a shrewd speculation depending on a careful\ncalculation of ways and means, always know where they are going, and go\nthere. They start with the ideal desire of being the parish beadle, and\nin whatever sphere they are placed they succeed in being the parish\nbeadle and no more. A man whose desire is to be something separate from\nhimself, to be a member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a\nprominent solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably\nsucceeds in being what he wants to be. That is his punishment. Those\nwho want a mask have to wear it.\n\nBut with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those dynamic\nforces become incarnate, it is different. People whose desire is solely\nfor self-realisation never know where they are going. They can\'t know.\nIn one sense of the word it is of course necessary, as the Greek oracle\nsaid, to know oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. But\nto recognise that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate\nachievement of wisdom. The final mystery is oneself. When one has\nweighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and\nmapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself.\nWho can calculate the orbit of his own soul? When the son went out to\nlook for his father\'s asses, he did not know that a man of God was\nwaiting for him with the very chrism of coronation, and that his own soul\nwas already the soul of a king.\n\nI hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a character that I\nshall be able at the end of my days to say, \'Yes! this is just where the\nartistic life leads a man!\' Two of the most perfect lives I have come\nacross in my own experience are the lives of Verlaine and of Prince\nKropotkin: both of them men who have passed years in prison: the first,\nthe one Christian poet since Dante; the other, a man with a soul of that\nbeautiful white Christ which seems coming out of Russia. And for the\nlast seven or eight months, in spite of a succession of great troubles\nreaching me from the outside world almost without intermission, I have\nbeen placed in direct contact with a new spirit working in this prison\nthrough man and things, that has helped me beyond any possibility of\nexpression in words: so that while for the first year of my imprisonment\nI did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing else, but wring my\nhands in impotent despair, and say, \'What an ending, what an appalling\nending!\' now I try to say to myself, and sometimes when I am not\ntorturing myself do really and sincerely say, \'What a beginning, what a\nwonderful beginning!\' It may really be so. It may become so. If it\ndoes I shall owe much to this new personality that has altered every\nman\'s life in this place.\n\nYou may realise it when I say that had I been released last May, as I\ntried to be, I would have left this place loathing it and every official\nin it with a bitterness of hatred that would have poisoned my life. I\nhave had a year longer of imprisonment, but humanity has been in the\nprison along with us all, and now when I go out I shall always remember\ngreat kindnesses that I have received here from almost everybody, and on\nthe day of my release I shall give many thanks to many people, and ask to\nbe remembered by them in turn.\n\nThe prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I would give anything\nto be able to alter it when I go out. I intend to try. But there is\nnothing in the world so wrong but that the spirit of humanity, which is\nthe spirit of love, the spirit of the Christ who is not in churches, may\nmake it, if not right, at least possible to be borne without too much\nbitterness of heart.\n\nI know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very delightful,\nfrom what St. Francis of Assisi calls \'my brother the wind, and my sister\nthe rain,\' lovely things both of them, down to the shop-windows and\nsunsets of great cities. If I made a list of all that still remains to\nme, I don\'t know where I should stop: for, indeed, God made the world\njust as much for me as for any one else. Perhaps I may go out with\nsomething that I had not got before. I need not tell you that to me\nreformations in morals are as meaningless and vulgar as Reformations in\ntheology. But while to propose to be a better man is a piece of\nunscientific cant, to have become a deeper man is the privilege of those\nwho have suffered. And such I think I have become.\n\nIf after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me\nto it, I should not mind a bit. I can be perfectly happy by myself. With\nfreedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?\nBesides, feasts are not for me any more. I have given too many to care\nabout them. That side of life is over for me, very fortunately, I dare\nsay. But if after I am free a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to\nallow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the\ndoors of the house of mourning against me, I would come back again and\nagain and beg to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was\nentitled to share in. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him,\nI should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most terrible\nmode in which disgrace could be inflicted on me. But that could not be.\nI have a right to share in sorrow, and he who can look at the loveliness\nof the world and share its sorrow, and realise something of the wonder of\nboth, is in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near to\nGod\'s secret as any one can get.\n\nPerhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my life, a\nstill deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and directness of\nimpulse. Not width but intensity is the true aim of modern art. We are\nno longer in art concerned with the type. It is with the exception that\nwe have to do. I cannot put my sufferings into any form they took, I\nneed hardly say. Art only begins where Imitation ends, but something\nmust come into my work, of fuller memory of words perhaps, of richer\ncadences, of more curious effects, of simpler architectural order, of\nsome aesthetic quality at any rate.\n\nWhen Marsyas was \'torn from the scabbard of his limbs\'--_della vagina\ndella membre sue_, to use one of Dante\'s most terrible Tacitean\nphrases--he had no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had been victor.\nThe lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks were mistaken.\nI hear in much modern Art the cry of Marsyas. It is bitter in\nBaudelaire, sweet and plaintive in Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is\nin the deferred resolutions of Chopin\'s music. It is in the discontent\nthat haunts Burne-Jones\'s women. Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of\nCallicles tells of \'the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,\' and the\n\'famous final victory,\' in such a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a\nlittle of it; in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that haunts\nhis verses, neither Goethe nor Wordsworth could help him, though he\nfollowed each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for _Thyrsis_ or to\nsing of the _Scholar Gipsy_, it is the reed that he has to take for the\nrendering of his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian Faun was\nsilent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and\nblossoms are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves\nabove the prison walls and are so restless in the wind. Between my art\nand the world there is now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there\nis none. I hope at least that there is none.\n\nTo each of us different fates are meted out. My lot has been one of\npublic infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of ruin, of disgrace, but\nI am not worthy of it--not yet, at any rate. I remember that I used to\nsay that I thought I could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with\npurple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about\nmodernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the\ngreat realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in style. It\nis quite true about modernity. It has probably always been true about\nactual life. It is said that all martyrdoms seemed mean to the looker\non. The nineteenth century is no exception to the rule.\n\nEverything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in\nstyle; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow.\nWe are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to\nappeal to the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought\ndown here from London. From two o\'clock till half-past two on that day I\nhad to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress,\nand handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the\nhospital ward without a moment\'s notice being given to me. Of all\npossible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they\nlaughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could\nexceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was.\nAs soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an\nhour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob.\n\nFor a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour\nand for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as\npossibly it sounds to you. To those who are in prison tears are a part\nof every day\'s experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is\na day on which one\'s heart is hard, not a day on which one\'s heart is\nhappy.\n\nWell, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who\nlaughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not on my\npedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very unimaginative nature\nthat only cares for people on their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very\nunreal thing. A pillory is a terrific reality. They should have known\nalso how to interpret sorrow better. I have said that behind sorrow\nthere is always sorrow. It were wiser still to say that behind sorrow\nthere is always a soul. And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful\nthing. In the strangely simple economy of the world people only get what\nthey give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the\nmere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save that\nof scorn?\n\nI write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply that\nit should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything out of\nmy punishment but bitterness and despair. I have, however, to do it, and\nnow and then I have moments of submission and acceptance. All the spring\nmay be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may\nhold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. So\nperhaps whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some\nmoment of surrender, abasement, and humiliation. I can, at any rate,\nmerely proceed on the lines of my own development, and, accepting all\nthat has happened to me, make myself worthy of it.\n\nPeople used to say of me that I was too individualistic. I must be far\nmore of an individualist than ever I was. I must get far more out of\nmyself than ever I got, and ask far less of the world than ever I asked.\nIndeed, my ruin came not from too great individualism of life, but from\ntoo little. The one disgraceful, unpardonable, and to all time\ncontemptible action of my life was to allow myself to appeal to society\nfor help and protection. To have made such an appeal would have been\nfrom the individualist point of view bad enough, but what excuse can\nthere ever be put forward for having made it? Of course once I had put\ninto motion the forces of society, society turned on me and said, \'Have\nyou been living all this time in defiance of my laws, and do you now\nappeal to those laws for protection? You shall have those laws exercised\nto the full. You shall abide by what you have appealed to.\' The result\nis I am in gaol. Certainly no man ever fell so ignobly, and by such\nignoble instruments, as I did.\n\nThe Philistine element in life is not the failure to understand art.\nCharming people, such as fishermen, shepherds, ploughboys, peasants and\nthe like, know nothing about art, and are the very salt of the earth. He\nis the Philistine who upholds and aids the heavy, cumbrous, blind,\nmechanical forces of society, and who does not recognise dynamic force\nwhen he meets it either in a man or a movement.\n\nPeople thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil\nthings of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. But then,\nfrom the point of view through which I, as an artist in life, approach\nthem they were delightfully suggestive and stimulating. The danger was\nhalf the excitement. . . . My business as an artist was with Ariel. I\nset myself to wrestle with Caliban. . . .\n\nA great friend of mine--a friend of ten years\' standing--came to see me\nsome time ago, and told me that he did not believe a single word of what\nwas said against me, and wished me to know that he considered me quite\ninnocent, and the victim of a hideous plot. I burst into tears at what\nhe said, and told him that while there was much amongst the definite\ncharges that was quite untrue and transferred to me by revolting malice,\nstill that my life had been full of perverse pleasures, and that unless\nhe accepted that as a fact about me and realised it to the full I could\nnot possibly be friends with him any more, or ever be in his company. It\nwas a terrible shock to him, but we are friends, and I have not got his\nfriendship on false pretences.\n\nEmotional forces, as I say somewhere in _Intentions_, are as limited in\nextent and duration as the forces of physical energy. The little cup\nthat is made to hold so much can hold so much and no more, though all the\npurple vats of Burgundy be filled with wine to the brim, and the treaders\nstand knee-deep in the gathered grapes of the stony vineyards of Spain.\nThere is no error more common than that of thinking that those who are\nthe causes or occasions of great tragedies share in the feelings suitable\nto the tragic mood: no error more fatal than expecting it of them. The\nmartyr in his \'shirt of flame\' may be looking on the face of God, but to\nhim who is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the\nwhole scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or\nthe felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest, or the fall\nof a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a scythe. Great\npassions are for the great of soul, and great events can be seen only by\nthose who are on a level with them.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of view\nof art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of observation, than\nShakespeare\'s drawing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are Hamlet\'s\ncollege friends. They have been his companions. They bring with them\nmemories of pleasant days together. At the moment when they come across\nhim in the play he is staggering under the weight of a burden intolerable\nto one of his temperament. The dead have come armed out of the grave to\nimpose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for him. He is a\ndreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of the poet,\nand he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of cause and\neffect, with life in its practical realisation, of which he knows\nnothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of which he knows so much.\nHe has no conception of what to do, and his folly is to feign folly.\nBrutus used madness as a cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the\ndagger of his will, but the Hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding\nof weakness. In the making of fancies and jests he sees a chance of\ndelay. He keeps playing with action as an artist plays with a theory. He\nmakes himself the spy of his proper actions, and listening to his own\nwords knows them to be but \'words, words, words.\' Instead of trying to\nbe the hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his own\ntragedy. He disbelieves in everything, including himself, and yet his\ndoubt helps him not, as it comes not from scepticism but from a divided\nwill.\n\nOf all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise nothing. They bow and\nsmirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with sickliest\nintonation. When, at last, by means of the play within the play, and the\npuppets in their dalliance, Hamlet \'catches the conscience\' of the King,\nand drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, Guildenstern and\nRosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a rather painful breach of\nCourt etiquette. That is as far as they can attain to in \'the\ncontemplation of the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions.\' They\nare close to his very secret and know nothing of it. Nor would there be\nany use in telling them. They are the little cups that can hold so much\nand no more. Towards the close it is suggested that, caught in a cunning\nspring set for another, they have met, or may meet, with a violent and\nsudden death. But a tragic ending of this kind, though touched by\nHamlet\'s humour with something of the surprise and justice of comedy, is\nreally not for such as they. They never die. Horatio, who in order to\n\'report Hamlet and his cause aright to the unsatisfied,\'\n\n \'Absents him from felicity a while,\n And in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,\'\n\ndies, but Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are as immortal as Angelo and\nTartuffe, and should rank with them. They are what modern life has\ncontributed to the antique ideal of friendship. He who writes a new _De\nAmicitia_ must find a niche for them, and praise them in Tusculan prose.\nThey are types fixed for all time. To censure them would show \'a lack of\nappreciation.\' They are merely out of their sphere: that is all. In\nsublimity of soul there is no contagion. High thoughts and high emotions\nare by their very existence isolated.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end of May,\nand hope to go at once to some little sea-side village abroad with R---\nand M---.\n\nThe sea, as Euripides says in one of his plays about Iphigeneia, washes\naway the stains and wounds of the world.\n\nI hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain peace and\nbalance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter mood. I have a strange\nlonging for the great simple primeval things, such as the sea, to me no\nless of a mother than the Earth. It seems to me that we all look at\nNature too much, and live with her too little. I discern great sanity in\nthe Greek attitude. They never chattered about sunsets, or discussed\nwhether the shadows on the grass were really mauve or not. But they saw\nthat the sea was for the swimmer, and the sand for the feet of the\nrunner. They loved the trees for the shadow that they cast, and the\nforest for its silence at noon. The vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair\nwith ivy that he might keep off the rays of the sun as he stooped over\nthe young shoots, and for the artist and the athlete, the two types that\nGreece gave us, they plaited with garlands the leaves of the bitter\nlaurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no service to men.\n\nWe call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any single\nthing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire purify, and\nthat the Earth is mother to us all. As a consequence our art is of the\nmoon and plays with shadows, while Greek art is of the sun and deals\ndirectly with things. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is\npurification, and I want to go back to them and live in their presence.\n\nOf course to one so modern as I am, \'Enfant de mon siecle,\' merely to\nlook at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I\nthink that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the\nlilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind stir\ninto restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss\nthe pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for\nme. Linnaeus fell on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the\nfirst time the long heath of some English upland made yellow with the\ntawny aromatic brooms of the common furze; and I know that for me, to\nwhom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of\nsome rose. It has always been so with me from my boyhood. There is not\na single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or the curve of a\nshell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very soul of things, my\nnature does not answer. Like Gautier, I have always been one of those\n\'pour qui le monde visible existe.\'\n\nStill, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though\nit may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and\nshapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I\ndesire to become in harmony. I have grown tired of the articulate\nutterances of men and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life,\nthe Mystical in Nature this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely\nnecessary for me to find it somewhere.\n\nAll trials are trials for one\'s life, just as all sentences are sentences\nof death; and three times have I been tried. The first time I left the\nbox to be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house of\ndetention, the third time to pass into a prison for two years. Society,\nas we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer;\nbut Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have\nclefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence\nI may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may\nwalk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my\nfootprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in\ngreat waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 921.txt or 921.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/2/921\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Miscellanies, by Oscar Wilde, Edited by\nRobert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Miscellanies\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: November 16, 2004 [eBook #14062]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISCELLANIES***\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1908 edition by David Price, email\nccx074@coventry.ac.uk\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMISCELLANIES BY OSCAR WILDE\n\n\nDEDICATION: TO WALTER LEDGER\n\n\nSince these volumes are sure of a place in your marvellous library I\ntrust that with your unrivalled knowledge of the various editions of\nWilde you may not detect any grievous error whether of taste or type, of\nomission or commission. But should you do so you must blame the editor,\nand not those who so patiently assisted him, the proof readers, the\nprinters, or the publishers. Some day, however, I look forward to your\nbibliography of the author, in which you will be at liberty to criticise\nmy capacity for anything except regard and friendship for\nyourself.--Sincerely yours,\n\nROBERT ROSS\n\nMay 25, 1908.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe concluding volume of any collected edition is unavoidably fragmentary\nand desultory. And if this particular volume is no exception to a\ngeneral tendency, it presents points of view in the author\'s literary\ncareer which may have escaped his greatest admirers and detractors. The\nwide range of his knowledge and interests is more apparent than in some\nof his finished work.\n\nWhat I believed to be only the fragment of an essay on Historical\nCriticism was already in the press, when accidentally I came across the\nremaining portions, in Wilde\'s own handwriting; it is now complete though\nunhappily divided in this edition. {0a} Any doubt as to its\nauthenticity, quite apart from the calligraphy, would vanish on reading\nsuch a characteristic passage as the following:--\' . . . For, it was in\nvain that the middle ages strove to guard the buried spirit of progress.\nWhen the dawn of the Greek spirit arose, the sepulchre was empty, the\ngrave clothes laid aside. Humanity had risen from the dead.\' It was\nonly Wilde who could contrive a literary conceit of that description; but\nreaders will observe with different feelings, according to their\ntemperament, that he never followed up the particular trend of thought\ndeveloped in the essay. It is indeed more the work of the Berkeley Gold\nMedallist at Dublin, or the brilliant young Magdalen Demy than of the\ndramatist who was to write Salome. The composition belongs to his Oxford\ndays when he was the unsuccessful competitor for the Chancellor\'s English\nEssay Prize. Perhaps Magdalen, which has never forgiven herself for\nnurturing the author of Ravenna, may be felicitated on having escaped the\nfurther intolerable honour that she might have suffered by seeing crowned\nagain with paltry academic parsley the most highly gifted of all her\nchildren in the last century. Compared with the crude criticism on The\nGrosvenor Gallery (one of the earliest of Wilde\'s published prose\nwritings), Historical Criticism is singularly advanced and mature. Apart\nfrom his mere scholarship Wilde developed his literary and dramatic\ntalent slowly. He told me that he was never regarded as a particularly\nprecocious or clever youth. Indeed many old family friends and\ncontemporary journalists maintain sturdily that the talent of his elder\nbrother William was much more remarkable. In this opinion they are\nfortified, appropriately enough, by the late Clement Scott. I record\nthis interesting view because it symbolises the familiar phenomenon that\nthose nearest the mountain cannot appreciate its height.\n\nThe exiguous fragment of La Sainte Courtisane is the next unpublished\nwork of importance. At the time of Wilde\'s trial the nearly completed\ndrama was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, who in 1897 went to Paris on\npurpose to restore it to the author. Wilde immediately left the\nmanuscript in a cab. A few days later he laughingly informed me of the\nloss, and added that a cab was a very proper place for it. I have\nexplained elsewhere that he looked on his plays with disdain in his last\nyears, though he was always full of schemes for writing others. All my\nattempts to recover the lost work failed. The passages here reprinted\nare from some odd leaves of a first draft. The play is of course not\nunlike Salome, though it was written in English. It expanded Wilde\'s\nfavourite theory that when you convert some one to an idea, you lose your\nfaith in it; the same motive runs through Mr. W. H. Honorius the hermit,\nso far as I recollect the story, falls in love with the courtesan who has\ncome to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret of the Love of God.\nShe immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered by robbers; Honorius\nthe hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a life of pleasure. Two\nother similar plays Wilde invented in prison, Ahab and Isabel and\nPharaoh; he would never write them down, though often importuned to do\nso. Pharaoh was intensely dramatic and perhaps more original than any of\nthe group. None of these works must be confused with the manuscripts\nstolen from 16 Tite Street in 1895--namely the enlarged version of Mr. W.\nH., the completed form of A Florentine Tragedy, and The Duchess of Padua\n(which existing in a prompt copy was of less importance than the others);\nnor with The Cardinal of Arragon, the manuscript of which I never saw. I\nscarcely think it ever existed, though Wilde used to recite proposed\npassages for it.\n\nIn regard to printing the lectures I have felt some diffidence: the\nmajority of them were delivered from notes, and the same lectures were\nrepeated in different towns in England and America. The reports of them\nin the papers are never trustworthy; they are often grotesque travesties,\nlike the reports of after-dinner speeches in the London press of today. I\nhave included only those lectures of which I possess or could obtain\nmanuscript.\n\nThe aim of this edition has been completeness; and it is complete so far\nas human effort can make it; but besides the lost manuscripts there must\nbe buried in the contemporary press many anonymous reviews which I have\nfailed to identify. The remaining contents of this book do not call for\nfurther comment, other than a reminder that Wilde would hardly have\nconsented to their republication. But owing to the number of anonymous\nworks wrongly attributed to him, chiefly in America, and spurious works\npublished in his name, I found it necessary to violate the laws of\nfriendship by rejecting nothing I knew to be authentic. It will be seen\non reference to the letters on The Ethics of Journalism that Wilde\'s name\nappearing at the end of poems and articles was not always a proof of\nauthenticity even in his lifetime.\n\nOf the few letters Wilde wrote to the press, those addressed to Whistler\nI have included with greater misgiving than anything else in this volume.\nThey do not seem to me more amusing than those to which they were the\nintended rejoinders. But the dates are significant. Wilde was at one\ntime always accused of plagiarising his ideas and his epigrams from\nWhistler, especially those with which he decorated his lectures, the\naccusation being brought by Whistler himself and his various disciples.\nIt should be noted that all the works by which Wilde is known throughout\nEurope were written _after_ the two friends quarrelled. That Wilde\nderived a great deal from the older man goes without saying, just as he\nderived much in a greater degree from Pater, Ruskin, Arnold and Burne-\nJones. Yet the tedious attempt to recognise in every jest of his some\noriginal by Whistler induces the criticism that it seems a pity the great\npainter did not get them off on the public before he was forestalled.\nReluctance from an appeal to publicity was never a weakness in either of\nthe men. Some of Wilde\'s more frequently quoted sayings were made at the\nOld Bailey (though their provenance is often forgotten) or on his death-\nbed.\n\nAs a matter of fact, the genius of the two men was entirely different.\nWilde was a humourist and a humanist before everything; and his wittiest\njests have neither the relentlessness nor the keenness characterising\nthose of the clever American artist. Again, Whistler could no more have\nobtained the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, nor have written The\nImportance of Being Earnest, nor The Soul of Man, than Wilde, even if\nequipped as a painter, could ever have evinced that superb restraint\ndistinguishing the portraits of \'Miss Alexander,\' \'Carlyle,\' and other\nmasterpieces. Wilde, though it is not generally known, was something of\na draughtsman in his youth. I possess several of his drawings.\n\nA complete bibliography including all the foreign translations and\nAmerican piracies would make a book of itself much larger than the\npresent one. In order that Wilde collectors (and there are many, I\nbelieve) may know the authorised editions and authentic writings from the\nspurious, Mr. Stuart Mason, whose work on this edition I have already\nacknowledged, has supplied a list which contains every _genuine_ and\n_authorised_ English edition. This of course does not preclude the\nchance that some of the American editions are authorised, and that some\nof Wilde\'s genuine works even are included in the pirated editions.\n\nI am indebted to the Editors and Proprietors of the Queen for leave to\nreproduce the article on \'English Poetesses\'; to the Editor and\nProprietors of the Sunday Times for the article entitled \'Art at Willis\'s\nRooms\'; and to Mr. William Waldorf Astor for those from the Pall Mall\nGazette.\n\nROBERT ROSS\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOMB OF KEATS\n\n\n(Irish Monthly, July 1877.)\n\nAs one enters Rome from the Via Ostiensis by the Porta San Paolo, the\nfirst object that meets the eye is a marble pyramid which stands close at\nhand on the left.\n\nThere are many Egyptian obelisks in Rome--tall, snakelike spires of red\nsandstone, mottled with strange writings, which remind us of the pillars\nof flame which led the children of Israel through the desert away from\nthe land of the Pharaohs; but more wonderful than these to look upon is\nthis gaunt, wedge-shaped pyramid standing here in this Italian city,\nunshattered amid the ruins and wrecks of time, looking older than the\nEternal City itself, like terrible impassiveness turned to stone. And so\nin the Middle Ages men supposed this to be the sepulchre of Remus, who\nwas slain by his own brother at the founding of the city, so ancient and\nmysterious it appears; but we have now, perhaps unfortunately, more\naccurate information about it, and know that it is the tomb of one Caius\nCestius, a Roman gentleman of small note, who died about 30 B.C.\n\nYet though we cannot care much for the dead man who lies in lonely state\nbeneath it, and who is only known to the world through his sepulchre,\nstill this pyramid will be ever dear to the eyes of all English-speaking\npeople, because at evening its shadows fall on the tomb of one who walks\nwith Spenser, and Shakespeare, and Byron, and Shelley, and Elizabeth\nBarrett Browning in the great procession of the sweet singers of England.\n\nFor at its foot there is a green, sunny slope, known as the Old\nProtestant Cemetery, and on this a common-looking grave, which bears the\nfollowing inscription:\n\n This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who\n on his deathbed, in the bitterness of his heart, desired these words\n to be engraven on his tombstone: HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN\n WATER. February 24, 1821.\n\nAnd the name of the young English poet is John Keats.\n\nLord Houghton calls this cemetery \'one of the most beautiful spots on\nwhich the eye and heart of man can rest,\' and Shelley speaks of it as\nmaking one \'in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so\nsweet a place\'; and indeed when I saw the violets and the daisies and the\npoppies that overgrow the tomb, I remembered how the dead poet had once\ntold his friend that he thought the \'intensest pleasure he had received\nin life was in watching the growth of flowers,\' and how another time,\nafter lying a while quite still, he murmured in some strange prescience\nof early death, \'I feel the flowers growing over me.\'\n\nBut this time-worn stone and these wildflowers are but poor memorials {3}\nof one so great as Keats; most of all, too, in this city of Rome, which\npays such honour to her dead; where popes, and emperors, and saints, and\ncardinals lie hidden in \'porphyry wombs,\' or couched in baths of jasper\nand chalcedony and malachite, ablaze with precious stones and metals, and\ntended with continual service. For very noble is the site, and worthy of\na noble monument; behind looms the grey pyramid, symbol of the world\'s\nage, and filled with memories of the sphinx, and the lotus leaf, and the\nglories of old Nile; in front is the Monte Testaccio, built, it is said,\nwith the broken fragments of the vessels in which all the nations of the\nEast and the West brought their tribute to Rome; and a little distance\noff, along the slope of the hill under the Aurelian wall, some tall gaunt\ncypresses rise, like burnt-out funeral torches, to mark the spot where\nShelley\'s heart (that \'heart of hearts\'!) lies in the earth; and, above\nall, the soil on which we tread is very Rome!\n\nAs I stood beside the mean grave of this divine boy, I thought of him as\nof a Priest of Beauty slain before his time; and the vision of Guido\'s\nSt. Sebastian came before my eyes as I saw him at Genoa, a lovely brown\nboy, with crisp, clustering hair and red lips, bound by his evil enemies\nto a tree, and though pierced by arrows, raising his eyes with divine,\nimpassioned gaze towards the Eternal Beauty of the opening heavens. And\nthus my thoughts shaped themselves to rhyme:\n\n HEU MISERANDE PUER\n\n Rid of the world\'s injustice and its pain,\n He rests at last beneath God\'s veil of blue;\n Taken from life while life and love were new\n The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,\n Fair as Sebastian and as foully slain.\n No cypress shades his grave, nor funeral yew,\n But red-lipped daisies, violets drenched with dew,\n And sleepy poppies, catch the evening rain.\n\n O proudest heart that broke for misery!\n O saddest poet that the world hath seen!\n O sweetest singer of the English land!\n Thy name was writ in water on the sand,\n But our tears shall keep thy memory green,\n And make it flourish like a Basil-tree.\n\n Borne, 1877.\n\nNote.--A later version of this sonnet, under the title of \'The Grave of\nKeats,\' is given in the Poems, page 157.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GROSVENOR GALLERY, 1877\n\n\n(Dublin University Magazine, July 1877.)\n\nThat \'Art is long and life is short\' is a truth which every one feels, or\nought to feel; yet surely those who were in London last May, and had in\none week the opportunities of hearing Rubenstein play the Sonata\nImpassionata, of seeing Wagner conduct the Spinning-Wheel Chorus from the\nFlying Dutchman, and of studying art at the Grosvenor Gallery, have very\nlittle to complain of as regards human existence and art-pleasures.\n\nDescriptions of music are generally, perhaps, more or less failures, for\nmusic is a matter of individual feeling, and the beauties and lessons\nthat one draws from hearing lovely sounds are mainly personal, and depend\nto a large extent on one\'s own state of mind and culture. So leaving\nRubenstein and Wagner to be celebrated by Franz Huffer, or Mr. Haweis, or\nany other of our picturesque writers on music, I will describe some of\nthe pictures now being shown in the Grosvenor Gallery.\n\nThe origin of this Gallery is as follows: About a year ago the idea\noccurred to Sir Coutts Lindsay of building a public gallery, in which,\nuntrammelled by the difficulties or meannesses of \'Hanging Committees,\'\nhe could exhibit to the lovers of art the works of certain great living\nartists side by side: a gallery in which the student would not have to\nstruggle through an endless monotony of mediocre works in order to reach\nwhat was worth looking at; one in which the people of England could have\nthe opportunity of judging of the merits of at least one great master of\npainting, whose pictures had been kept from public exhibition by the\njealousy and ignorance of rival artists. Accordingly, last May, in New\nBond Street, the Grosvenor Gallery was opened to the public.\n\nAs far as the Gallery itself is concerned, there are only three rooms, so\nthere is no fear of our getting that terrible weariness of mind and eye\nwhich comes on after the \'Forced Marches\' through ordinary picture\ngalleries. The walls are hung with scarlet damask above a dado of dull\ngreen and gold; there are luxurious velvet couches, beautiful flowers and\nplants, tables of gilded and inlaid marbles, covered with Japanese china\nand the latest \'Minton,\' globes of \'rainbow glass\' like large\nsoap-bubbles, and, in fine, everything in decoration that is lovely to\nlook on, and in harmony with the surrounding works of art.\n\nBurne-Jones and Holman Hunt are probably the greatest masters of colour\nthat we have ever had in England, with the single exception of Turner,\nbut their styles differ widely. To draw a rough distinction, Holman Hunt\nstudies and reproduces the colours of natural objects, and deals with\nhistorical subjects, or scenes of real life, mostly from the East,\ntouched occasionally with a certain fancifulness, as in the Shadow of the\nCross. Burne-Jones, on the contrary, is a dreamer in the land of\nmythology, a seer of fairy visions, a symbolical painter. He is an\nimaginative colourist too, knowing that all colour is no mere delightful\nquality of natural things, but a \'spirit upon them by which they become\nexpressive to the spirit,\' as Mr. Pater says. Watts\'s power, on the\nother hand, lies in his great originative and imaginative genius, and he\nreminds us of AEschylus or Michael Angelo in the startling vividness of\nhis conceptions. Although these three painters differ much in aim and in\nresult, they yet are one in their faith, and love, and reverence, the\nthree golden keys to the gate of the House Beautiful.\n\nOn entering the West Gallery the first picture that meets the eye is Mr.\nWatts\'s Love and Death, a large painting, representing a marble doorway,\nall overgrown with white-starred jasmine and sweet brier-rose. Death, a\ngiant form, veiled in grey draperies, is passing in with inevitable and\nmysterious power, breaking through all the flowers. One foot is already\non the threshold, and one relentless hand is extended, while Love, a\nbeautiful boy with lithe brown limbs and rainbow-coloured wings, all\nshrinking like a crumpled leaf, is trying, with vain hands, to bar the\nentrance. A little dove, undisturbed by the agony of the terrible\nconflict, waits patiently at the foot of the steps for her playmate; but\nwill wait in vain, for though the face of Death is hidden from us, yet we\ncan see from the terror in the boy\'s eyes and quivering lips, that,\nMedusa-like, this grey phantom turns all it looks upon to stone; and the\nwings of Love are rent and crushed. Except on the ceiling of the Sistine\nChapel in Rome, there are perhaps few paintings to compare with this in\nintensity of strength and in marvel of conception. It is worthy to rank\nwith Michael Angelo\'s God Dividing the Light from the Darkness.\n\nNext to it are hung five pictures by Millais. Three of them are\nportraits of the three daughters of the Duke of Westminster, all in white\ndresses, with white hats and feathers; the delicacy of the colour being\nrather injured by the red damask background. These pictures do not\npossess any particular merit beyond that of being extremely good\nlikenesses, especially the one of the Marchioness of Ormonde. Over them\nis hung a picture of a seamstress, pale and vacant-looking, with eyes red\nfrom tears and long watchings in the night, hemming a shirt. It is meant\nto illustrate Hood\'s familiar poem. As we look on it, a terrible\ncontrast strikes us between this miserable pauper-seamstress and the\nthree beautiful daughters of the richest duke in the world, which breaks\nthrough any artistic reveries by its awful vividness.\n\nThe fifth picture is a profile head of a young man with delicate aquiline\nnose, thoughtful oval face, and artistic, abstracted air, which will be\neasily recognised as a portrait of Lord Ronald Gower, who is himself\nknown as an artist and sculptor. But no one would discern in these five\npictures the genius that painted the Home at Bethlehem and the portrait\nof John Ruskin which is at Oxford.\n\nThen come eight pictures by Alma Tadema, good examples of that accurate\ndrawing of inanimate objects which makes his pictures so real from an\nantiquarian point of view, and of the sweet subtlety of colouring which\ngives to them a magic all their own. One represents some Roman girls\nbathing in a marble tank, and the colour of the limbs in the water is\nvery perfect indeed; a dainty attendant is tripping down a flight of\nsteps with a bundle of towels, and in the centre a great green sphinx in\nbronze throws forth a shower of sparkling water for a very pretty\nlaughing girl, who stoops gleefully beneath it. There is a delightful\nsense of coolness about the picture, and one can almost imagine that one\nhears the splash of water, and the girls\' chatter. It is wonderful what\na world of atmosphere and reality may be condensed into a very small\nspace, for this picture is only about eleven by two and a half inches.\n\nThe most ambitious of these pictures is one of Phidias Showing the Frieze\nof the Parthenon to his Friends. We are supposed to be on a high\nscaffolding level with the frieze, and the effect of great height\nproduced by glimpses of light between the planking of the floor is very\ncleverly managed. But there is a want of individuality among the\nconnoisseurs clustered round Phidias, and the frieze itself is very\ninaccurately coloured. The Greek boys who are riding and leading the\nhorses are painted Egyptian red, and the whole design is done in this\nred, dark blue, and black. This sombre colouring is un-Greek; the\nfigures of these boys were undoubtedly tinted with flesh colour, like the\nordinary Greek statues, and the whole tone of the colouring of the\noriginal frieze was brilliant and light; while one of its chief beauties,\nthe reins and accoutrements of burnished metal, is quite omitted. This\npainter is more at home in the Greco-Roman art of the Empire and later\nRepublic than he is in the art of the Periclean age.\n\nThe most remarkable of Mr. Richmond\'s pictures exhibited here is his\nElectra at the Tomb of Agamemnon--a very magnificent subject, to which,\nhowever, justice is not done. Electra and her handmaidens are grouped\ngracefully around the tomb of the murdered King; but there is a want of\nhumanity in the scene: there is no trace of that passionate Asiatic\nmourning for the dead to which the Greek women were so prone, and which\nAEschylus describes with such intensity; nor would Greek women have come\nto pour libations to the dead in such bright-coloured dresses as Mr.\nRichmond has given them; clearly this artist has not studied AEschylus\'\nplay of the Choephori, in which there is an elaborate and pathetic\naccount of this scene. The tall, twisted tree-stems, however, that form\nthe background are fine and original in effect, and Mr. Richmond has\ncaught exactly that peculiar opal-blue of the sky which is so remarkable\nin Greece; the purple orchids too, and daffodil and narcissi that are in\nthe foreground are all flowers which I have myself seen at Argos.\n\nSir Coutts Lindsay sends a life-size portrait of his wife, holding a\nviolin, which has some good points of colour and position, and four other\npictures, including an exquisitely simple and quaint little picture of\nthe Dower House at Balcarres, and a Daphne with rather questionable flesh-\npainting, and in whom we miss the breathlessness of flight.\n\n I saw the blush come o\'er her like a rose;\n The half-reluctant crimson comes and goes;\n Her glowing limbs make pause, and she is stayed\n Wondering the issue of the words she prayed.\n\nIt is a great pity that Holman Hunt is not represented by any of his\nreally great works, such as the Finding of Christ in the Temple, or\nIsabella Mourning over the Pot of Basil, both of which are fair samples\nof his powers. Four pictures of his are shown here: a little Italian\nchild, painted with great love and sweetness, two street scenes in Cairo\nfull of rich Oriental colouring, and a wonderful work called the\nAfterglow in Egypt. It represents a tall swarthy Egyptian woman, in a\nrobe of dark and light blue, carrying a green jar on her shoulder, and a\nsheaf of grain on her head; around her comes fluttering a flock of\nbeautiful doves of all colours, eager to be fed. Behind is a wide flat\nriver, and across the river a stretch of ripe corn, through which a gaunt\ncamel is being driven; the sun has set, and from the west comes a great\nwave of red light like wine poured out on the land, yet not crimson, as\nwe see the Afterglow in Northern Europe, but a rich pink like that of a\nrose. As a study of colour it is superb, but it is difficult to feel a\nhuman interest in this Egyptian peasant.\n\nMr. Albert Moore sends some of his usual pictures of women, which as\nstudies of drapery and colour effects are very charming. One of them, a\ntall maiden, in a robe of light blue clasped at the neck with a glowing\nsapphire, and with an orange headdress, is a very good example of the\nhighest decorative art, and a perfect delight in colour.\n\nMr. Spencer Stanhope\'s picture of Eve Tempted is one of the remarkable\npictures of the Gallery. Eve, a fair woman, of surpassing loveliness, is\nleaning against a bank of violets, underneath the apple tree; naked,\nexcept for the rich thick folds of gilded hair which sweep down from her\nhead like the bright rain in which Zeus came to Danae. The head is\ndrooped a little forward as a flower droops when the dew has fallen\nheavily, and her eyes are dimmed with the haze that comes in moments of\ndoubtful thought. One arm falls idly by her side; the other is raised\nhigh over her head among the branches, her delicate fingers just meeting\nround one of the burnished apples that glow amidst the leaves like\n\'golden lamps in a green night.\' An amethyst-coloured serpent, with a\ndevilish human head, is twisting round the trunk of the tree and breathes\ninto the woman\'s ear a blue flame of evil counsel. At the feet of Eve\nbright flowers are growing, tulips, narcissi, lilies, and anemones, all\npainted with a loving patience that reminds us of the older Florentine\nmasters; after whose example, too, Mr. Stanhope has used gilding for\nEve\'s hair and for the bright fruits.\n\nNext to it is another picture by the same artist, entitled Love and the\nMaiden. A girl has fallen asleep in a wood of olive trees, through whose\nbranches and grey leaves we can see the glimmer of sky and sea, with a\nlittle seaport town of white houses shining in the sunlight. The olive\nwood is ever sacred to the Virgin Pallas, the Goddess of Wisdom; and who\nwould have dreamed of finding Eros hidden there? But the girl wakes up,\nas one wakes from sleep one knows not why, to see the face of the boy\nLove, who, with outstretched hands, is leaning towards her from the midst\nof a rhododendron\'s crimson blossoms. A rose-garland presses the boy\'s\nbrown curls, and he is clad in a tunic of oriental colours, and\ndelicately sensuous are his face and his bared limbs. His boyish beauty\nis of that peculiar type unknown in Northern Europe, but common in the\nGreek islands, where boys can still be found as beautiful as the\nCharmides of Plato. Guido\'s St. Sebastian in the Palazzo Rosso at Genoa\nis one of those boys, and Perugino once drew a Greek Ganymede for his\nnative town, but the painter who most shows the influence of this type is\nCorreggio, whose lily-bearer in the Cathedral at Parma, and whose wild-\neyed, open-mouthed St. Johns in the \'Incoronata Madonna\' of St. Giovanni\nEvangelista, are the best examples in art of the bloom and vitality and\nradiance of this adolescent beauty. And so there is extreme loveliness\nin this figure of Love by Mr. Stanhope, and the whole picture is full of\ngrace, though there is, perhaps, too great a luxuriance of colour, and it\nwould have been a relief had the girl been dressed in pure white.\n\nMr. Frederick Burton, of whom all Irishmen are so justly proud, is\nrepresented by a fine water-colour portrait of Mrs. George Smith; one\nwould almost believe it to be in oils, so great is the lustre on this\nlady\'s raven-black hair, and so rich and broad and vigorous is the\npainting of a Japanese scarf she is wearing. Then as we turn to the east\nwall of the gallery we see the three great pictures of Burne-Jones, the\nBeguiling of Merlin, the Days of Creation, and the Mirror of Venus. The\nversion of the legend of Merlin\'s Beguiling that Mr. Burne-Jones has\nfollowed differs from Mr. Tennyson\'s and from the account in the Morte\nd\'Arthur. It is taken from the Romance of Merlin, which tells the story\nin this wise:\n\n It fell on a day that they went through the forest of Breceliande, and\n found a bush that was fair and high, of white hawthorn, full of\n flowers, and there they sat in the shadow. And Merlin fell on sleep;\n and when she felt that he was on sleep she arose softly, and began her\n enchantments, such as Merlin had taught her, and made the ring nine\n times, and nine times the enchantments.\n\n . . . . .\n\n And then he looked about him, and him seemed he was in the fairest\n tower of the world, and the most strong; neither of iron was it\n fashioned, nor steel, nor timber, nor of stone, but of the air,\n without any other thing; and in sooth so strong it is that it may\n never be undone while the world endureth.\n\nSo runs the chronicle; and thus Mr. Burne-Jones, the \'Archimage of the\nesoteric unreal,\' treats the subject. Stretched upon a low branch of the\ntree, and encircled with the glory of the white hawthorn-blossoms, half\nsits, half lies, the great enchanter. He is not drawn as Mr. Tennyson\nhas described him, with the \'vast and shaggy mantle of a beard,\' which\nyouth gone out had left in ashes; smooth and clear-cut and very pale is\nhis face; time has not seared him with wrinkles or the signs of age; one\nwould hardly know him to be old were it not that he seems very weary of\nseeking into the mysteries of the world, and that the great sadness that\nis born of wisdom has cast a shadow on him. But now what availeth him\nhis wisdom or his arts? His eyes, that saw once so clear, are dim and\nglazed with coming death, and his white and delicate hands that wrought\nof old such works of marvel, hang listlessly. Vivien, a tall, lithe\nwoman, beautiful and subtle to look on, like a snake, stands in front of\nhim, reading the fatal spell from the enchanted book; mocking the utter\nhelplessness of him whom once her lying tongue had called\n\n Her lord and liege,\n Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,\n Her god, her Merlin, the one passionate love\n Of her whole life.\n\nIn her brown crisp hair is the gleam of a golden snake, and she is clad\nin a silken robe of dark violet that clings tightly to her limbs, more\nexpressing than hiding them; the colour of this dress is like the colour\nof a purple sea-shell, broken here and there with slight gleams of silver\nand pink and azure; it has a strange metallic lustre like the iris-neck\nof the dove. Were this Mr. Burne-Jones\'s only work it would be enough of\nitself to make him rank as a great painter. The picture is full of\nmagic; and the colour is truly a spirit dwelling on things and making\nthem expressive to the spirit, for the delicate tones of grey, and green,\nand violet seem to convey to us the idea of languid sleep, and even the\nhawthorn-blossoms have lost their wonted brightness, and are more like\nthe pale moonlight to which Shelley compared them, than the sheet of\nsummer snow we see now in our English fields.\n\nThe next picture is divided into six compartments, each representing a\nday in the Creation of the World, under the symbol of an angel holding a\ncrystal globe, within which is shown the work of a day. In the first\ncompartment stands the lonely angel of the First Day, and within the\ncrystal ball Light is being separated from Darkness. In the fourth\ncompartment are four angels, and the crystal glows like a heated opal,\nfor within it the creation of the Sun, Moon, and Stars is passing; the\nnumber of the angels increases, and the colours grow more vivid till we\nreach the sixth compartment, which shines afar off like a rainbow. Within\nit are the six angels of the Creation, each holding its crystal ball; and\nwithin the crystal of the sixth angel one can see Adam\'s strong brown\nlimbs and hero form, and the pale, beautiful body of Eve. At the feet\nalso of these six winged messengers of the Creator is sitting the angel\nof the Seventh Day, who on a harp of gold is singing the glories of that\ncoming day which we have not yet seen. The faces of the angels are pale\nand oval-shaped, in their eyes is the light of Wisdom and Love, and their\nlips seem as if they would speak to us; and strength and beauty are in\ntheir wings. They stand with naked feet, some on shell-strewn sands\nwhereon tide has never washed nor storm broken, others it seems on pools\nof water, others on strange flowers; and their hair is like the bright\nglory round a saint\'s head.\n\nThe scene of the third picture is laid on a long green valley by the sea;\neight girls, handmaidens of the Goddess of Love, are collected by the\nmargin of a long pool of clear water, whose surface no wandering wind or\nflapping bird has ruffled; but the large flat leaves of the water-lily\nfloat on it undisturbed, and clustering forget-me-nots rise here and\nthere like heaps of scattered turquoise.\n\nIn this Mirror of Venus each girl is reflected as in a mirror of polished\nsteel. Some of them bend over the pool in laughing wonder at their own\nbeauty, others, weary of shadows, are leaning back, and one girl is\nstanding straight up; and nothing of her is reflected in the pool but a\nglimmer of white feet. This picture, however, has not the intense pathos\nand tragedy of the Beguiling of Merlin, nor the mystical and lovely\nsymbolism of the Days of the Creation. Above these three pictures are\nhung five allegorical studies of figures by the same artist, all worthy\nof his fame.\n\nMr. Walter Crane, who has illustrated so many fairy tales for children,\nsends an ambitious work called the Renaissance of Venus, which in the\ndull colour of its \'sunless dawn,\' and in its general want of all the\nglow and beauty and passion that one associates with this scene reminds\none of Botticelli\'s picture of the same subject. After Mr. Swinburne\'s\nsuperb description of the sea-birth of the goddess in his Hymn to\nProserpine, it is very strange to find a cultured artist of feeling\nproducing such a vapid Venus as this. The best thing in it is the\npainting of an apple tree: the time of year is spring, and the leaves\nhave not yet come, but the tree is laden with pink and white blossoms,\nwhich stand out in beautiful relief against the pale blue of the sky, and\nare very true to nature.\n\nM. Alphonse Legros sends nine pictures, and there is a natural curiosity\nto see the work of a gentleman who holds at Cambridge the same\nprofessorship as Mr. Ruskin does at Oxford. Four of these are studies of\nmen\'s heads, done in two hours each for his pupils at the Slade Schools.\nThere is a good deal of vigorous, rough execution about them, and they\nare marvels of rapid work. His portrait of Mr. Carlyle is\nunsatisfactory; and even in No. 79, a picture of two scarlet-robed\nbishops, surrounded by Spanish monks, his colour is very thin and meagre.\nA good bit of painting is of some metal pots in a picture called Le\nChaudronnier.\n\nMr. Leslie, unfortunately, is represented only by one small work, called\nPalm-blossom. It is a picture of a perfectly lovely child that reminds\none of Sir Joshua\'s cherubs in the National Gallery, with a mouth like\ntwo petals of a rose; the under-lip, as Rossetti says quaintly somewhere,\n\'sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself.\'\n\nThen we come to the most abused pictures in the whole Exhibition--the\n\'colour symphonies\' of the \'Great Dark Master,\' Mr. Whistler, who\ndeserves the name of \'[Greek] as much as Heraclitus ever did. Their\ntitles do not convey much information. No. 4 is called Nocturne in Black\nand Gold, No. 6A Nocturne in Blue and Silver, and so on. The first of\nthese represents a rocket of golden rain, with green and red fires\nbursting in a perfectly black sky, two large black smudges on the picture\nstanding, I believe, for a tower which is in \'Cremorne Gardens\' and for a\ncrowd of lookers-on. The other is rather prettier; a rocket is breaking\nin a pale blue sky over a large dark blue bridge and a blue and silver\nriver. These pictures are certainly worth looking at for about as long\nas one looks at a real rocket, that is, for somewhat less than a quarter\nof a minute.\n\nNo. 7 is called Arrangement in Black No. 3, apparently some pseudonym for\nour greatest living actor, for out of black smudgy clouds comes looming\nthe gaunt figure of Mr. Henry Irving, with the yellow hair and pointed\nbeard, the ruff, short cloak, and tight hose in which he appeared as\nPhilip II. in Tennyson\'s play Queen Mary. One hand is thrust into his\nbreast, and his legs are stuck wide apart in a queer stiff position that\nMr. Irving often adopts preparatory to one of his long, wolflike strides\nacross the stage. The figure is life-size, and, though apparently one-\narmed, is so ridiculously like the original that one cannot help almost\nlaughing when one sees it. And we may imagine that any one who had the\nmisfortune to be shut up at night in the Grosvenor Gallery would hear\nthis Arrangement in Black No. 3 murmuring in the well-known Lyceum\naccents:\n\n By St. James, I do protest,\n Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard,\n I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty.\n Simon, is supper ready?\n\nNos. 8 and 9 are life-size portraits of two young ladies, evidently\ncaught in a black London fog; they look like sisters, but are not related\nprobably, as one is a Harmony in Amber and Black, the other only an\nArrangement in Brown.\n\nMr. Whistler, however, sends one really good picture to this exhibition,\na portrait of Mr. Carlyle, which is hung in the entrance hall; the\nexpression on the old man\'s face, the texture and colour of his grey\nhair, and the general sympathetic treatment, show Mr. Whistler {19} to be\nan artist of very great power when he likes.\n\nThere is not so much in the East Gallery that calls for notice. Mr.\nLeighton is unfortunately represented only by two little heads, one of an\nItalian girl, the other called A Study. There is some delicate flesh\npainting of red and brown in these works that reminds one of a russet\napple, but of course they are no samples of this artist\'s great strength.\nThere are two good portraits--one of Mrs. Burne-Jones, by Mr. Poynter.\nThis lady has a very delicate, artistic face, reminding us, perhaps, a\nlittle of one of the angels her husband has painted. She is represented\nin a white dress, with a perfectly gigantic old-fashioned watch hung to\nher waist, drinking tea from an old blue china cup. The other is a head\nof the Duchess of Westminster by Mr. Forbes-Robertson, who both as an\nactor and an artist has shown great cleverness. He has succeeded very\nwell in reproducing the calm, beautiful profile and lustrous golden hair,\nbut the shoulders are ungraceful, and very unlike the original. The\nfigure of a girl leaning against a wonderful screen, looking terribly\n\'misunderstood,\' and surrounded by any amount of artistic china and\nfurniture, by Mrs. Louise Jopling, is worth looking at too. It is called\nIt Might Have Been, and the girl is quite fit to be the heroine of any\nsentimental novel.\n\nThe two largest contributors to this gallery are Mr. Ferdinand Heilbuth\nand Mr. James Tissot. The first of these two artists sends some\ndelightful pictures from Rome, two of which are particularly pleasing.\nOne is of an old Cardinal in the Imperial scarlet of the Caesars meeting\na body of young Italian boys in purple soutanes, students evidently in\nsome religious college, near the Church of St. John Lateran. One of the\nboys is being presented to the Cardinal, and looks very nervous under the\noperation; the rest gaze in wonder at the old man in his beautiful dress.\nThe other picture is a view in the gardens of the Villa Borghese; a\nCardinal has sat down on a marble seat in the shade of the trees, and is\nsuspending his meditation for a moment to smile at a pretty child to whom\na French bonne is pointing out the gorgeously dressed old gentleman; a\nflunkey in attendance on the Cardinal looks superciliously on.\n\nNearly all of Mr. Tissot\'s pictures are deficient in feeling and depth;\nhis young ladies are too fashionably over-dressed to interest the\nartistic eye, and he has a hard unscrupulousness in painting\nuninteresting objects in an uninteresting way. There is some good colour\nand drawing, however, in his painting of a withered chestnut tree, with\nthe autumn sun glowing through the yellow leaves, in a picnic scene, No.\n23; the remainder of the picture being something in the photographic\nstyle of Frith.\n\nWhat a gap in art there is between such a picture as the Banquet of the\nCivic Guard in Holland, with its beautiful grouping of noble-looking men,\nits exquisite Venetian glass aglow with light and wine, and Mr. Tissot\'s\nover-dressed, common-looking people, and ugly, painfully accurate\nrepresentation of modern soda-water bottles!\n\nMr. Tissot\'s Widower, however, shines in qualities which his other\npictures lack; it is full of depth and suggestiveness; the grasses and\nwild, luxuriant growth of the foreground are a revel of natural life.\n\nWe must notice besides in this gallery Mr. Watts\'s two powerful portraits\nof Mr. Burne-Jones and Lady Lindsay.\n\nTo get to the Water-Colour Room we pass through a small sculpture\ngallery, which contains some busts of interest, and a pretty terra-cotta\nfigure of a young sailor, by Count Gleichen, entitled Cheeky, but it is\nnot remarkable in any way, and contrasts very unfavourably with the\nExhibition of Sculpture at the Royal Academy, in which are three really\nfine works of art--Mr. Leighton\'s Man Struggling with a Snake, which may\nbe thought worthy of being looked on side by side with the Laocoon of the\nVatican, and Lord Ronald Gower\'s two statues, one of a dying French\nGuardsman at the Battle of Waterloo, the other of Marie Antoinette being\nled to execution with bound hands, Queenlike and noble to the last.\n\nThe collection of water-colours is mediocre; there is a good effect of\nMr. Poynter\'s, the east wind seen from a high cliff sweeping down on the\nsea like the black wings of some god; and some charming pictures of Fairy\nLand by Mr. Richard Doyle, which would make good illustrations for one of\nMr. Allingham\'s Fairy-Poems, but the tout-ensemble is poor.\n\nTaking a general view of the works exhibited here, we see that this dull\nland of England, with its short summer, its dreary rains and fogs, its\nmining districts and factories, and vile deification of machinery, has\nyet produced very great masters of art, men with a subtle sense and love\nof what is beautiful, original, and noble in imagination.\n\nNor are the art-treasures of this country at all exhausted by this\nExhibition; there are very many great pictures by living artists hidden\naway in different places, which those of us who are yet boys have never\nseen, and which our elders must wish to see again.\n\nHolman Hunt has done better work than the Afterglow in Egypt; neither\nMillais, Leighton, nor Poynter has sent any of the pictures on which his\nfame rests; neither Burne-Jones nor Watts shows us here all the glories\nof his art; and the name of that strange genius who wrote the Vision of\nLove revealed in Sleep, and the names of Dante Rossetti and of the\nMarchioness of Waterford, cannot be found in the catalogue. And so it is\nto be hoped that this is not the only exhibition of paintings that we\nshall see in the Grosvenor Gallery; and Sir Coutts Lindsay, in showing us\ngreat works of art, will be most materially aiding that revival of\nculture and love of beauty which in great part owes its birth to Mr.\nRuskin, and which Mr. Swinburne, and Mr. Pater, and Mr. Symonds, and Mr.\nMorris, and many others, are fostering and keeping alive, each in his own\npeculiar fashion.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GROSVENOR GALLERY 1879\n\n\n(Saunders\' Irish Daily News, May 5, 1879.)\n\nWhile the yearly exhibition of the Royal Academy may be said to present\nus with the general characteristics of ordinary English art at its most\ncommonplace level, it is at the Grosvenor Gallery that we are enabled to\nsee the highest development of the modern artistic spirit as well as what\none might call its specially accentuated tendencies.\n\nForemost among the great works now exhibited at this gallery are Mr.\nBurne-Jones\'s Annunciation and his four pictures illustrating the Greek\nlegend of Pygmalion--works of the very highest importance in our aesthetic\ndevelopment as illustrative of some of the more exquisite qualities of\nmodern culture. In the first the Virgin Mary, a passionless, pale woman,\nwith that mysterious sorrow whose meaning she was so soon to learn\nmirrored in her wan face, is standing, in grey drapery, by a marble\nfountain, in what seems the open courtyard of an empty and silent house,\nwhile through the branches of a tall olive tree, unseen by the Virgin\'s\ntear-dimmed eyes, is descending the angel Gabriel with his joyful and\nterrible message, not painted as Angelico loved to do, in the varied\nsplendour of peacock-like wings and garments of gold and crimson, but\nsomewhat sombre in colour, set with all the fine grace of nobly-fashioned\ndrapery and exquisitely ordered design. In presence of what may be\ncalled the mediaeval spirit may be discerned both the idea and the\ntechnique of the work, and even still more so in the four pictures of the\nstory of Pygmalion, where the sculptor is represented in dress and in\nlooks rather as a Christian St. Francis, than as a pure Greek artist in\nthe first morning tide of art, creating his own ideal, and worshipping\nit. For delicacy and melody of colour these pictures are beyond praise,\nnor can anything exceed the idyllic loveliness of Aphrodite waking the\nstatue into sensuous life: the world above her head like a brittle globe\nof glass, her feet resting on a drift of the blue sky, and a choir of\ndoves fluttering around her like a fall of white snow. Following in the\nsame school of ideal and imaginative painting is Miss Evelyn Pickering,\nwhose picture of St. Catherine, in the Dudley of some years ago,\nattracted such great attention. To the present gallery she has\ncontributed a large picture of Night and Sleep, twin brothers floating\nover the world in indissoluble embrace, the one spreading the cloak of\ndarkness, while from the other\'s listless hands the Leathean poppies fall\nin a scarlet shower. Mr. Strudwich sends a picture of Isabella, which\nrealises in some measure the pathos of Keats\'s poem, and another of the\nlover in the lily garden from the Song of Solomon, both works full of\ndelicacy of design and refinement of detail, yet essentially weak in\ncolour, and in comparison with the splendid Giorgione-like work of Mr.\nFairfax Murray, are more like the coloured drawings of the modern German\nschool than what we properly call a painting. The last-named artist,\nwhile essentially weak in draughtsmanship, yet possesses the higher\nquality of noble colour in the fullest degree.\n\nThe draped figures of men and women in his Garland Makers, and Pastoral,\nsome wrought in that single note of colour which the earlier Florentines\nloved, others with all the varied richness and glow of the Venetian\nschool, show what great results may be brought about by a youth spent in\nItalian cities. And finally I must notice the works contributed to this\nGallery by that most powerful of all our English artists, Mr. G. F.\nWatts, the extraordinary width and reach of whose genius were never more\nillustrated than by the various pictures bearing his name which are here\nexhibited. His Paolo and Francesca, and his Orpheus and Eurydice, are\ncreative visions of the very highest order of imaginative painting;\nmarked as it is with all the splendid vigour of nobly ordered design, the\nlast-named picture possesses qualities of colour no less great. The\nwhite body of the dying girl, drooping like a pale lily, and the clinging\narms of her lover, whose strong brown limbs seem filled with all the\nsensuous splendour of passionate life, form a melancholy and wonderful\nnote of colour to which the eye continually returns as indicating the\nmotive of the conception. Yet here I would dwell rather on two pictures\nwhich show the splendid simplicity and directness of his strength, the\none a portrait of himself, the other that of a little child called\nDorothy, who has all that sweet gravity and look of candour which we like\nto associate with that old-fashioned name: a child with bright rippling\nhair, tangled like floss silk, open brown eyes and flower-like mouth;\ndressed in faded claret, with little lace about the neck and throat,\ntoned down to a delicate grey--the hands simply clasped before her. This\nis the picture; as truthful and lovely as any of those Brignoli children\nwhich Vandyke has painted in Genoa. Nor is his own picture of\nhimself--styled in the catalogue merely A Portrait--less wonderful,\nespecially the luminous treatment of the various shades of black as shown\nin the hat and cloak. It would be quite impossible, however, to give any\nadequate account or criticism of the work now exhibited in the Grosvenor\nGallery within the limits of a single notice. Richmond\'s noble picture\nof Sleep and Death Bearing the Slain Body of Sarpedon, and his bronze\nstatue of the Greek athlete, are works of the very highest order of\nartistic excellence, but I will reserve for another occasion the\nqualities of his power. Mr. Whistler, whose wonderful and eccentric\ngenius is better appreciated in France than in England, sends a very\nwonderful picture entitled The Golden Girl, a life-size study in amber,\nyellow and browns, of a child dancing with a skipping-rope, full of\nbirdlike grace and exquisite motion; as well as some delightful specimens\nof etching (an art of which he is the consummate master), one of which,\ncalled The Little Forge, entirely done with the dry point, possesses\nextraordinary merit; nor have the philippics of the Fors Clavigera\ndeterred him from exhibiting some more of his \'arrangements in colour,\'\none of which, called a Harmony in Green and Gold, I would especially\nmention as an extremely good example of what ships lying at anchor on a\nsummer evening are from the \'Impressionist point of view.\'\n\nMr. Eugene Benson, one of the most cultured of those many Americans who\nseem to have found their Mecca in modern Rome, has sent a picture of\nNarcissus, a work full of the true Theocritean sympathy for the natural\npicturesqueness of shepherd life, and entirely delightful to all who love\nthe peculiar qualities of Italian scenery. The shadows of the trees\ndrifting across the grass, the crowding together of the sheep, and the\nsense of summer air and light which fills the picture, are full of the\nhighest truth and beauty; and Mr. Forbes-Robertson, whose picture of\nPhelps as Cardinal Wolsey has just been bought by the Garrick Club, and\nwho is himself so well known as a young actor of the very highest\npromise, is represented by a portrait of Mr. Hermann Vezin which is\nextremely clever and certainly very lifelike. Nor amongst the minor\nworks must I omit to notice Miss Stuart-Wortley\'s view on the river\nCherwell, taken from the walks of Magdalen College, Oxford,--a little\npicture marked by great sympathy for the shade and coolness of green\nplaces and for the stillness of summer waters; or Mrs. Valentine\nBromley\'s Misty Day, remarkable for the excellent drawing of a breaking\nwave, as well as for a great delicacy of tone. Besides the Marchioness\nof Waterford, whose brilliant treatment of colour is so well known, and\nMr. Richard Doyle, whose water-colour drawings of children and of fairy\nscenes are always so fresh and bright, the qualities of the Irish genius\nin the field of art find an entirely adequate exponent in Mr. Wills, who\nas a dramatist and a painter has won himself such an honourable name.\nThree pictures of his are exhibited here: the Spirit of the Shell, which\nis perhaps too fanciful and vague in design; the Nymph and Satyr, where\nthe little goat-footed child has all the sweet mystery and romance of the\nwoodlands about him; and the Parting of Ophelia and Laertes, a work not\nonly full of very strong drawing, especially in the modelling of the male\nfigure, but a very splendid example of the power of subdued and reserved\ncolour, the perfect harmony of tone being made still more subtle by the\nfitful play of reflected light on the polished armour.\n\nI shall reserve for another notice the wonderful landscapes of Mr. Cecil\nLawson, who has caught so much of Turner\'s imagination and mode of\ntreatment, as well as a consideration of the works of Herkomer, Tissot\nand Legros, and others of the modern realistic school.\n\nNote.--The other notice mentioned above did not appear.\n\n\n\n\nL\'ENVOI\n\n\nAn Introduction to Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf by Rennell Rodd, published by\nJ. M. Stoddart and Co., Philadelphia, 1882.\n\nAmongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to\ncontinue and to perfect the English Renaissance--jeunes guerriers du\ndrapeau romantique, as Gautier would have called us--there is none whose\nlove of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of beauty\nis more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to\nmyself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to\nAmerica; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most\njoyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with\nthe barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,\nthis indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element\nof artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what Keats\ncalled the \'sensuous life of verse,\' the element of song in the singing,\nmade so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often has its\norigin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought for, from\nthe subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the scheme and\nsymphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design: so that the\nultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has been, not in\nthe spiritual visions of the Pre-Raphaelites, for all their marvel of\nGreek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the work of such\nmen as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design and colour to\nthe ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of their exquisite\npainting comes from the mere inventive and creative handling of line and\ncolour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful workmanship, which,\nrejecting all literary reminiscence and all metaphysical idea, is in\nitself entirely satisfying to the aesthetic sense--is, as the Greeks\nwould say, an end in itself; the effect of their work being like the\neffect given to us by music; for music is the art in which form and\nmatter are always one--the art whose subject cannot be separated from the\nmethod of its expression; the art which most completely realises for us\nthe artistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts are\nconstantly aspiring.\n\nNow, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of beautiful\nworkmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the sensuous\nelement in art, this love of art for art\'s sake, is the point in which we\nof the younger school have made a departure from the teaching of Mr.\nRuskin,--a departure definite and different and decisive.\n\nMaster indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of\nall spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by\nthe magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford\nthat enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that\ndesire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,\nat least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far and\nfair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for the\nworld, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous element\nof art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer with him;\nfor the keystone to his aesthetic system is ethical always. He would\njudge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it expresses; but\nto us the channels by which all noble work in painting can touch, and\ndoes touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or metaphysical\ntruths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the symbol of pride,\nand incompleteness of technical resource the image of an imagination too\nlimitless to find within the limits of form its complete expression, or\nof a love too simple not to stammer in its tale. But to us the rule of\nart is not the rule of morals. In an ethical system, indeed, of any\ngentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to fancy, have their\nrecognition; but of those that would enter the serene House of Beauty the\nquestion that we ask is not what they had ever meant to do, but what they\nhave done. Their pathetic intentions are of no value to us, but their\nrealised creations only. Pour moi je prefere les poetes qui font des\nvers, les medecins qui sachent guerir, les peintres qui sachent peindre.\n\nNor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it\nsymbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the\ntranscendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical\nmind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,\nbut to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual\nlife which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life\nalso. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more\nspiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of\nDamascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully coloured surface,\nnothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no\npathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by\nits own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth which\nwe call style, and that relation of values which is the draughtsmanship\nof painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship, the arabesque of\nthe design, the splendour of the colour, for these things are enough to\nstir the most divine and remote of the chords which make music in our\nsoul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical presence on things, and\ntone a kind of sentiment.\n\nThis, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief\ncharacteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd\'s poetry; for, while there is much in\nhis work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the\nemotions, and many-cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to\nthose who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet, the\neffect which they pre-eminently seek to produce is purely an artistic\none. Such a poem as The Sea-King\'s Grave, with all its majesty of melody\nas sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed shores it was\nthus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little poem that follows\nit, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an artistic sense of\nlimitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the mirror that is its\nmotive; or In a Church, pale flower of one of those exquisite moments\nwhen all things except the moment itself seem so curiously real, and when\nthe old memories of forgotten days are touched and made tender, and the\nfamiliar place grows fervent and solemn suddenly with a vision of the\nundying beauty of the gods that died; or the scene in Chartres Cathedral,\nsombre silence brooding on vault and arch, silent people kneeling on the\ndust of the desolate pavement as the young priest lifts Lord Christ\'s\nbody in a crystal star, and then the sudden beams of scarlet light that\nbreak through the blazoned window and smite on the carven screen, and\nsudden organ peals of mighty music rolling and echoing from choir to\ncanopy, and from spire to shaft, and over all the clear glad voice of a\nsinging boy, affecting one as a thing over-sweet, and striking just the\nright artistic keynote for one\'s emotions; or At Lanuvium, through the\nmusic of whose lines one seems to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan\nbees straying down from their own green valleys and inland streams to\nfind what honeyed amber the sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem\nwritten In the Coliseum, which gives one the same artistic joy that one\ngets watching a handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his\ngold into those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose,\nor drawing it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect\nand precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes\nthat break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as\nswift and as sure as the beating of a bird\'s wing, as light and bright as\nthe apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after\na spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain\'s tears lying on\ntheir dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd is\none of those qui sonnent le sonnet, as the Ronsardists used to say--that\none called On the Border Hills, with its fiery wonder of imagination and\nthe strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which tells of the\nsorrow of the great king for the little dead child--well, all these poems\naim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect, and have the rare\nand exquisite quality that belongs to work of that kind; and I feel that\nthe entire subordination in our aesthetic movement of all merely\nemotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing poetic\nprinciple is the surest sign of our strength.\n\nBut it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the aesthetic\ndemands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us\nany permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever\nwork we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of\npersonality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating\nthe earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and stronger\nand possesses increased technical power and more artistic vision, one\nmight weave these disconnected poems, these stray and scattered threads,\ninto one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first a boy\'s mere\ngladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field and flower, in\nsunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden sorrow at the\nending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful friendships of one\'s\nyouth, with all those unanswered longings and questionings unsatisfied by\nwhich we vex, so uselessly, the marble face of death; the artistic\ncontrast between the discontented incompleteness of the spirit and the\ncomplete perfection of the style that expresses it forming the chief\nelement of the aesthetic charm of these particular poems;--and then the\nbirth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and the perilous delight\nof one on whose boyish brows the little wings of love have beaten for the\nfirst time; and the love-songs, so dainty and delicate, little swallow-\nflights of music, and full of such fragrance and freedom that they might\nall be sung in the open air and across moving water; and then autumn,\ncoming with its choirless woods and odorous decay and ruined loveliness,\nLove lying dead; and the sense of the mere pity of it.\n\nOne might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper\nchords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;\nand the best poems in the volume belong clearly to a later time, a time\nwhen these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form\nwhich seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most\nremote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,\nand lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music\nand colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one\nmight say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the\nfeeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love\nin the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,\nand in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the\nhurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art\nwhich one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded\none, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one\'s youth, just as often,\nI think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that curious\nintensity of vision by which, in moments of overmastering sadness and\ndespair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one\'s memory with a\nvivid realism caught from the life which they help one to forget--an old\ngrey tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making one think how,\nperhaps, passion does live on after death; a necklace of blue and amber\nbeads and a broken mirror found in a girl\'s grave at Rome, a marble image\nof a boy habited like Eros, and with the pathetic tradition of a great\nking\'s sorrow lingering about it like a purple shadow,--over all these\nthe tired spirit broods with that calm and certain joy that one gets when\none has found something that the ages never dull and the world cannot\nharm; and with it comes that desire of Greek things which is often an\nartistic method of expressing one\'s desire for perfection; and that\nlonging for the old dead days which is so modern, so incomplete, so\ntouching, being, in a way, the inverted torch of Hope, which burns the\nhand it should guide; and for many things a little sadness, and for all\nthings a great love; and lastly, in the pinewood by the sea, once more\nthe quick and vital pulse of joyous youth leaping and laughing in every\nline, the frank and fearless freedom of wave and wind waking into fire\nlife\'s burnt-out ashes and into song the silent lips of pain,--how\nclearly one seems to see it all, the long colonnade of pines with sea and\nsky peeping in here and there like a flitting of silver; the open place\nin the green, deep heart of the wood with the little moss-grown altar to\nthe old Italian god in it; and the flowers all about, cyclamen in the\nshadowy places, and the stars of the white narcissus lying like\nsnow-flakes over the grass, where the quick, bright-eyed lizard starts by\nthe stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily in the sun on the hot sand,\nand overhead the gossamer floats from the branches like thin, tremulous\nthreads of gold,--the scene is so perfect for its motive, for surely\nhere, if anywhere, the real gladness of life might be revealed to one\'s\nyouth--the gladness that comes, not from the rejection, but from the\nabsorption, of all passion, and is like that serene calm that dwells in\nthe faces of the Greek statues, and which despair and sorrow cannot\ntouch, but intensify only.\n\nIn some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered\npetals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so\ndoing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one\'s real life\nis so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems, like\nthreads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to suit\nmany designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry, too,\nis essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest school\nof painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its choice of\nsituation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the exceptions\nrather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity; in what one\nmight call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed the\nmomentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which\npoetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy\nwill the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely that\nplastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,\nhowever noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and unreal\nwork, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite rule or\nsystem of living, but to that principle of beauty only through which the\ninconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting moment arrested\nand made permanent. He will not, for instance, in intellectual matters\nacquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day which is so reasonable and\nso artistically uninteresting, nor yet will he desire that fiery faith of\nthe antique time which, while it intensified, yet limited the vision;\nstill less will he allow the calm of his culture to be marred by the\ndiscordant despair of doubt or the sadness of a sterile scepticism; for\nthe Valley Perilous, where ignorant armies clash by night, is no resting-\nplace meet for her to whom the gods have assigned the clear upland, the\nserene height, and the sunlit air,--rather will he be always curiously\ntesting new forms of belief, tinging his nature with the sentiment that\nstill lingers about some beautiful creeds, and searching for experience\nitself, and not for the fruits of experience; when he has got its secret,\nhe will leave without regret much that was once very precious to him. \'I\nam always insincere,\' says Emerson somewhere, \'as knowing that there are\nother moods\': \'Les emotions,\' wrote Theophile Gautier once in a review of\nArsene Houssaye, \'Les emotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais etre emu--voila\nl\'important.\'\n\nNow, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and\ngives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality of\nall work which, like Mr. Rodd\'s, aims, as I said, at a purely artistic\neffect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism; it is too\nintangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms of the\nother arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these poems\nare as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of Venetian\nglass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as single in natural\nmotive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those beautiful little\nGreek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra men can still find,\nwith the faint gilding and the fading crimson not yet fled from hair and\nlips and raiment; and many of them seem like one of Corot\'s twilights\njust passing into music; for not merely in visible colour, but in\nsentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there be a kind of\ntone.\n\nBut I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet\'s\nwork I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,\nhe and I, at Amboise, that little village with its grey slate roofs and\nsteep streets and gaunt, grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle\nlike white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,\nand the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate\nnow, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the\ndelicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their grotesque\nanimals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all reminding\none of a people who could not think life real till they had made it\nfantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the river, we\nused to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big barges that\nbring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the sea, or lie\nin the long grass and make plans pour la gloire, et pour ennuyer les\nphilistins, or wander along the low, sedgy banks, \'matching our reeds in\nsportive rivalry,\' as comrades used in the old Sicilian days; and the\nland was an ordinary land enough, and bare, too, when one thought of\nItaly, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by Genoa in\nscarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley from\nFlorence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in it,\nonly long, white dusty roads and straight rows of formal poplars; but,\nnow and then, some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend to\nthe grey field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were\nhardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the peasants\npassing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on the hill,\nwould tip the willows with silver and touch the river into gold; and the\nwonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the material, always\nseemed to me to be a little like the quality of these the verses of my\nfriend.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK\n\n\n(New York World, November 7, 1882.)\n\nIt is only in the best Greek gems, on the silver coins of Syracuse, or\namong the marble figures of the Parthenon frieze, that one can find the\nideal representation of the marvellous beauty of that face which laughed\nthrough the leaves last night as Hester Grazebrook.\n\nPure Greek it is, with the grave low forehead, the exquisitely arched\nbrow; the noble chiselling of the mouth, shaped as if it were the\nmouthpiece of an instrument of music; the supreme and splendid curve of\nthe cheek; the augustly pillared throat which bears it all: it is Greek,\nbecause the lines which compose it are so definite and so strong, and yet\nso exquisitely harmonised that the effect is one of simple loveliness\npurely: Greek, because its essence and its quality, as is the quality of\nmusic and of architecture, is that of beauty based on absolutely\nmathematical laws.\n\nBut while art remains dumb and immobile in its passionless serenity, with\nthe beauty of this face it is different: the grey eyes lighten into blue\nor deepen into violet as fancy succeeds fancy; the lips become flower-\nlike in laughter or, tremulous as a bird\'s wing, mould themselves at last\ninto the strong and bitter moulds of pain or scorn. And then motion\ncomes, and the statue wakes into life. But the life is not the ordinary\nlife of common days; it is life with a new value given to it, the value\nof art: and the charm to me of Hester Grazebrook\'s acting in the first\nscene of the play {43} last night was that mingling of classic grace with\nabsolute reality which is the secret of all beautiful art, of the plastic\nwork of the Greeks and of the pictures of Jean Francois Millet equally.\n\nI do not think that the sovereignty and empire of women\'s beauty has at\nall passed away, though we may no longer go to war for them as the Greeks\ndid for the daughter of Leda. The greatest empire still remains for\nthem--the empire of art. And, indeed, this wonderful face, seen last\nnight for the first time in America, has filled and permeated with the\npervading image of its type the whole of our modern art in England. Last\ncentury it was the romantic type which dominated in art, the type loved\nby Reynolds and Gainsborough, of wonderful contrasts of colour, of\nexquisite and varying charm of expression, but without that definite\nplastic feeling which divides classic from romantic work. This type\ndegenerated into mere facile prettiness in the hands of lesser masters,\nand, in protest against it, was created by the hands of the\nPre-Raphaelites a new type, with its rare combination of Greek form with\nFlorentine mysticism. But this mysticism becomes over-strained and a\nburden, rather than an aid to expression, and a desire for the pure\nHellenic joy and serenity came in its place; and in all our modern work,\nin the paintings of such men as Albert Moore and Leighton and Whistler,\nwe can trace the influence of this single face giving fresh life and\ninspiration in the form of a new artistic ideal.\n\nAs regards Hester Grazebrook\'s dresses, the first was a dress whose grace\ndepended entirely on the grace of the person who wore it. It was merely\nthe simple dress of a village girl in England. The second was a lovely\ncombination of blue and creamy lace. But the masterpiece was undoubtedly\nthe last, a symphony in silver-grey and pink, a pure melody of colour\nwhich I feel sure Whistler would call a Scherzo, and take as its visible\nmotive the moonlight wandering in silver mist through a rose-garden;\nunless indeed he saw this dress, in which case he would paint it and\nnothing else, for it is a dress such as Velasquez only could paint, and\nWhistler very wisely always paints those things which are within reach of\nVelasquez only.\n\nThe scenery was, of course, prepared in a hurry. Still, much of it was\nvery good indeed: the first scene especially, with its graceful trees and\nopen forge and cottage porch, though the roses were dreadfully out of\ntone and, besides their crudity of colour, were curiously badly grouped.\nThe last scene was exceedingly clever and true to nature as well, being\nthat combination of lovely scenery and execrable architecture which is so\nspecially characteristic of a German spa. As for the drawing-room scene,\nI cannot regard it as in any way a success. The heavy ebony doors are\nentirely out of keeping with the satin panels; the silk hangings and\nfestoons of black and yellow are quite meaningless in their position and\nconsequently quite ugly; the carpet is out of all colour relation with\nthe rest of the room, and the table-cover is mauve. Still, to have\ndecorated ever so bad a room in six days must, I suppose, be a subject of\nrespectful wonder, though I should have fancied that Mr. Wallack had many\nvery much better sets in his own stock.\n\nBut I am beginning to quarrel generally with most modern scene-painting.\nA scene is primarily a decorative background for the actors, and should\nalways be kept subordinate, first to the players, their dress, gesture,\nand action; and secondly, to the fundamental principle of decorative art,\nwhich is not to imitate but to suggest nature. If the landscape is given\nits full realistic value, the value of the figures to which it serves as\na background is impaired and often lost, and so the painted hangings of\nthe Elizabethan age were a far more artistic, and so a far more rational\nform of scenery than most modern scene-painting is. From the same master-\nhand which designed the curtain of Madison Square Theatre I should like\nvery much to see a good decorative landscape in scene-painting; for I\nhave seen no open-air scene in any theatre which did not really mar the\nvalue of the actors. One must either, like Titian, make the landscape\nsubordinate to the figures, or, like Claude, the figures subordinate to\nthe landscape; for if we desire realistic acting we cannot have realistic\nscene-painting.\n\nI need not describe, however, how the beauty of Hester Grazebrook\nsurvived the crude roses and the mauve tablecloth triumphantly. That it\nis a beauty that will be appreciated to the full in America I do not\ndoubt for a moment, for it is only countries which possess great beauty\nthat can appreciate beauty at all. It may also influence the art of\nAmerica as it has influenced the art of England, for of the rare Greek\ntype it is the most absolutely perfect example.\n\nThe Philistine may, of course, object that to be absolutely perfect is\nimpossible. Well, that is so: but then it is only the impossible things\nthat are worth doing nowadays!\n\n\n\n\nWOMAN\'S DRESS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 14, 1884.)\n\nMr. Oscar Wilde, who asks us to permit him \'that most charming of all\npleasures, the pleasure of answering one\'s critics,\' sends us the\nfollowing remarks:--\n\nThe \'Girl Graduate\' must of course have precedence, not merely for her\nsex but for her sanity: her letter is extremely sensible. She makes two\npoints: that high heels are a necessity for any lady who wishes to keep\nher dress clean from the Stygian mud of our streets, and that without a\ntight corset \'the ordinary number of petticoats and etceteras\' cannot be\nproperly or conveniently held up. Now, it is quite true that as long as\nthe lower garments are suspended from the hips a corset is an absolute\nnecessity; the mistake lies in not suspending all apparel from the\nshoulders. In the latter case a corset becomes useless, the body is left\nfree and unconfined for respiration and motion, there is more health, and\nconsequently more beauty. Indeed all the most ungainly and uncomfortable\narticles of dress that fashion has ever in her folly prescribed, not the\ntight corset merely, but the farthingale, the vertugadin, the hoop, the\ncrinoline, and that modern monstrosity the so-called \'dress improver\'\nalso, all of them have owed their origin to the same error, the error of\nnot seeing that it is from the shoulders, and from the shoulders only,\nthat all garments should be hung.\n\nAnd as regards high heels, I quite admit that some additional height to\nthe shoe or boot is necessary if long gowns are to be worn in the street;\nbut what I object to is that the height should be given to the heel only,\nand not to the sole of the foot also. The modern high-heeled boot is, in\nfact, merely the clog of the time of Henry VI., with the front prop left\nout, and its inevitable effect is to throw the body forward, to shorten\nthe steps, and consequently to produce that want of grace which always\nfollows want of freedom.\n\nWhy should clogs be despised? Much art has been expended on clogs. They\nhave been made of lovely woods, and delicately inlaid with ivory, and\nwith mother-of-pearl. A clog might be a dream of beauty, and, if not too\nhigh or too heavy, most comfortable also. But if there be any who do not\nlike clogs, let them try some adaptation of the trouser of the Turkish\nlady, which is loose round the limb and tight at the ankle.\n\nThe \'Girl Graduate,\' with a pathos to which I am not insensible, entreats\nme not to apotheosise \'that awful, befringed, beflounced, and bekilted\ndivided skirt.\' Well, I will acknowledge that the fringes, the flounces,\nand the kilting do certainly defeat the whole object of the dress, which\nis that of ease and liberty; but I regard these things as mere wicked\nsuperfluities, tragic proofs that the divided skirt is ashamed of its own\ndivision. The principle of the dress is good, and, though it is not by\nany means perfection, it is a step towards it.\n\nHere I leave the \'Girl Graduate,\' with much regret, for Mr. Wentworth\nHuyshe. Mr. Huyshe makes the old criticism that Greek dress is unsuited\nto our climate, and, to me the somewhat new assertion, that the men\'s\ndress of a hundred years ago was preferable to that of the second part of\nthe seventeenth century, which I consider to have been the exquisite\nperiod of English costume.\n\nNow, as regards the first of these two statements, I will say, to begin\nwith, that the warmth of apparel does not depend really on the number of\ngarments worn, but on the material of which they are made. One of the\nchief faults of modern dress is that it is composed of far too many\narticles of clothing, most of which are of the wrong substance; but over\na substratum of pure wool, such as is supplied by Dr. Jaeger under the\nmodern German system, some modification of Greek costume is perfectly\napplicable to our climate, our country and our century. This important\nfact has already been pointed out by Mr. E. W. Godwin in his excellent,\nthough too brief, handbook on Dress, contributed to the Health\nExhibition. I call it an important fact because it makes almost any form\nof lovely costume perfectly practicable in our cold climate. Mr. Godwin,\nit is true, points out that the English ladies of the thirteenth century\nabandoned after some time the flowing garments of the early Renaissance\nin favour of a tighter mode, such as Northern Europe seems to demand.\nThis I quite admit, and its significance; but what I contend, and what I\nam sure Mr. Godwin would agree with me in, is that the principles, the\nlaws of Greek dress may be perfectly realised, even in a moderately tight\ngown with sleeves: I mean the principle of suspending all apparel from\nthe shoulders, and of relying for beauty of effect not on the stiff ready-\nmade ornaments of the modern milliner--the bows where there should be no\nbows, and the flounces where there should be no flounces--but on the\nexquisite play of light and line that one gets from rich and rippling\nfolds. I am not proposing any antiquarian revival of an ancient costume,\nbut trying merely to point out the right laws of dress, laws which are\ndictated by art and not by archaeology, by science and not by fashion;\nand just as the best work of art in our days is that which combines\nclassic grace with absolute reality, so from a continuation of the Greek\nprinciples of beauty with the German principles of health will come, I\nfeel certain, the costume of the future.\n\nAnd now to the question of men\'s dress, or rather to Mr. Huyshe\'s claim\nof the superiority, in point of costume, of the last quarter of the\neighteenth century over the second quarter of the seventeenth. The broad-\nbrimmed hat of 1640 kept the rain of winter and the glare of summer from\nthe face; the same cannot be said of the hat of one hundred years ago,\nwhich, with its comparatively narrow brim and high crown, was the\nprecursor of the modern \'chimney-pot\': a wide turned-down collar is a\nhealthier thing than a strangling stock, and a short cloak much more\ncomfortable than a sleeved overcoat, even though the latter may have had\n\'three capes\'; a cloak is easier to put on and off, lies lightly on the\nshoulder in summer, and wrapped round one in winter keeps one perfectly\nwarm. A doublet, again, is simpler than a coat and waistcoat; instead of\ntwo garments one has one; by not being open also it protects the chest\nbetter.\n\nShort loose trousers are in every way to be preferred to the tight knee-\nbreeches which often impede the proper circulation of the blood; and\nfinally, the soft leather boots which could be worn above or below the\nknee, are more supple, and give consequently more freedom, than the stiff\nHessian which Mr. Huyshe so praises. I say nothing about the question of\ngrace and picturesqueness, for I suppose that no one, not even Mr.\nHuyshe, would prefer a maccaroni to a cavalier, a Lawrence to a Vandyke,\nor the third George to the first Charles; but for ease, warmth and\ncomfort this seventeenth-century dress is infinitely superior to anything\nthat came after it, and I do not think it is excelled by any preceding\nform of costume. I sincerely trust that we may soon see in England some\nnational revival of it.\n\n\n\n\nMORE RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 11, 1884.)\n\nI have been much interested at reading the large amount of correspondence\nthat has been called forth by my recent lecture on Dress. It shows me\nthat the subject of dress reform is one that is occupying many wise and\ncharming people, who have at heart the principles of health, freedom, and\nbeauty in costume, and I hope that \'H. B. T.\' and \'Materfamilias\' will\nhave all the real influence which their letters--excellent letters both\nof them--certainly deserve.\n\nI turn first to Mr. Huyshe\'s second letter, and the drawing that\naccompanies it; but before entering into any examination of the theory\ncontained in each, I think I should state at once that I have absolutely\nno idea whether this gentleman wears his hair longer short, or his cuffs\nback or forward, or indeed what he is like at all. I hope he consults\nhis own comfort and wishes in everything which has to do with his dress,\nand is allowed to enjoy that individualism in apparel which he so\neloquently claims for himself, and so foolishly tries to deny to others;\nbut I really could not take Mr. Wentworth Huyshe\'s personal appearance as\nany intellectual basis for an investigation of the principles which\nshould guide the costume of a nation. I am not denying the force, or\neven the popularity, of the \'\'Eave arf a brick\' school of criticism, but\nI acknowledge it does not interest me. The gamin in the gutter may be a\nnecessity, but the gamin in discussion is a nuisance. So I will proceed\nat once to the real point at issue, the value of the late\neighteenth-century costume over that worn in the second quarter of the\nseventeenth: the relative merits, that is, of the principles contained in\neach. Now, as regards the eighteenth-century costume, Mr. Wentworth\nHuyshe acknowledges that he has had no practical experience of it at all;\nin fact, he makes a pathetic appeal to his friends to corroborate him in\nhis assertion, which I do not question for a moment, that he has never\nbeen \'guilty of the eccentricity\' of wearing himself the dress which he\nproposes for general adoption by others. There is something so naive and\nso amusing about this last passage in Mr. Huyshe\'s letter that I am\nreally in doubt whether I am not doing him a wrong in regarding him as\nhaving any serious, or sincere, views on the question of a possible\nreform in dress; still, as irrespective of any attitude of Mr. Huyshe\'s\nin the matter, the subject is in itself an interesting one, I think it is\nworth continuing, particularly as I have myself worn this late eighteenth-\ncentury dress many times, both in public and in private, and so may claim\nto have a very positive right to speak on its comfort and suitability.\nThe particular form of the dress I wore was very similar to that given in\nMr. Godwin\'s handbook, from a print of Northcote\'s, and had a certain\nelegance and grace about it which was very charming; still, I gave it up\nfor these reasons:--After a further consideration of the laws of dress I\nsaw that a doublet is a far simpler and easier garment than a coat and\nwaistcoat, and, if buttoned from the shoulder, far warmer also, and that\ntails have no place in costume, except on some Darwinian theory of\nheredity; from absolute experience in the matter I found that the\nexcessive tightness of knee-breeches is not really comfortable if one\nwears them constantly; and, in fact, I satisfied myself that the dress is\nnot one founded on any real principles. The broad-brimmed hat and loose\ncloak, which, as my object was not, of course, historical accuracy but\nmodern ease, I had always worn with the costume in question, I have still\nretained, and find them most comfortable.\n\nWell, although Mr. Huyshe has no real experience of the dress he\nproposes, he gives us a drawing of it, which he labels, somewhat\nprematurely, \'An ideal dress.\' An ideal dress of course it is not;\n\'passably picturesque,\' he says I may possibly think it; well, passably\npicturesque it may be, but not beautiful, certainly, simply because it is\nnot founded on right principles, or, indeed, on any principles at all.\nPicturesqueness one may get in a variety of ways; ugly things that are\nstrange, or unfamiliar to us, for instance, may be picturesque, such as a\nlate sixteenth-century costume, or a Georgian house. Ruins, again, may\nbe picturesque, but beautiful they never can be, because their lines are\nmeaningless. Beauty, in fact, is to be got only from the perfection of\nprinciples; and in \'the ideal dress\' of Mr. Huyshe there are no ideas or\nprinciples at all, much less the perfection of either. Let us examine\nit, and see its faults; they are obvious to any one who desires more than\na \'Fancy-dress ball\' basis for costume. To begin with, the hat and boots\nare all wrong. Whatever one wears on the extremities, such as the feet\nand head, should, for the sake of comfort, be made of a soft material,\nand for the sake of freedom should take its shape from the way one\nchooses to wear it, and not from any stiff, stereotyped design of hat or\nboot maker. In a hat made on right principles one should be able to turn\nthe brim up or down according as the day is dark or fair, dry or wet; but\nthe hat brim of Mr. Huyshe\'s drawing is perfectly stiff, and does not\ngive much protection to the face, or the possibility of any at all to the\nback of the head or the ears, in case of a cold east wind; whereas the\nbycocket, a hat made in accordance with the right laws, can be turned\ndown behind and at the sides, and so give the same warmth as a hood. The\ncrown, again, of Mr. Huyshe\'s hat is far too high; a high crown\ndiminishes the stature of a small person, and in the case of any one who\nis tall is a great inconvenience when one is getting in and out of\nhansoms and railway carriages, or passing under a street awning: in no\ncase is it of any value whatsoever, and being useless it is of course\nagainst the principles of dress.\n\nAs regards the boots, they are not quite so ugly or so uncomfortable as\nthe hat; still they are evidently made of stiff leather, as otherwise\nthey would fall down to the ankle, whereas the boot should be made of\nsoft leather always, and if worn high at all must be either laced up the\nfront or carried well over the knee: in the latter case one combines\nperfect freedom for walking together with perfect protection against\nrain, neither of which advantages a short stiff boot will ever give one,\nand when one is resting in the house the long soft boot can be turned\ndown as the boot of 1640 was. Then there is the overcoat: now, what are\nthe right principles of an overcoat? To begin with, it should be capable\nof being easily put on or off, and worn over any kind of dress;\nconsequently it should never have narrow sleeves, such as are shown in\nMr. Huyshe\'s drawing. If an opening or slit for the arm is required it\nshould be made quite wide, and may be protected by a flap, as in that\nexcellent overall the modern Inverness cape; secondly, it should not be\ntoo tight, as otherwise all freedom of walking is impeded. If the young\ngentleman in the drawing buttons his overcoat he may succeed in being\nstatuesque, though that I doubt very strongly, but he will never succeed\nin being swift; his super-totus is made for him on no principle\nwhatsoever; a super-totus, or overall, should be capable of being worn\nlong or short, quite loose or moderately tight, just as the wearer\nwishes; he should be able to have one arm free and one arm covered, or\nboth arms free or both arms covered, just as he chooses for his\nconvenience in riding, walking, or driving; an overall again should never\nbe heavy, and should always be warm: lastly, it should be capable of\nbeing easily carried if one wants to take it off; in fact, its principles\nare those of freedom and comfort, and a cloak realises them all, just as\nmuch as an overcoat of the pattern suggested by Mr. Huyshe violates them.\n\nThe knee-breeches are of course far too tight; any one who has worn them\nfor any length of time--any one, in fact, whose views on the subject are\nnot purely theoretical--will agree with me there; like everything else in\nthe dress, they are a great mistake. The substitution of the jacket for\nthe coat and waistcoat of the period is a step in the right direction,\nwhich I am glad to see; it is, however, far too tight over the hips for\nany possible comfort. Whenever a jacket or doublet comes below the waist\nit should be slit at each side. In the seventeenth century the skirt of\nthe jacket was sometimes laced on by points and tags, so that it could be\nremoved at will, sometimes it was merely left open at the sides: in each\ncase it exemplified what are always the true principles of dress, I mean\nfreedom and adaptability to circumstances.\n\nFinally, as regards drawings of this kind, I would point out that there\nis absolutely no limit at all to the amount of \'passably picturesque\'\ncostumes which can be either revived or invented for us; but that unless\na costume is founded on principles and exemplified laws, it never can be\nof any real value to us in the reform of dress. This particular drawing\nof Mr. Huyshe\'s, for instance, proves absolutely nothing, except that our\ngrandfathers did not understand the proper laws of dress. There is not a\nsingle rule of right costume which is not violated in it, for it gives us\nstiffness, tightness and discomfort instead of comfort, freedom and ease.\n\nNow here, on the other hand, is a dress which, being founded on\nprinciples, can serve us as an excellent guide and model; it has been\ndrawn for me, most kindly, by Mr. Godwin from the Duke of Newcastle\'s\ndelightful book on horsemanship, a book which is one of our best\nauthorities on our best era of costume. I do not of course propose it\nnecessarily for absolute imitation; that is not the way in which one\nshould regard it; it is not, I mean, a revival of a dead costume, but a\nrealisation of living laws. I give it as an example of a particular\napplication of principles which are universally right. This rationally\ndressed young man can turn his hat brim down if it rains, and his loose\ntrousers and boots down if he is tired--that is, he can adapt his costume\nto circumstances; then he enjoys perfect freedom, the arms and legs are\nnot made awkward or uncomfortable by the excessive tightness of narrow\nsleeves and knee-breeches, and the hips are left quite untrammelled,\nalways an important point; and as regards comfort, his jacket is not too\nloose for warmth, nor too close for respiration; his neck is well\nprotected without being strangled, and even his ostrich feathers, if any\nPhilistine should object to them, are not merely dandyism, but fan him\nvery pleasantly, I am sure, in summer, and when the weather is bad they\nare no doubt left at home, and his cloak taken out. _The value of the\ndress is simply that every separate article of it expresses a law_. My\nyoung man is consequently apparelled with ideas, while Mr. Huyshe\'s young\nman is stiffened with facts; the latter teaches one nothing; from the\nformer one learns everything. I need hardly say that this dress is good,\nnot because it is seventeenth century, but because it is constructed on\nthe true principles of costume, just as a square lintel or a pointed arch\nis good, not because one may be Greek and the other Gothic, but because\neach of them is the best method of spanning a certain-sized opening, or\nresisting a certain weight. The fact, however, that this dress was\ngenerally worn in England two centuries and a half ago shows at least\nthis, that the right laws of dress have been understood and realised in\nour country, and so in our country may be realised and understood again.\nAs regards the absolute beauty of this dress and its meaning, I should\nlike to say a few words more. Mr. Wentworth Huyshe solemnly announces\nthat \'he and those who think with him\' cannot permit this question of\nbeauty to be imported into the question of dress; that he and those who\nthink with him take \'practical views on the subject,\' and so on. Well, I\nwill not enter here into a discussion as to how far any one who does not\ntake beauty and the value of beauty into account can claim to be\npractical at all. The word practical is nearly always the last refuge of\nthe uncivilised. Of all misused words it is the most evilly treated. But\nwhat I want to point out is that beauty is essentially organic; that is,\nit comes, not from without, but from within, not from any added\nprettiness, but from the perfection of its own being; and that\nconsequently, as the body is beautiful, so all apparel that rightly\nclothes it must be beautiful also in its construction and in its lines.\n\nI have no more desire to define ugliness than I have daring to define\nbeauty; but still I would like to remind those who mock at beauty as\nbeing an unpractical thing of this fact, that an ugly thing is merely a\nthing that is badly made, or a thing that does not serve its purpose;\nthat ugliness is want of fitness; that ugliness is failure; that ugliness\nis uselessness, such as ornament in the wrong place, while beauty, as\nsome one finely said, is the purgation of all superfluities. There is a\ndivine economy about beauty; it gives us just what is needful and no\nmore, whereas ugliness is always extravagant; ugliness is a spendthrift\nand wastes its material; in fine, ugliness--and I would commend this\nremark to Mr. Wentworth Huyshe--ugliness, as much in costume as in\nanything else, is always the sign that somebody has been unpractical. So\nthe costume of the future in England, if it is founded on the true laws\nof freedom, comfort, and adaptability to circumstances, cannot fail to be\nmost beautiful also, because beauty is the sign always of the rightness\nof principles, the mystical seal that is set upon what is perfect, and\nupon what is perfect only.\n\nAs for your other correspondent, the first principle of dress that all\ngarments should be hung from the shoulders and not from the waist seems\nto me to be generally approved of, although an \'Old Sailor\' declares that\nno sailors or athletes ever suspend their clothes from the shoulders, but\nalways from the hips. My own recollection of the river and running\nground at Oxford--those two homes of Hellenism in our little Gothic\ntown--is that the best runners and rowers (and my own college turned out\nmany) wore always a tight jersey, with short drawers attached to it, the\nwhole costume being woven in one piece. As for sailors it is true, I\nadmit, and the bad custom seems to involve that constant \'hitching up\' of\nthe lower garments which, however popular in transpontine dramas, cannot,\nI think, but be considered an extremely awkward habit; and as all\nawkwardness comes from discomfort of some kind, I trust that this point\nin our sailor\'s dress will be looked to in the coming reform of our navy,\nfor, in spite of all protests, I hope we are about to reform everything,\nfrom torpedoes to top-hats, and from crinolettes to cruises.\n\nThen as regards clogs, my suggestion of them seems to have aroused a\ngreat deal of terror. Fashion in her high-heeled boots has screamed, and\nthe dreadful word \'anachronism\' has been used. Now, whatever is useful\ncannot be an anachronism. Such a word is applicable only to the revival\nof some folly; and, besides, in the England of our own day clogs are\nstill worn in many of our manufacturing towns, such as Oldham. I fear\nthat in Oldham they may not be dreams of beauty; in Oldham the art of\ninlaying them with ivory and with pearl may possibly be unknown; yet in\nOldham they serve their purpose. Nor is it so long since they were worn\nby the upper classes of this country generally. Only a few days ago I\nhad the pleasure of talking to a lady who remembered with affectionate\nregret the clogs of her girlhood; they were, according to her, not too\nhigh nor too heavy, and were provided, besides, with some kind of spring\nin the sole so as to make them the more supple for the foot in walking.\nPersonally, I object to all additional height being given to a boot or\nshoe; it is really against the proper principles of dress, although, if\nany such height is to be given it should be by means of two props, not\none; but what I should prefer to see is some adaptation of the divided\nskirt or long and moderately loose knickerbockers. If, however, the\ndivided skirt is to be of any positive value, it must give up all idea of\n\'being identical in appearance with an ordinary skirt\'; it must diminish\nthe moderate width of each of its divisions, and sacrifice its foolish\nfrills and flounces; the moment it imitates a dress it is lost; but let\nit visibly announce itself as what it actually is, and it will go far\ntowards solving a real difficulty. I feel sure that there will be found\nmany graceful and charming girls ready to adopt a costume founded on\nthese principles, in spite of Mr. Wentworth Huyshe\'s terrible threat that\nhe will not propose to them as long as they wear it, for all charges of a\nwant of womanly character in these forms of dress are really meaningless;\nevery right article of apparel belongs equally to both sexes, and there\nis absolutely no such thing as a definitely feminine garment. One word\nof warning I should like to be allowed to give: The over-tunic should be\nmade full and moderately loose; it may, if desired, be shaped more or\nless to the figure, but in no case should it be confined at the waist by\nany straight band or belt; on the contrary, it should fall from the\nshoulder to the knee, or below it, in fine curves and vertical lines,\ngiving more freedom and consequently more grace. Few garments are so\nabsolutely unbecoming as a belted tunic that reaches to the knees, a fact\nwhich I wish some of our Rosalinds would consider when they don doublet\nand hose; indeed, to the disregard of this artistic principle is due the\nugliness, the want of proportion, in the Bloomer costume, a costume which\nin other respects is sensible.\n\n\n\n\nMR. WHISTLER\'S TEN O\'CLOCK\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 21, 1885.)\n\nLast night, at Prince\'s Hall, Mr. Whistler made his first public\nappearance as a lecturer on art, and spoke for more than an hour with\nreally marvellous eloquence on the absolute uselessness of all lectures\nof the kind. Mr. Whistler began his lecture with a very pretty aria on\nprehistoric history, describing how in earlier times hunter and warrior\nwould go forth to chase and foray, while the artist sat at home making\ncup and bowl for their service. Rude imitations of nature they were\nfirst, like the gourd bottle, till the sense of beauty and form developed\nand, in all its exquisite proportions, the first vase was fashioned. Then\ncame a higher civilisation of architecture and armchairs, and with\nexquisite design, and dainty diaper, the useful things of life were made\nlovely; and the hunter and the warrior lay on the couch when they were\ntired, and, when they were thirsty, drank from the bowl, and never cared\nto lose the exquisite proportion of the one, or the delightful ornament\nof the other; and this attitude of the primitive anthropophagous\nPhilistine formed the text of the lecture and was the attitude which Mr.\nWhistler entreated his audience to adopt towards art. Remembering, no\ndoubt, many charming invitations to wonderful private views, this\nfashionable assemblage seemed somewhat aghast, and not a little amused,\nat being told that the slightest appearance among a civilised people of\nany joy in beautiful things is a grave impertinence to all painters; but\nMr. Whistler was relentless, and, with charming ease and much grace of\nmanner, explained to the public that the only thing they should cultivate\nwas ugliness, and that on their permanent stupidity rested all the hopes\nof art in the future.\n\nThe scene was in every way delightful; he stood there, a miniature\nMephistopheles, mocking the majority! He was like a brilliant surgeon\nlecturing to a class composed of subjects destined ultimately for\ndissection, and solemnly assuring them how valuable to science their\nmaladies were, and how absolutely uninteresting the slightest symptoms of\nhealth on their part would be. In fairness to the audience, however, I\nmust say that they seemed extremely gratified at being rid of the\ndreadful responsibility of admiring anything, and nothing could have\nexceeded their enthusiasm when they were told by Mr. Whistler that no\nmatter how vulgar their dresses were, or how hideous their surroundings\nat home, still it was possible that a great painter, if there was such a\nthing, could, by contemplating them in the twilight and half closing his\neyes, see them under really picturesque conditions, and produce a picture\nwhich they were not to attempt to understand, much less dare to enjoy.\nThen there were some arrows, barbed and brilliant, shot off, with all the\nspeed and splendour of fireworks, and the archaeologists, who spend their\nlives in verifying the birthplaces of nobodies, and estimate the value of\na work of art by its date or its decay; at the art critics who always\ntreat a picture as if it were a novel, and try and find out the plot; at\ndilettanti in general and amateurs in particular; and (O mea culpa!) at\ndress reformers most of all. \'Did not Velasquez paint crinolines? What\nmore do you want?\'\n\nHaving thus made a holocaust of humanity, Mr. Whistler turned to nature,\nand in a few moments convicted her of the Crystal Palace, Bank holidays,\nand a general overcrowding of detail, both in omnibuses and in\nlandscapes, and then, in a passage of singular beauty, not unlike one\nthat occurs in Corot\'s letters, spoke of the artistic value of dim dawns\nand dusks, when the mean facts of life are lost in exquisite and\nevanescent effects, when common things are touched with mystery and\ntransfigured with beauty, when the warehouses become as palaces and the\ntall chimneys of the factory seem like campaniles in the silver air.\n\nFinally, after making a strong protest against anybody but a painter\njudging of painting, and a pathetic appeal to the audience not to be\nlured by the aesthetic movement into having beautiful things about them,\nMr. Whistler concluded his lecture with a pretty passage about Fusiyama\non a fan, and made his bow to an audience which he had succeeded in\ncompletely fascinating by his wit, his brilliant paradoxes, and, at\ntimes, his real eloquence. Of course, with regard to the value of\nbeautiful surroundings I differ entirely from Mr. Whistler. An artist is\nnot an isolated fact; he is the resultant of a certain milieu and a\ncertain entourage, and can no more be born of a nation that is devoid of\nany sense of beauty than a fig can grow from a thorn or a rose blossom\nfrom a thistle. That an artist will find beauty in ugliness, le beau\ndans l\'horrible, is now a commonplace of the schools, the argot of the\natelier, but I strongly deny that charming people should be condemned to\nlive with magenta ottomans and Albert-blue curtains in their rooms in\norder that some painter may observe the side-lights on the one and the\nvalues of the other. Nor do I accept the dictum that only a painter is a\njudge of painting. I say that only an artist is a judge of art; there is\na wide difference. As long as a painter is a painter merely, he should\nnot be allowed to talk of anything but mediums and megilp, and on those\nsubjects should be compelled to hold his tongue; it is only when he\nbecomes an artist that the secret laws of artistic creation are revealed\nto him. For there are not many arts, but one art merely--poem, picture\nand Parthenon, sonnet and statue--all are in their essence the same, and\nhe who knows one knows all. But the poet is the supreme artist, for he\nis the master of colour and of form, and the real musician besides, and\nis lord over all life and all arts; and so to the poet beyond all others\nare these mysteries known; to Edgar Allan Poe and to Baudelaire, not to\nBenjamin West and Paul Delaroche. However, I should not enjoy anybody\nelse\'s lectures unless in a few points I disagreed with them, and Mr.\nWhistler\'s lecture last night was, like everything that he does, a\nmasterpiece. Not merely for its clever satire and amusing jests will it\nbe remembered, but for the pure and perfect beauty of many of its\npassages--passages delivered with an earnestness which seemed to amaze\nthose who had looked on Mr. Whistler as a master of persiflage merely,\nand had not known him as we do, as a master of painting also. For that\nhe is indeed one of the very greatest masters of painting is my opinion.\nAnd I may add that in this opinion Mr. Whistler himself entirely concurs.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF DRESS TO ART: A NOTE IN BLACK AND WHITE ON MR. WHISTLER\'S\nLECTURE\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, February 28, 1885.)\n\n\'How can you possibly paint these ugly three-cornered hats?\' asked a\nreckless art critic once of Sir Joshua Reynolds. \'I see light and shade\nin them,\' answered the artist. \'Les grands coloristes,\' says Baudelaire,\nin a charming article on the artistic value of frock coats, \'les grands\ncoloristes savent faire de la couleur avec un habit noir, une cravate\nblanche, et un fond gris.\'\n\n\'Art seeks and finds the beautiful in all times, as did her high priest\nRembrandt, when he saw the picturesque grandeur of the Jews\' quarter of\nAmsterdam, and lamented not that its inhabitants were not Greeks,\' were\nthe fine and simple words used by Mr. Whistler in one of the most\nvaluable passages of his lecture. The most valuable, that is, to the\npainter: for there is nothing of which the ordinary English painter needs\nmore to be reminded than that the true artist does not wait for life to\nbe made picturesque for him, but sees life under picturesque conditions\nalways--under conditions, that is to say, which are at once new and\ndelightful. But between the attitude of the painter towards the public\nand the attitude of a people towards art, there is a wide difference.\nThat, under certain conditions of light and shade, what is ugly in fact\nmay in its effect become beautiful, is true; and this, indeed, is the\nreal modernite of art: but these conditions are exactly what we cannot be\nalways sure of, as we stroll down Piccadilly in the glaring vulgarity of\nthe noonday, or lounge in the park with a foolish sunset as a background.\nWere we able to carry our chiaroscuro about with us, as we do our\numbrellas, all would be well; but this being impossible, I hardly think\nthat pretty and delightful people will continue to wear a style of dress\nas ugly as it is useless and as meaningless as it is monstrous, even on\nthe chance of such a master as Mr. Whistler spiritualising them into a\nsymphony or refining them into a mist. For the arts are made for life,\nand not life for the arts.\n\nNor do I feel quite sure that Mr. Whistler has been himself always true\nto the dogma he seems to lay down, that a painter should paint only the\ndress of his age and of his actual surroundings: far be it from me to\nburden a butterfly with the heavy responsibility of its past: I have\nalways been of opinion that consistency is the last refuge of the\nunimaginative: but have we not all seen, and most of us admired, a\npicture from his hand of exquisite English girls strolling by an opal sea\nin the fantastic dresses of Japan? Has not Tite Street been thrilled\nwith the tidings that the models of Chelsea were posing to the master, in\npeplums, for pastels?\n\nWhatever comes from Mr Whistler\'s brush is far too perfect in its\nloveliness to stand or fall by any intellectual dogmas on art, even by\nhis own: for Beauty is justified of all her children, and cares nothing\nfor explanations: but it is impossible to look through any collection of\nmodern pictures in London, from Burlington House to the Grosvenor\nGallery, without feeling that the professional model is ruining painting\nand reducing it to a condition of mere pose and pastiche.\n\nAre we not all weary of him, that venerable impostor fresh from the steps\nof the Piazza di Spagna, who, in the leisure moments that he can spare\nfrom his customary organ, makes the round of the studios and is waited\nfor in Holland Park? Do we not all recognise him, when, with the gay\ninsouciance of his nation, he reappears on the walls of our summer\nexhibitions as everything that he is not, and as nothing that he is,\nglaring at us here as a patriarch of Canaan, here beaming as a brigand\nfrom the Abruzzi? Popular is he, this poor peripatetic professor of\nposing, with those whose joy it is to paint the posthumous portrait of\nthe last philanthropist who in his lifetime had neglected to be\nphotographed,--yet he is the sign of the decadence, the symbol of decay.\n\nFor all costumes are caricatures. The basis of Art is not the Fancy\nBall. Where there is loveliness of dress, there is no dressing up. And\nso, were our national attire delightful in colour, and in construction\nsimple and sincere; were dress the expression of the loveliness that it\nshields and of the swiftness and motion that it does not impede; did its\nlines break from the shoulder instead of bulging from the waist; did the\ninverted wineglass cease to be the ideal of form; were these things\nbrought about, as brought about they will be, then would painting be no\nlonger an artificial reaction against the ugliness of life, but become,\nas it should be, the natural expression of life\'s beauty. Nor would\npainting merely, but all the other arts also, be the gainers by a change\nsuch as that which I propose; the gainers, I mean, through the increased\natmosphere of Beauty by which the artists would be surrounded and in\nwhich they would grow up. For Art is not to be taught in Academies. It\nis what one looks at, not what one listens to, that makes the artist. The\nreal schools should be the streets. There is not, for instance, a single\ndelicate line, or delightful proportion, in the dress of the Greeks,\nwhich is not echoed exquisitely in their architecture. A nation arrayed\nin stove-pipe hats and dress-improvers might have built the Pantechnichon\npossibly, but the Parthenon never. And finally, there is this to be\nsaid: Art, it is true, can never have any other claim but her own\nperfection, and it may be that the artist, desiring merely to contemplate\nand to create, is wise in not busying himself about change in others: yet\nwisdom is not always the best; there are times when she sinks to the\nlevel of common-sense; and from the passionate folly of those--and there\nare many--who desire that Beauty shall be confined no longer to the bric-\na-brac of the collector and the dust of the museum, but shall be, as it\nshould be, the natural and national inheritance of all,--from this noble\nunwisdom, I say, who knows what new loveliness shall be given to life,\nand, under these more exquisite conditions, what perfect artist born? Le\nmilieu se renouvelant, l\'art se renouvelle.\n\nSpeaking, however, from his own passionless pedestal, Mr. Whistler, in\npointing out that the power of the painter is to be found in his power of\nvision, not in his cleverness of hand, has expressed a truth which needed\nexpression, and which, coming from the lord of form and colour, cannot\nfail to have its influence. His lecture, the Apocrypha though it be for\nthe people, yet remains from this time as the Bible for the painter, the\nmasterpiece of masterpieces, the song of songs. It is true he has\npronounced the panegyric of the Philistine, but I fancy Ariel praising\nCaliban for a jest: and, in that he has read the Commination Service over\nthe critics, let all men thank him, the critics themselves, indeed, most\nof all, for he has now relieved them from the necessity of a tedious\nexistence. Considered, again, merely as an orator, Mr. Whistler seems to\nme to stand almost alone. Indeed, among all our public speakers I know\nbut few who can combine so felicitously as he does the mirth and malice\nof Puck with the style of the minor prophets.\n\n\n\n\nKEATS\'S SONNET ON BLUE\n\n\n(Century Guild Hobby Horse, July 1886.)\n\nDuring my tour in America I happened one evening to find myself in\nLouisville, Kentucky. The subject I had selected to speak on was the\nMission of Art in the Nineteenth Century, and in the course of my lecture\nI had occasion to quote Keats\'s Sonnet on Blue as an example of the\npoet\'s delicate sense of colour-harmonies. When my lecture was concluded\nthere came round to see me a lady of middle age, with a sweet gentle\nmanner and a most musical voice. She introduced herself to me as Mrs.\nSpeed, the daughter of George Keats, and invited me to come and examine\nthe Keats manuscripts in her possession. I spent most of the next day\nwith her, reading the letters of Keats to her father, some of which were\nat that time unpublished, poring over torn yellow leaves and faded scraps\nof paper, and wondering at the little Dante in which Keats had written\nthose marvellous notes on Milton. Some months afterwards, when I was in\nCalifornia, I received a letter from Mrs. Speed asking my acceptance of\nthe original manuscript of the sonnet which I had quoted in my lecture.\nThis manuscript I have had reproduced here, as it seems to me to possess\nmuch psychological interest. It shows us the conditions that preceded\nthe perfected form, the gradual growth, not of the conception but of the\nexpression, and the workings of that spirit of selection which is the\nsecret of style. In the case of poetry, as in the case of the other\narts, what may appear to be simply technicalities of method are in their\nessence spiritual, not mechanical, and although, in all lovely work, what\nconcerns us is the ultimate form, not the conditions that necessitate\nthat form, yet the preference that precedes perfection, the evolution of\nthe beauty, and the mere making of the music, have, if not their artistic\nvalue, at least their value to the artist.\n\nIt will be remembered that this sonnet was first published in 1848 by\nLord Houghton in his Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats.\nLord Houghton does not definitely state where he found it, but it was\nprobably among the Keats manuscripts belonging to Mr. Charles Brown. It\nis evidently taken from a version later than that in my possession, as it\naccepts all the corrections, and makes three variations. As in my\nmanuscript the first line is torn away, I give the sonnet here as it\nappears in Lord Houghton\'s edition.\n\n ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:\n\n Dark eyes are dearer far\n Than those that make the hyacinthine bell. {74}\n\n By J. H. REYNOLDS.\n\n Blue! \'Tis the life of heaven,--the domain\n Of Cynthia,--the wide palace of the sun,--\n The tent of Hesperus and all his train,--\n The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun.\n Blue! \'Tis the life of waters--ocean\n And all its vassal streams: pools numberless\n May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can\n Subside if not to dark-blue nativeness.\n Blue! gentle cousin of the forest green,\n Married to green in all the sweetest flowers,\n Forget-me-not,--the blue-bell,--and, that queen\n Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers\n Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,\n When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!\n\n Feb. 1818.\n\nIn the Athenaeum of the 3rd of June 1876, appeared a letter from Mr. A.\nJ. Horwood, stating that he had in his possession a copy of The Garden of\nFlorence in which this sonnet was transcribed. Mr. Horwood, who was\nunaware that the sonnet had been already published by Lord Houghton,\ngives the transcript at length. His version reads hue for life in the\nfirst line, and bright for wide in the second, and gives the sixth line\nthus:\n\n With all his tributary streams, pools numberless,\n\na foot too long: it also reads to for of in the ninth line. Mr. Buxton\nForman is of opinion that these variations are decidedly genuine, but\nindicative of an earlier state of the poem than that adopted in Lord\nHoughton\'s edition. However, now that we have before us Keats\'s first\ndraft of his sonnet, it is difficult to believe that the sixth line in\nMr. Horwood\'s version is really a genuine variation. Keats may have\nwritten,\n\n Ocean\n His tributary streams, pools numberless,\n\nand the transcript may have been carelessly made, but having got his line\nright in his first draft, Keats probably did not spoil it in his second.\nThe Athenaeum version inserts a comma after art in the last line, which\nseems to me a decided improvement, and eminently characteristic of\nKeats\'s method. I am glad to see that Mr. Buxton Forman has adopted it.\n\nAs for the corrections that Lord Houghton\'s version shows Keats to have\nmade in the eighth and ninth lines of this sonnet, it is evident that\nthey sprang from Keats\'s reluctance to repeat the same word in\nconsecutive lines, except in cases where a word\'s music or meaning was to\nbe emphasised. The substitution of \'its\' for \'his\' in the sixth line is\nmore difficult of explanation. It was due probably to a desire on\nKeats\'s part not to mar by any echo the fine personification of Hesperus.\n\nIt may be noticed that Keats\'s own eyes were brown, and not blue, as\nstated by Mrs. Proctor to Lord Houghton. Mrs. Speed showed me a note to\nthat effect written by Mrs. George Keats on the margin of the page in\nLord Houghton\'s Life (p. 100, vol. i.), where Mrs. Proctor\'s description\nis given. Cowden Clarke made a similar correction in his Recollections,\nand in some of the later editions of Lord Houghton\'s book the word \'blue\'\nis struck out. In Severn\'s portraits of Keats also the eyes are given as\nbrown.\n\nThe exquisite sense of colour expressed in the ninth and tenth lines may\nbe paralleled by\n\n The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,\n\nof the sonnet to George Keats.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN INVASION\n\n\n(Court and Society Review, March 23, 1887.)\n\nA terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their future\nand their reputation this season depend entirely on the success of\nBuffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is certain to draw; for\nEnglish people are far more interested in American barbarism than they\nare in American civilisation. When they sight Sandy Hook they look to\ntheir rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico\'s, start\noff for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park.\nRocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been\nknown to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities of\nAmerica are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learning\ntoo sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an\natmosphere; their \'Hub,\' as they call it, is the paradise of prigs.\nChicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores. Political\nlife at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimore\nis amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and\nthough one can dine in New York one could not dwell there. Better the\nFar West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cow-boys, its free open-\nair life and its free open-air manners, its boundless prairie and its\nboundless mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to\nLondon; and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his show.\n\nWith regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered\nabsolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really no\nreason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June by\nher merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not--to borrow an\nexpression from her native language--make a big boom and paint the town\nred. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole, the American\ninvasion has done English society a great deal of good. American women\nare bright, clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan. Their patriotic\nfeelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the\nElevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunkers\nHill. They take their dresses from Paris and their manners from\nPiccadilly, and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a\ndelightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid\ncompliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. For\nour aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and are\na permanent blow to Republican principles. In the art of amusing men\nthey are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell a\nstory without forgetting the point--an accomplishment that is extremely\nrare among the women of other countries. It is true that they lack\nrepose and that their voices are somewhat harsh and strident when they\nland first at Liverpool; but after a time one gets to love these pretty\nwhirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society and are\nso agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is something\nfascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and their petulant way\nof tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic nor mystery in them, but\nthey challenge us for combat; and when we engage we are always worsted.\nTheir lips seem made for laughter and yet they never grimace. As for\ntheir voices, they soon get them into tune. Some of them have been known\nto acquire a fashionable drawl in two seasons; and after they have been\npresented to Royalty they all roll their R\'s as vigorously as a young\nequerry or an old lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their\naccent; it keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter\ntogether they are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing than\nto watch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room or in\nthe Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato cries of\nwonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation sounds like a\nseries of exploding crackers; they are exquisitely incoherent and use a\nsort of primitive, emotional language. After five minutes they are left\nbeautifully breathless and look at each other half in amusement and half\nin affection. If a stolid young Englishman is fortunate enough to be\nintroduced to them he is amazed at their extraordinary vivacity, their\nelectric quickness of repartee, their inexhaustible store of curious\ncatchwords. He never really understands them, for their thoughts flutter\nabout with the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased\nand amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole, American\ngirls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the chief secret of their\ncharm is that they never talk seriously except about amusements. They\nhave, however, one grave fault--their mothers. Dreary as were those old\nPilgrim Fathers who left our shores more than two centuries ago to found\na New England beyond seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to us in\nthe nineteenth century are drearier still.\n\nHere and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class they are\neither dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the rising\ngeneration of America to state that they are not to blame for this.\nIndeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their parents properly and\nto give them a suitable, if somewhat late, education. From its earliest\nyears every American child spends most of its time in correcting the\nfaults of its father and mother; and no one who has had the opportunity\nof watching an American family on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in\nthe refined seclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail to have been\nstruck by this characteristic of their civilisation. In America the\nyoung are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the\nfull benefits of their inexperience. A boy of only eleven or twelve\nyears of age will firmly but kindly point out to his father his defects\nof manner or temper; will never weary of warning him against\nextravagance, idleness, late hours, unpunctuality, and the other\ntemptations to which the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes,\nshould he fancy that he is monopolising too much of the conversation at\ndinner, will remind him, across the table, of the new child\'s adage,\n\'Parents should be seen, not heard.\' Nor does any mistaken idea of\nkindness prevent the little American girl from censuring her mother\nwhenever it is necessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed\nin the presence of others is more truly efficacious than one merely\nwhispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention of\nperfect strangers to her mother\'s general untidiness, her want of\nintellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and green\ncorn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the usages of the\nbest Baltimore society, bodily ailments and the like. In fact, it may be\ntruly said that no American child is ever blind to the deficiencies of\nits parents, no matter how much it may love them.\n\nYet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as it\ndeserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the children\nhad to deal was crude and incapable of real development; but the fact\nremains that the American mother is a tedious person. The American\nfather is better, for he is never seen in London. He passes his life\nentirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by\nmeans of a telegram in cipher. The mother, however, is always with us,\nand, lacking the quick imitative faculty of the younger generation,\nremains uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her,\nhowever, the American girl is always welcome. She brightens our dull\ndinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. In\nthe race for coronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she has\ngained the victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivals\neverything, even their beauty.\n\nWarned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow old\ngracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often succeeds. She has\nexquisite feet and hands, is always bien chaussee et bien gantee and can\ntalk brilliantly upon any subject, provided that she knows nothing about\nit.\n\nHer sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy of a grande passion, and,\nas there is neither romance nor humility in her love, she makes an\nexcellent wife. What her ultimate influence on English life will be it\nis difficult to estimate at present; but there can be no doubt that, of\nall the factors that have contributed to the social revolution of London,\nthere are few more important, and none more delightful, than the American\nInvasion.\n\n\n\n\nSERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY: THE NEW SCULPTURE ROOM AT THE BRITISH\nMUSEUM\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 15, 1887.)\n\nThrough the exertions of Sir Charles Newton, to whom every student of\nclassic art should be grateful, some of the wonderful treasures so long\nimmured in the grimy vaults of the British Museum have at last been\nbrought to light, and the new Sculpture Room now opened to the public\nwill amply repay the trouble of a visit, even from those to whom art is a\nstumbling-block and a rock of offence. For setting aside the mere beauty\nof form, outline and mass, the grace and loveliness of design and the\ndelicacy of technical treatment, here we have shown to us what the Greeks\nand Romans thought about death; and the philosopher, the preacher, the\npractical man of the world, and even the Philistine himself, cannot fail\nto be touched by these \'sermons in stones,\' with their deep significance,\ntheir fertile suggestion, their plain humanity. Common tombstones they\nare, most of them, the work not of famous artists but of simple\nhandicraftsmen, only they were wrought in days when every handicraft was\nan art. The finest specimens, from the purely artistic point of view,\nare undoubtedly the two stelai found at Athens. They are both the\ntombstones of young Greek athletes. In one the athlete is represented\nhanding his strigil to his slave, in the other the athlete stands alone,\nstrigil in hand. They do not belong to the greatest period of Greek art,\nthey have not the grand style of the Phidian age, but they are beautiful\nfor all that, and it is impossible not to be fascinated by their\nexquisite grace and by the treatment which is so simple in its means, so\nsubtle in its effect. All the tombstones, however, are full of interest.\nHere is one of two ladies of Smyrna who were so remarkable in their day\nthat the city voted them honorary crowns; here is a Greek doctor\nexamining a little boy who is suffering from indigestion; here is the\nmemorial of Xanthippus who, probably, was a martyr to gout, as he is\nholding in his hand the model of a foot, intended, no doubt, as a votive\noffering to some god. A lovely stele from Rhodes gives us a family\ngroup. The husband is on horseback and is bidding farewell to his wife,\nwho seems as if she would follow him but is being held back by a little\nchild. The pathos of parting from those we love is the central motive of\nGreek funeral art. It is repeated in every possible form, and each mute\nmarble stone seems to murmur [Greek]. Roman art is different. It\nintroduces vigorous and realistic portraiture and deals with pure family\nlife far more frequently than Greek art does. They are very ugly, those\nstern-looking Roman men and women whose portraits are exhibited on their\ntombs, but they seem to have been loved and respected by their children\nand their servants. Here is the monument of Aphrodisius and Atilia, a\nRoman gentleman and his wife, who died in Britain many centuries ago, and\nwhose tombstone was found in the Thames; and close by it stands a stele\nfrom Rome with the busts of an old married couple who are certainly\nmarvellously ill-favoured. The contrast between the abstract Greek\ntreatment of the idea of death and the Roman concrete realisation of the\nindividuals who have died is extremely curious.\n\nBesides the tombstones, the new Sculpture Room contains some most\nfascinating examples of Roman decorative art under the Emperors. The\nmost wonderful of all, and this alone is worth a trip to Bloomsbury, is a\nbas-relief representing a marriage scene. Juno Pronuba is joining the\nhands of a handsome young noble and a very stately lady. There is all\nthe grace of Perugino in this marble, all the grace of Raphael even. The\ndate of it is uncertain, but the particular cut of the bridegroom\'s beard\nseems to point to the time of the Emperor Hadrian. It is clearly the\nwork of Greek artists and is one of the most beautiful bas-reliefs in the\nwhole Museum. There is something in it which reminds one of the music\nand the sweetness of Propertian verse. Then we have delightful friezes\nof children. One representing children playing on musical instruments\nmight have suggested much of the plastic art of Florence. Indeed, as we\nview these marbles it is not difficult to see whence the Renaissance\nsprang and to what we owe the various forms of Renaissance art. The\nfrieze of the Muses, each of whom wears in her hair a feather plucked\nfrom the wings of the vanquished sirens, is extremely fine; there is a\nlovely little bas-relief of two cupids racing in chariots; and the frieze\nof recumbent Amazons has some splendid qualities of design. A frieze of\nchildren playing with the armour of the god Mars should also be\nmentioned. It is full of fancy and delicate humour.\n\nOn the whole, Sir Charles Newton and Mr. Murray are warmly to be\ncongratulated on the success of the new room. We hope, however, that\nsome more of the hidden treasures will shortly be catalogued and shown.\nIn the vaults at present there is a very remarkable bas-relief of the\nmarriage of Cupid and Psyche, and another representing the professional\nmourners weeping over the body of the dead. The fine cast of the Lion of\nChaeronea should also be brought up, and so should the stele with the\nmarvellous portrait of the Roman slave. Economy is an excellent public\nvirtue, but the parsimony that allows valuable works of art to remain in\nthe grime and gloom of a damp cellar is little short of a detestable\npublic vice.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNITY OF THE ARTS: A LECTURE AND A FIVE O\'CLOCK\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 12, 1887.)\n\nLast Saturday afternoon, at Willis\'s Rooms, Mr. Selwyn Image delivered\nthe first of a series of four lectures on Modern Art before a select and\ndistinguished audience. The chief point on which he dwelt was the\nabsolute unity of all the arts and, in order to convey this idea, he\nframed a definition wide enough to include Shakespeare\'s King Lear and\nMichael Angelo\'s Creation, Paul Veronese\'s picture of Alexander and\nDarius, and Gibbon\'s description of the entry of Heliogabalus into Rome.\nAll these he regarded as so many expressions of man\'s thoughts and\nemotions on fine things, conveyed through visible or audible modes; and\nstarting from this point he approached the question of the true relation\nof literature to painting, always keeping in view the central motive of\nhis creed, Credo in unam artem multipartitam, indivisibilem, and dwelling\non resemblances rather than differences. The result at which he\nultimately arrived was this: the Impressionists, with their frank\nartistic acceptance of form and colour as things absolutely satisfying in\nthemselves, have produced very beautiful work, but painting has something\nmore to give us than the mere visible aspect of things. The lofty\nspiritual visions of William Blake, and the marvellous romance of Dante\nGabriel Rossetti, can find their perfect expression in painting; every\nmood has its colour and every dream has its form. The chief quality of\nMr. Image\'s lecture was its absolute fairness, but this was, to a certain\nportion of the audience, its chief defect. \'Sweet reasonableness,\' said\none, \'is always admirable in a spectator, but from a leader we want\nsomething more.\' \'It is only an auctioneer who should admire all schools\nof art,\' said another; while a third sighed over what he called \'the\nfatal sterility of the judicial mind,\' and expressed a perfectly\ngroundless fear that the Century Guild was becoming rational. For, with\na courtesy and a generosity that we strongly recommend to other\nlecturers, Mr. Image provided refreshments for his audience after his\naddress was over, and it was extremely interesting to listen to the\nvarious opinions expressed by the great Five-o\'clock-tea School of\nCriticism which was largely represented. For our own part, we found Mr.\nImage\'s lecture extremely suggestive. It was sometimes difficult to\nunderstand in what exact sense he was using the word \'literary,\' and we\ndo not think that a course of drawing from the plaster cast of the Dying\nGaul would in the slightest degree improve the ordinary art critic. The\ntrue unity of the arts is to be found, not in any resemblance of one art\nto another, but in the fact that to the really artistic nature all the\narts have the same message and speak the same language though with\ndifferent tongues. No amount of daubing on a cellar wall will make a man\nunderstand the mystery of Michael Angelo\'s Sybils, nor is it necessary to\nwrite a blank verse drama before one can appreciate the beauty of Hamlet.\nIt is essential that an art critic should have a nature receptive of\nbeautiful impressions, and sufficient intuition to recognise style when\nhe meets with it, and truth when it is shown to him; but, if he does not\npossess these qualities, a reckless career of water-colour painting will\nnot give them to him, for, if from the incompetent critic all things be\nhidden, to the bad painter nothing shall be revealed.\n\n\n\n\nART AT WILLIS\'S ROOMS\n\n\n(Sunday Times, December 25, 1887.)\n\nAccepting a suggestion made by a friendly critic last week, Mr. Selwyn\nImage began his second lecture by explaining more fully what he meant by\nliterary art, and pointed out the difference between an ordinary\nillustration to a book and such creative and original works as Michael\nAngelo\'s fresco of The Expulsion from Eden and Rossetti\'s Beata Beatrix.\nIn the latter case the artist treats literature as if it were life\nitself, and gives a new and delightful form to what seer or singer has\nshown us; in the former we have merely a translation which misses the\nmusic and adds no marvel. As for subject, Mr. Image protested against\nthe studio-slang that no subject is necessary, defining subject as the\nthought, emotion or impression which a man desires to embody in form and\ncolour, and admitting Mr. Whistler\'s fireworks as readily as Giotto\'s\nangels, and Van Huysum\'s roses no less than Mantegna\'s gods. Here, we\nthink that Mr. Image might have pointed out more clearly the contrast\nbetween the purely pictorial subject and the subject that includes among\nits elements such things as historical associations or poetic memories;\nthe contrast, in fact, between impressive art and the art that is\nexpressive also. However, the topics he had to deal with were so varied\nthat it was, no doubt, difficult for him to do more than suggest. From\nsubject he passed to style, which he described as \'that masterful but\nrestrained individuality of manner by which one artist is differentiated\nfrom another.\' The true qualities of style he found in restraint which\nis submission to law; simplicity which is unity of vision; and severity,\nfor le beau est toujours severe.\n\nThe realist he defined as one who aims at reproducing the external\nphenomena of nature, while the idealist is the man who \'imagines things\nof fine interest.\' Yet, while he defined them he would not separate\nthem. The true artist is a realist, for he recognises an external world\nof truth; an idealist, for he has selection, abstraction and the power of\nindividualisation. To stand apart from the world of nature is fatal, but\nit is no less fatal merely to reproduce facts.\n\nArt, in a word, must not content itself simply with holding the mirror up\nto nature, for it is a re-creation more than a reflection, and not a\nrepetition but rather a new song. As for finish, it must not be confused\nwith elaboration. A picture, said Mr. Image, is finished when the means\nof form and colour employed by the artist are adequate to convey the\nartist\'s intention; and, with this definition and a peroration suitable\nto the season, he concluded his interesting and intellectual lecture.\n\nLight refreshments were then served to the audience, and the five-o\'clock-\ntea school of criticism came very much to the front. Mr. Image\'s entire\nfreedom from dogmatism and self-assertion was in some quarters rather\nseverely commented on, and one young gentleman declared that such\nvirtuous modesty as the lecturer\'s might easily become a most vicious\nmannerism. Everybody, however, was extremely pleased to learn that it is\nno longer the duty of art to hold the mirror up to nature, and the few\nPhilistines who dissented from this view received that most terrible of\nall punishments--the contempt of the highly cultured.\n\nMr. Image\'s third lecture will be delivered on January 21 and will, no\ndoubt, be largely attended, as the subjects advertised are full of\ninterest, and though \'sweet reasonableness\' may not convert, it always\ncharms.\n\n\n\n\nMR. MORRIS ON TAPESTRY\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 2, 1888.)\n\nYesterday evening Mr. William Morris delivered a most interesting and\nfascinating lecture on Carpet and Tapestry Weaving at the Arts and Crafts\nExhibition now held at the New Gallery. Mr. Morris had small practical\nmodels of the two looms used, the carpet loom where the weaver sits in\nfront of his work; the more elaborate tapestry loom where the weaver sits\nbehind, at the back of the stuff, has his design outlined on the upright\nthreads and sees in a mirror the shadow of the pattern and picture as it\ngrows gradually to perfection. He spoke at much length on the question\nof dyes--praising madder and kermes for reds, precipitate of iron or\nochre for yellows, and for blue either indigo or woad. At the back of\nthe platform hung a lovely Flemish tapestry of the fourteenth century,\nand a superb Persian carpet about two hundred and fifty years old. Mr.\nMorris pointed out the loveliness of the carpet--its delicate suggestion\nof hawthorn blossom, iris and rose, its rejection of imitation and\nshading; and showed how it combined the great quality of decorative\ndesign--being at once clear and well defined in form: each outline\nexquisitely traced, each line deliberate in its intention and its beauty,\nand the whole effect being one of unity, of harmony, almost of mystery,\nthe colours being so perfectly harmonised together and the little bright\nnotes of colour being so cunningly placed either for tone or brilliancy.\n\nTapestries, he said, were to the North of Europe what fresco was to the\nSouth--our climate, amongst other reasons, guiding us in our choice of\nmaterial for wall-covering. England, France, and Flanders were the three\ngreat tapestry countries--Flanders with its great wool trade being the\nfirst in splendid colours and superb Gothic design. The keynote of\ntapestry, the secret of its loveliness, was, he told the audience, the\ncomplete filling up of every corner and square inch of surface with\nlovely and fanciful and suggestive design. Hence the wonder of those\ngreat Gothic tapestries where the forest trees rise in different places,\none over the other, each leaf perfect in its shape and colour and\ndecorative value, while in simple raiment of beautiful design knights and\nladies wandered in rich flower gardens, and rode with hawk on wrist\nthrough long green arcades, and sat listening to lute and viol in blossom-\nstarred bowers or by cool gracious water springs. Upon the other hand,\nwhen the Gothic feeling died away, and Boucher and others began to\ndesign, they gave us wide expanses of waste sky, elaborate perspective,\nposing nymphs and shallow artificial treatment. Indeed, Boucher met with\nscant mercy at Mr. Morris\'s vigorous hands and was roundly abused, and\nmodern Gobelins, with M. Bougereau\'s cartoons, fared no better.\n\nMr. Morris told some delightful stories about old tapestry work from the\ndays when in the Egyptian tombs the dead were laid wrapped in picture\ncloths, some of which are now in the South Kensington Museum, to the time\nof the great Turk Bajazet who, having captured some Christian knights,\nwould accept nothing for their ransom but the \'storied tapestries of\nFrance\' and gerfalcons. As regards the use of tapestry in modern days,\nhe pointed out that we were richer than the middle ages, and so should be\nbetter able to afford this form of lovely wall-covering, which for\nartistic tone is absolutely without rival. He said that the very\nlimitation of material and form forced the imaginative designer into\ngiving us something really beautiful and decorative. \'What is the use of\nsetting an artist in a twelve-acre field and telling him to design a\nhouse? Give him a limited space and he is forced by its limitation to\nconcentrate, and to fill with pure loveliness the narrow surface at his\ndisposal.\' The worker also gives to the original design a very perfect\nrichness of detail, and the threads with their varying colours and\ndelicate reflections convey into the work a new source of delight. Here,\nhe said, we found perfect unity between the imaginative artist and the\nhandicraftsman. The one was not too free, the other was not a slave. The\neye of the artist saw, his brain conceived, his imagination created, but\nthe hand of the weaver had also its opportunity for wonderful work, and\ndid not copy what was already made, but re-created and put into a new and\ndelightful form a design that for its perfection needed the loom to aid,\nand had to pass into a fresh and marvellous material before its beauty\ncame to its real flower and blossom of absolutely right expression and\nartistic effect. But, said Mr. Morris in conclusion, to have great work\nwe must be worthy of it. Commercialism, with its vile god cheapness, its\ncallous indifference to the worker, its innate vulgarity of temper, is\nour enemy. To gain anything good we must sacrifice something of our\nluxury--must think more of others, more of the State, the commonweal: \'We\ncannot have riches and wealth both,\' he said; we must choose between\nthem.\n\nThe lecture was listened to with great attention by a very large and\ndistinguished audience, and Mr. Morris was loudly applauded.\n\nThe next lecture will be on Sculpture by Mr. George Simonds, and if it is\nhalf so good as Mr. Morris it will well repay a visit to the\nlecture-room. Mr. Crane deserves great credit for his exertions in\nmaking this exhibition what it should be, and there is no doubt but that\nit will exercise an important and a good influence on all the handicrafts\nof our country.\n\n\n\n\nSCULPTURE AT THE ARTS AND CRAFTS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 9, 1888.)\n\nThe most satisfactory thing in Mr. Simonds\' lecture last night was the\nperoration, in which he told the audience that \'an artist cannot be\nmade.\' But for this well-timed warning some deluded people might have\ngone away under the impression that sculpture was a sort of mechanical\nprocess within the reach of the meanest capabilities. For it must be\nconfessed that Mr. Simonds\' lecture was at once too elementary and too\nelaborately technical. The ordinary art student, even the ordinary\nstudio-loafer, could not have learned anything from it, while the\n\'cultured person,\' of whom there were many specimens present, could not\nbut have felt a little bored at the careful and painfully clear\ndescriptions given by the lecturer of very well-known and uninteresting\nmethods of work. However, Mr. Simonds did his best. He described\nmodelling in clay and wax; casting in plaster and in metal; how to\nenlarge and how to diminish to scale; bas-reliefs and working in the\nround; the various kinds of marble, their qualities and characteristics;\nhow to reproduce in marble the plaster or clay bust; how to use the\npoint, the drill, the wire and the chisel; and the various difficulties\nattending each process. He exhibited a clay bust of Mr. Walter Crane on\nwhich he did some elementary work; a bust of Mr. Parsons; a small\nstatuette; several moulds, and an interesting diagram of the furnace used\nby Balthasar Keller for casting a great equestrian statue of Louis XIV.\nin 1697-8.\n\nWhat his lecture lacked were ideas. Of the artistic value of each\nmaterial; of the correspondence between material or method and the\nimaginative faculty seeking to find expression; of the capacities for\nrealism and idealism that reside in each material; of the historical and\nhuman side of the art--he said nothing. He showed the various\ninstruments and how they are used, but he treated them entirely as\ninstruments for the hand. He never once brought his subject into any\nrelation either with art or with life. He explained forms of labour and\nforms of saving labour. He showed the various methods as they might be\nused by an artisan. Mr. Morris, last week, while explaining the\ntechnical processes of weaving, never forgot that he was lecturing on an\nart. He not merely taught his audience, but he charmed them. However,\nthe audience gathered together last night at the Arts and Crafts\nExhibition seemed very much interested; at least, they were very\nattentive; and Mr. Walter Crane made a short speech at the conclusion, in\nwhich he expressed his satisfaction that in spite of modern machinery\nsculpture had hardly altered one of its tools. For our own part we\ncannot help regretting the extremely commonplace character of the\nlecture. If a man lectures on poets he should not confine his remarks\npurely to grammar.\n\nNext week Mr. Emery Walker lectures on Printing. We hope--indeed we are\nsure, that he will not forget that it is an art, or rather it was an art\nonce, and can be made so again.\n\n\n\n\nPRINTING AND PRINTERS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 16, 1888.)\n\nNothing could have been better than Mr. Emery Walker\'s lecture on\nLetterpress Printing and Illustration, delivered last night at the Arts\nand Crafts. A series of most interesting specimens of old printed books\nand manuscripts was displayed on the screen by means of the\nmagic-lantern, and Mr. Walker\'s explanations were as clear and simple as\nhis suggestions were admirable. He began by explaining the different\nkinds of type and how they are made, and showed specimens of the old\nblock-printing which preceded the movable type and is still used in\nChina. He pointed out the intimate connection between printing and\nhandwriting--as long as the latter was good the printers had a living\nmodel to go by, but when it decayed printing decayed also. He showed on\nthe screen a page from Gutenberg\'s Bible (the first printed book, date\nabout 1450-5) and a manuscript of Columella; a printed Livy of 1469, with\nthe abbreviations of handwriting, and a manuscript of the History of\nPompeius by Justin of 1451. The latter he regarded as an example of the\nbeginning of the Roman type. The resemblance between the manuscripts and\nthe printed books was most curious and suggestive. He then showed a page\nout of John of Spier\'s edition of Cicero\'s Letters, the first book\nprinted at Venice, an edition of the same book by Nicholas Jansen in\n1470, and a wonderful manuscript Petrarch of the sixteenth century. He\ntold the audience about Aldus, who was the first publisher to start cheap\nbooks, who dropped abbreviations and had his type cut by Francia pictor\net aurifex, who was said to have taken it from Petrarch\'s handwriting. He\nexhibited a page of the copy-book of Vicentino, the great Venetian\nwriting-master, which was greeted with a spontaneous round of applause,\nand made some excellent suggestions about improving modern copy-books and\navoiding slanting writing.\n\nA superb Plautus printed at Florence in 1514 for Lorenzo di Medici,\nPolydore Virgil\'s History with the fine Holbein designs, printed at Basle\nin 1556, and other interesting books, were also exhibited on the screen,\nthe size, of course, being very much enlarged. He spoke of Elzevir in\nthe seventeenth century when handwriting began to fall off, and of the\nEnglish printer Caslon, and of Baskerville whose type was possibly\ndesigned by Hogarth, but is not very good. Latin, he remarked, was a\nbetter language to print than English, as the tails of the letters did\nnot so often fall below the line. The wide spacing between lines,\noccasioned by the use of a lead, he pointed out, left the page in stripes\nand made the blanks as important as the lines. Margins should, of\ncourse, be wide except the inner margins, and the headlines often robbed\nthe page of its beauty of design. The type used by the Pall Mall was, we\nare glad to say, rightly approved of.\n\nWith regard to illustration, the essential thing, Mr. Walker said, is to\nhave harmony between the type and the decoration. He pleaded for true\nbook ornament as opposed to the silly habit of putting pictures where\nthey are not wanted, and pointed out that mechanical harmony and artistic\nharmony went hand in hand. No ornament or illustration should be used in\na book which cannot be printed in the same way as the type. For his\nwarnings he produced Rogers\'s Italy with a steel-plate engraving, and a\npage from an American magazine which being florid, pictorial and bad, was\ngreeted with some laughter. For examples we had a lovely Boccaccio\nprinted at Ulm, and a page out of La Mer des Histoires printed in 1488.\nBlake and Bewick were also shown, and a page of music designed by Mr.\nHorne.\n\nThe lecture was listened to with great attention by a large audience, and\nwas certainly most attractive. Mr. Walker has the keen artistic instinct\nthat comes out of actually working in the art of which he spoke. His\nremarks about the pictorial character of modern illustration were well\ntimed, and we hope that some of the publishers in the audience will take\nthem to heart.\n\nNext Thursday Mr. Cobden-Sanderson lectures on Bookbinding, a subject on\nwhich few men in England have higher qualifications for speaking. We are\nglad to see these lectures are so well attended.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEAUTIES OF BOOKBINDING\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 23, 1888.)\n\n\'The beginning of art,\' said Mr. Cobden-Sanderson last night in his\ncharming lecture on Bookbinding, \'is man thinking about the universe.\' He\ndesires to give expression to the joy and wonder that he feels at the\nmarvels that surround him, and invents a form of beauty through which he\nutters the thought or feeling that is in him. And bookbinding ranks\namongst the arts: \'through it a man expresses himself.\'\n\nThis elegant and pleasantly exaggerated exordium preceded some very\npractical demonstrations. \'The apron is the banner of the future!\'\nexclaimed the lecturer, and he took his coat off and put his apron on. He\nspoke a little about old bindings for the papyrus roll, about the ivory\nor cedar cylinders round which old manuscripts were wound, about the\nstained covers and the elaborate strings, till binding in the modern\nsense began with literature in a folded form, with literature in pages. A\nbinding, he pointed out, consists of two boards, originally of wood, now\nof mill-board, covered with leather, silk or velvet. The use of these\nboards is to protect the \'world\'s written wealth.\' The best material is\nleather, decorated with gold. The old binders used to be given forests\nthat they might always have a supply of the skins of wild animals; the\nmodern binder has to content himself with importing morocco, which is far\nthe best leather there is, and is very much to be preferred to calf.\n\nMr. Sanderson mentioned by name a few of the great binders such as Le\nGascon, and some of the patrons of bookbinding like the Medicis, Grolier,\nand the wonderful women who so loved books that they lent them some of\nthe perfume and grace of their own strange lives. However, the\nhistorical part of the lecture was very inadequate, possibly necessarily\nso through the limitations of time. The really elaborate part of the\nlecture was the practical exposition. Mr. Sanderson described and\nillustrated the various processes of smoothing, pressing, cutting,\nparing, and the like. He divided bindings into two classes, the useful\nand the beautiful. Among the former he reckoned paper covers such as the\nFrench use, paper boards and cloth boards, and half leather or calf\nbindings. Cloth he disliked as a poor material, the gold on which soon\nfades away. As for beautiful bindings, in them \'decoration rises into\nenthusiasm.\' A beautiful binding is \'a homage to genius.\' It has its\nethical value, its spiritual effect. \'By doing good work we raise life\nto a higher plane,\' said the lecturer, and he dwelt with loving sympathy\non the fact that a book is \'sensitive by nature,\' that it is made by a\nhuman being for a human being, that the design must \'come from the man\nhimself, and express the moods of his imagination, the joy of his soul.\'\nThere must, consequently, be no division of labour. \'I make my own paste\nand enjoy doing it,\' said Mr. Sanderson as he spoke of the necessity for\nthe artist doing the whole work with his own hands. But before we have\nreally good bookbinding we must have a social revolution. As things are\nnow, the worker diminished to a machine is the slave of the employer, and\nthe employer bloated into a millionaire is the slave of the public, and\nthe public is the slave of its pet god, cheapness. The bookbinder of the\nfuture is to be an educated man who appreciates literature and has\nfreedom for his fancy and leisure for his thought.\n\nAll this is very good and sound. But in treating bookbinding as an\nimaginative, expressive human art we must confess that we think that Mr.\nSanderson made something of an error. Bookbinding is essentially\ndecorative, and good decoration is far more often suggested by material\nand mode of work than by any desire on the part of the designer to tell\nus of his joy in the world. Hence it comes that good decoration is\nalways traditional. Where it is the expression of the individual it is\nusually either false or capricious. These handicrafts are not primarily\nexpressive arts; they are impressive arts. If a man has any message for\nthe world he will not deliver it in a material that always suggests and\nalways conditions its own decoration. The beauty of bookbinding is\nabstract decorative beauty. It is not, in the first instance, a mode of\nexpression for a man\'s soul. Indeed, the danger of all these lofty\nclaims for handicraft is simply that they show a desire to give crafts\nthe province and motive of arts such as poetry, painting and sculpture.\nSuch province and such motive they have not got. Their aim is different.\nBetween the arts that aim at annihilating their material and the arts\nthat aim at glorifying it there is a wide gulf.\n\nHowever, it was quite right of Mr. Cobden-Sanderson to extol his own art,\nand though he seemed often to confuse expressive and impressive modes of\nbeauty, he always spoke with great sincerity.\n\nNext week Mr. Crane delivers the final lecture of this admirable \'Arts\nand Crafts\' series and, no doubt, he will have much to say on a subject\nto which he has devoted the whole of his fine artistic life. For\nourselves, we cannot help feeling that in bookbinding art expresses\nprimarily not the feeling of the worker but simply itself, its own\nbeauty, its own wonder.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CLOSE OF THE ARTS AND CRAFTS\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, November 30, 1888.)\n\nMr. Walter Crane, the President of the Society of Arts and Crafts, was\ngreeted last night by such an enormous audience that at one time the\nhonorary secretary became alarmed for the safety of the cartoons, and\nmany people were unable to gain admission at all. However, order was\nsoon established, and Mr. Cobden-Sanderson stepped up on to the platform\nand in a few pleasantly sententious phrases introduced Mr. Crane as one\nwho had always been \'the advocate of great and unpopular causes,\' and the\naim of whose art was \'joy in widest commonalty spread.\' Mr. Crane began\nhis lecture by pointing out that Art had two fields, aspect and\nadaptation, and that it was primarily with the latter that the designer\nwas concerned, his object being not literal fact but ideal beauty. With\nthe unstudied and accidental effects of Nature the designer had nothing\nto do. He sought for principles and proceeded by geometric plan and\nabstract line and colour. Pictorial art is isolated and unrelated, and\nthe frame is the last relic of the old connection between painting and\narchitecture. But the designer does not desire primarily to produce a\npicture. He aims at making a pattern and proceeds by selection; he\nrejects the \'hole in the wall\' idea, and will have nothing to do with the\n\'false windows of a picture.\'\n\nThree things differentiate designs. First, the spirit of the artist,\nthat mode and manner by which Durer is separated from Flaxman, by which\nwe recognise the soul of a man expressing itself in the form proper to\nit. Next comes the constructive idea, the filling of spaces with lovely\nwork. Last is the material which, be it leather or clay, ivory or wood,\noften suggests and always controls the pattern. As for naturalism, we\nmust remember that we see not with our eyes alone but with our whole\nfaculties. Feeling and thought are part of sight. Mr. Crane then drew\non a blackboard the naturalistic oak-tree of the landscape painter and\nthe decorative oak-tree of the designer. He showed that each artist is\nlooking for different things, and that the designer always makes\nappearance subordinate to decorative motive. He showed also the field\ndaisy as it is in Nature and the same flower treated for panel\ndecoration. The designer systematises and emphasises, chooses and\nrejects, and decorative work bears the same relation to naturalistic\npresentation that the imaginative language of the poetic drama bears to\nthe language of real life. The decorative capabilities of the square and\nthe circle were then shown on the board, and much was said about\nsymmetry, alternation and radiation, which last principle Mr. Crane\ndescribed as \'the Home Rule of design, the perfection of local\nself-government,\' and which, he pointed out, was essentially organic,\nmanifesting itself in the bird\'s wing as well as in the Tudor vaulting of\nGothic architecture. Mr. Crane then passed to the human figure, \'that\nexpressive unit of design,\' which contains all the principles of\ndecoration, and exhibited a design of a nude figure with an axe couched\nin an architectural spandrel, a figure which he was careful to explain\nwas, in spite of the axe, not that of Mr. Gladstone. The designer then\nleaving chiaroscuro, shading and other \'superficial facts of life\' to\ntake care of themselves, and keeping the idea of space limitation always\nbefore him, then proceeds to emphasise the beauty of his material, be it\nmetal with its \'agreeable bossiness,\' as Ruskin calls it, or leaded glass\nwith its fine dark lines, or mosaic with its jewelled tesserae, or the\nloom with its crossed threads, or wood with its pleasant crispness. Much\nbad art comes from one art trying to borrow from another. We have\nsculptors who try to be pictorial, painters who aim at stage effects,\nweavers who seek for pictorial motives, carvers who make Life and not Art\ntheir aim, cotton printers \'who tie up bunches of artificial flowers with\nstreamers of artificial ribbons\' and fling them on the unfortunate\ntextile.\n\nThen came the little bit of Socialism, very sensible and very quietly\nput. \'How can we have fine art when the worker is condemned to\nmonotonous and mechanical labour in the midst of dull or hideous\nsurroundings, when cities and nature are sacrificed to commercial greed,\nwhen cheapness is the god of Life?\' In old days the craftsman was a\ndesigner; he had his \'prentice days of quiet study; and even the painter\nbegan by grinding colours. Some little old ornament still lingers, here\nand there, on the brass rosettes of cart-horses, in the common milk-cans\nof Antwerp, in the water-vessels of Italy. But even this is\ndisappearing. \'The tourist passes by\' and creates a demand that commerce\nsatisfies in an unsatisfactory manner. We have not yet arrived at a\nhealthy state of things. There is still the Tottenham Court Road and a\nthreatened revival of Louis Seize furniture, and the \'popular pictorial\nprint struggles through the meshes of the antimacassar.\' Art depends on\nLife. We cannot get it from machines. And yet machines are bad only\nwhen they are our masters. The printing press is a machine that Art\nvalues because it obeys her. True art must have the vital energy of life\nitself, must take its colours from life\'s good or evil, must follow\nangels of light or angels of darkness. The art of the past is not to be\ncopied in a servile spirit. For a new age we require a new form.\n\nMr. Crane\'s lecture was most interesting and instructive. On one point\nonly we would differ from him. Like Mr. Morris he quite underrates the\nart of Japan, and looks on the Japanese as naturalists and not as\ndecorative artists. It is true that they are often pictorial, but by the\nexquisite finesse of their touch, the brilliancy and beauty of their\ncolour, their perfect knowledge of how to make a space decorative without\ndecorating it (a point on which Mr. Crane said nothing, though it is one\nof the most important things in decoration), and by their keen instinct\nof where to place a thing, the Japanese are decorative artists of a high\norder. Next year somebody must lecture the Arts and Crafts on Japanese\nart. In the meantime, we congratulate Mr. Crane and Mr. Cobden-Sanderson\non the admirable series of lectures that has been delivered at this\nexhibition. Their influence for good can hardly be over-estimated. The\nexhibition, we are glad to hear, has been a financial success. It closes\ntomorrow, but is to be only the first of many to come.\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH POETESSES\n\n\n(Queen, December 8, 1888.)\n\nEngland has given to the world one great poetess, Elizabeth Barrett\nBrowning. By her side Mr. Swinburne would place Miss Christina Rossetti,\nwhose New Year hymn he describes as so much the noblest of sacred poems\nin our language, that there is none which comes near it enough to stand\nsecond. \'It is a hymn,\' he tells us, \'touched as with the fire, and\nbathed as in the light of sunbeams, tuned as to chords and cadences of\nrefluent sea-music beyond reach of harp and organ, large echoes of the\nserene and sonorous tides of heaven.\' Much as I admire Miss Rossetti\'s\nwork, her subtle choice of words, her rich imagery, her artistic naivete,\nwherein curious notes of strangeness and simplicity are fantastically\nblended together, I cannot but think that Mr. Swinburne has, with noble\nand natural loyalty, placed her on too lofty a pedestal. To me, she is\nsimply a very delightful artist in poetry. This is indeed something so\nrare that when we meet it we cannot fail to love it, but it is not\neverything. Beyond it and above it are higher and more sunlit heights of\nsong, a larger vision, and an ampler air, a music at once more passionate\nand more profound, a creative energy that is born of the spirit, a winged\nrapture that is born of the soul, a force and fervour of mere utterance\nthat has all the wonder of the prophet, and not a little of the\nconsecration of the priest.\n\nMrs. Browning is unapproachable by any woman who has ever touched lyre or\nblown through reed since the days of the great AEolian poetess. But\nSappho, who, to the antique world was a pillar of flame, is to us but a\npillar of shadow. Of her poems, burnt with other most precious work by\nByzantine Emperor and by Roman Pope, only a few fragments remain.\nPossibly they lie mouldering in the scented darkness of an Egyptian tomb,\nclasped in the withered hands of some long-dead lover. Some Greek monk\nat Athos may even now be poring over an ancient manuscript, whose crabbed\ncharacters conceal lyric or ode by her whom the Greeks spoke of as \'the\nPoetess\' just as they termed Homer \'the Poet,\' who was to them the tenth\nMuse, the flower of the Graces, the child of Eros, and the pride of\nHellas--Sappho, with the sweet voice, the bright, beautiful eyes, the\ndark hyacinth-coloured hair. But, practically, the work of the\nmarvellous singer of Lesbos is entirely lost to us.\n\nWe have a few rose-leaves out of her garden, that is all. Literature\nnowadays survives marble and bronze, but in old days, in spite of the\nRoman poet\'s noble boast, it was not so. The fragile clay vases of the\nGreeks still keep for us pictures of Sappho, delicately painted in black\nand red and white; but of her song we have only the echo of an echo.\n\nOf all the women of history, Mrs. Browning is the only one that we could\nname in any possible or remote conjunction with Sappho.\n\nSappho was undoubtedly a far more flawless and perfect artist. She\nstirred the whole antique world more than Mrs. Browning ever stirred our\nmodern age. Never had Love such a singer. Even in the few lines that\nremain to us the passion seems to scorch and burn. But, as unjust Time,\nwho has crowned her with the barren laurels of fame, has twined with them\nthe dull poppies of oblivion, let us turn from the mere memory of a\npoetess to one whose song still remains to us as an imperishable glory to\nour literature; to her who heard the cry of the children from dark mine\nand crowded factory, and made England weep over its little ones; who, in\nthe feigned sonnets from the Portuguese, sang of the spiritual mystery of\nLove, and of the intellectual gifts that Love brings to the soul; who had\nfaith in all that is worthy, and enthusiasm for all that is great, and\npity for all that suffers; who wrote the Vision of Poets and Casa Guidi\nWindows and Aurora Leigh.\n\nAs one, to whom I owe my love of poetry no less than my love of country,\nhas said of her:\n\n Still on our ears\n The clear \'Excelsior\' from a woman\'s lip\n Rings out across the Apennines, although\n The woman\'s brow lies pale and cold in death\n With all the mighty marble dead in Florence.\n For while great songs can stir the hearts of men,\n Spreading their full vibrations through the world\n In ever-widening circles till they reach\n The Throne of God, and song becomes a prayer,\n And prayer brings down the liberating strength\n That kindles nations to heroic deeds,\n She lives--the great-souled poetess who saw\n From Casa Guidi windows Freedom dawn\n On Italy, and gave the glory back\n In sunrise hymns to all Humanity!\n\nShe lives indeed, and not alone in the heart of Shakespeare\'s England,\nbut in the heart of Dante\'s Italy also. To Greek literature she owed her\nscholarly culture, but modern Italy created her human passion for\nLiberty. When she crossed the Alps she became filled with a new ardour,\nand from that fine, eloquent mouth, that we can still see in her\nportraits, broke forth such a noble and majestic outburst of lyrical song\nas had not been heard from woman\'s lips for more than two thousand years.\nIt is pleasant to think that an English poetess was to a certain extent a\nreal factor in bringing about that unity of Italy that was Dante\'s dream,\nand if Florence drove her great singer into exile, she at least welcomed\nwithin her walls the later singer that England had sent to her.\n\nIf one were asked the chief qualities of Mrs. Browning\'s work, one would\nsay, as Mr. Swinburne said of Byron\'s, its sincerity and its strength.\nFaults it, of course, possesses. \'She would rhyme moon to table,\' used\nto be said of her in jest; and certainly no more monstrous rhymes are to\nbe found in all literature than some of those we come across in Mrs.\nBrowning\'s poems. But her ruggedness was never the result of\ncarelessness. It was deliberate, as her letters to Mr. Horne show very\nclearly. She refused to sandpaper her muse. She disliked facile\nsmoothness and artificial polish. In her very rejection of art she was\nan artist. She intended to produce a certain effect by certain means,\nand she succeeded; and her indifference to complete assonance in rhyme\noften gives a splendid richness to her verse, and brings into it a\npleasurable element of surprise.\n\nIn philosophy she was a Platonist, in politics an Opportunist. She\nattached herself to no particular party. She loved the people when they\nwere king-like, and kings when they showed themselves to be men. Of the\nreal value and motive of poetry she had a most exalted idea. \'Poetry,\'\nshe says, in the preface of one of her volumes, \'has been as serious a\nthing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing. There\nhas been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistook\npleasure for the final cause of poetry, nor leisure for the hour of the\npoet. I have done my work so far, not as mere hand and head work apart\nfrom the personal being, but as the completest expression of that being\nto which I could attain.\'\n\nIt certainly is her completest expression, and through it she realises\nher fullest perfection. \'The poet,\' she says elsewhere, \'is at once\nricher and poorer than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, but\nspeaks no more oracles.\' These words give us the keynote to her view of\nthe poet\'s mission. He was to utter Divine oracles, to be at once\ninspired prophet and holy priest; and as such we may, I think, without\nexaggeration, conceive her. She was a Sibyl delivering a message to the\nworld, sometimes through stammering lips, and once at least with blinded\neyes, yet always with the true fire and fervour of lofty and unshaken\nfaith, always with the great raptures of a spiritual nature, the high\nardours of an impassioned soul. As we read her best poems we feel that,\nthough Apollo\'s shrine be empty and the bronze tripod overthrown, and the\nvale of Delphi desolate, still the Pythia is not dead. In our own age\nshe has sung for us, and this land gave her new birth. Indeed, Mrs.\nBrowning is the wisest of the Sibyls, wiser even than that mighty figure\nwhom Michael Angelo has painted on the roof of the Sistine Chapel at\nRome, poring over the scroll of mystery, and trying to decipher the\nsecrets of Fate; for she realised that, while knowledge is power,\nsuffering is part of knowledge.\n\nTo her influence, almost as much as to the higher education of women, I\nwould be inclined to attribute the really remarkable awakening of woman\'s\nsong that characterises the latter half of our century in England. No\ncountry has ever had so many poetesses at once. Indeed, when one\nremembers that the Greeks had only nine muses, one is sometimes apt to\nfancy that we have too many. And yet the work done by women in the\nsphere of poetry is really of a very high standard of excellence. In\nEngland we have always been prone to underrate the value of tradition in\nliterature. In our eagerness to find a new voice and a fresh mode of\nmusic, we have forgotten how beautiful Echo may be. We look first for\nindividuality and personality, and these are, indeed, the chief\ncharacteristics of the masterpieces of our literature, either in prose or\nverse; but deliberate culture and a study of the best models, if united\nto an artistic temperament and a nature susceptible of exquisite\nimpressions, may produce much that is admirable, much that is worthy of\npraise. It would be quite impossible to give a complete catalogue of all\nthe women who since Mrs. Browning\'s day have tried lute and lyre. Mrs.\nPfeiffer, Mrs. Hamilton King, Mrs. Augusta Webster, Graham Tomson, Miss\nMary Robinson, Jean Ingelow, Miss May Kendall, Miss Nesbit, Miss May\nProbyn, Mrs. Craik, Mrs. Meynell, Miss Chapman, and many others have done\nreally good work in poetry, either in the grave Dorian mode of thoughtful\nand intellectual verse, or in the light and graceful forms of old French\nsong, or in the romantic manner of antique ballad, or in that \'moment\'s\nmonument,\' as Rossetti called it, the intense and concentrated sonnet.\nOccasionally one is tempted to wish that the quick, artistic faculty that\nwomen undoubtedly possess developed itself somewhat more in prose and\nsomewhat less in verse. Poetry is for our highest moods, when we wish to\nbe with the gods, and in our poetry nothing but the very best should\nsatisfy us; but prose is for our daily bread, and the lack of good prose\nis one of the chief blots on our culture. French prose, even in the\nhands of the most ordinary writers, is always readable, but English prose\nis detestable. We have a few, a very few, masters, such as they are. We\nhave Carlyle, who should not be imitated; and Mr. Pater, who, through the\nsubtle perfection of his form, is inimitable absolutely; and Mr. Froude,\nwho is useful; and Matthew Arnold, who is a model; and Mr. George\nMeredith, who is a warning; and Mr. Lang, who is the divine amateur; and\nMr. Stevenson, who is the humane artist; and Mr. Ruskin, whose rhythm and\ncolour and fine rhetoric and marvellous music of words are entirely\nunattainable. But the general prose that one reads in magazines and in\nnewspapers is terribly dull and cumbrous, heavy in movement and uncouth\nor exaggerated in expression. Possibly some day our women of letters\nwill apply themselves more definitely to prose.\n\nTheir light touch, and exquisite ear, and delicate sense of balance and\nproportion would be of no small service to us. I can fancy women\nbringing a new manner into our literature.\n\nHowever, we have to deal here with women as poetesses, and it is\ninteresting to note that, though Mrs. Browning\'s influence undoubtedly\ncontributed very largely to the development of this new song-movement, if\nI may so term it, still there seems to have been never a time during the\nlast three hundred years when the women of this kingdom did not\ncultivate, if not the art, at least the habit, of writing poetry.\n\nWho the first English poetess was I cannot say. I believe it was the\nAbbess Juliana Berners, who lived in the fifteenth century; but I have no\ndoubt that Mr. Freeman would be able at a moment\'s notice to produce some\nwonderful Saxon or Norman poetess, whose works cannot be read without a\nglossary, and even with its aid are completely unintelligible. For my\nown part, I am content with the Abbess Juliana, who wrote\nenthusiastically about hawking; and after her I would mention Anne Askew,\nwho in prison and on the eve of her fiery martyrdom wrote a ballad that\nhas, at any rate, a pathetic and historical interest. Queen Elizabeth\'s\n\'most sweet and sententious ditty\' on Mary Stuart is highly praised by\nPuttenham, a contemporary critic, as an example of \'Exargasia, or the\nGorgeous in Literature,\' which somehow seems a very suitable epithet for\nsuch a great Queen\'s poems. The term she applies to the unfortunate\nQueen of Scots, \'the daughter of debate,\' has, of course, long since\npassed into literature. The Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney\'s\nsister, was much admired as a poetess in her day.\n\nIn 1613 the \'learned, virtuous, and truly noble ladie,\' Elizabeth Carew,\npublished a Tragedie of Marian, the Faire Queene of Jewry, and a few\nyears later the \'noble ladie Diana Primrose\' wrote A Chain of Pearl,\nwhich is a panegyric on the \'peerless graces\' of Gloriana. Mary Morpeth,\nthe friend and admirer of Drummond of Hawthornden; Lady Mary Wroth, to\nwhom Ben Jonson dedicated The Alchemist; and the Princess Elizabeth, the\nsister of Charles I., should also be mentioned.\n\nAfter the Restoration women applied themselves with still greater ardour\nto the study of literature and the practice of poetry. Margaret, Duchess\nof Newcastle, was a true woman of letters, and some of her verses are\nextremely pretty and graceful. Mrs. Aphra Behn was the first\nEnglishwoman who adopted literature as a regular profession. Mrs.\nKatharine Philips, according to Mr. Gosse, invented sentimentality. As\nshe was praised by Dryden, and mourned by Cowley, let us hope she may be\nforgiven. Keats came across her poems at Oxford when he was writing\nEndymion, and found in one of them \'a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher\nkind\'; but I fear nobody reads the Matchless Orinda now. Of Lady\nWinchelsea\'s Nocturnal Reverie Wordsworth said that, with the exception\nof Pope\'s Windsor Forest, it was the only poem of the period intervening\nbetween Paradise Lost and Thomson\'s Seasons that contained a single new\nimage of external nature. Lady Rachel Russell, who may be said to have\ninaugurated the letter-writing literature of England; Eliza Haywood, who\nis immortalised by the badness of her work, and has a niche in The\nDunciad; and the Marchioness of Wharton, whose poems Waller said he\nadmired, are very remarkable types, the finest of them being, of course,\nthe first named, who was a woman of heroic mould and of a most noble\ndignity of nature.\n\nIndeed, though the English poetesses up to the time of Mrs. Browning\ncannot be said to have produced any work of absolute genius, they are\ncertainly interesting figures, fascinating subjects for study. Amongst\nthem we find Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who had all the caprice of\nCleopatra, and whose letters are delightful reading; Mrs. Centlivre, who\nwrote one brilliant comedy; Lady Anne Barnard, whose Auld Robin Gray was\ndescribed by Sir Walter Scott as \'worth all the dialogues Corydon and\nPhillis have together spoken from the days of Theocritus downwards,\' and\nis certainly a very beautiful and touching poem; Esther Vanhomrigh and\nHester Johnson, the Vanessa and the Stella of Dean Swift\'s life; Mrs.\nThrale, the friend of the great lexicographer; the worthy Mrs. Barbauld;\nthe excellent Mrs. Hannah More; the industrious Joanna Baillie; the\nadmirable Mrs. Chapone, whose Ode to Solitude always fills me with the\nwildest passion for society, and who will at least be remembered as the\npatroness of the establishment at which Becky Sharp was educated; Miss\nAnna Seward, who was called \'The Swan of Lichfield\'; poor L. E. L., whom\nDisraeli described in one of his clever letters to his sister as \'the\npersonification of Brompton--pink satin dress, white satin shoes, red\ncheeks, snub nose, and her hair a la Sappho\'; Mrs. Ratcliffe, who\nintroduced the romantic novel, and has consequently much to answer for;\nthe beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, of whom Gibbon said that she was\n\'made for something better than a Duchess\'; the two wonderful sisters,\nLady Dufferin and Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Tighe, whose Psyche Keats read with\npleasure; Constantia Grierson, a marvellous blue-stocking in her time;\nMrs. Hemans; pretty, charming \'Perdita,\' who flirted alternately with\npoetry and the Prince Regent, played divinely in the Winter\'s Tale, was\nbrutally attacked by Gifford, and has left us a pathetic little poem on\nthe Snowdrop; and Emily Bronte, whose poems are instinct with tragic\npower, and seem often on the verge of being great.\n\nOld fashions in literature are not so pleasant as old fashions in dress.\nI like the costume of the age of powder better than the poetry of the age\nof Pope. But if one adopts the historical standpoint--and this is,\nindeed, the only standpoint from which we can ever form a fair estimate\nof work that is not absolutely of the highest order--we cannot fail to\nsee that many of the English poetesses who preceded Mrs. Browning were\nwomen of no ordinary talent, and that if the majority of them looked upon\npoetry simply as a department of belles lettres, so in most cases did\ntheir contemporaries. Since Mrs. Browning\'s day our woods have become\nfull of singing birds, and if I venture to ask them to apply themselves\nmore to prose and less to song, it is not that I like poetical prose, but\nthat I love the prose of poets.\n\n\n\n\nLONDON MODELS\n\n\n(English Illustrated Magazine, January 1889.)\n\nProfessional models are a purely modern invention. To the Greeks, for\ninstance, they were quite unknown. Mr. Mahaffy, it is true, tells us\nthat Pericles used to present peacocks to the great ladies of Athenian\nsociety in order to induce them to sit to his friend Phidias, and we know\nthat Polygnotus introduced into his picture of the Trojan women the face\nof Elpinice, the celebrated sister of the great Conservative leader of\nthe day, but these grandes dames clearly do not come under our category.\nAs for the old masters, they undoubtedly made constant studies from their\npupils and apprentices, and even their religious pictures are full of the\nportraits of their friends and relations, but they do not seem to have\nhad the inestimable advantage of the existence of a class of people whose\nsole profession is to pose. In fact the model, in our sense of the word,\nis the direct creation of Academic Schools.\n\nEvery country now has its own models, except America. In New York, and\neven in Boston, a good model is so great a rarity that most of the\nartists are reduced to painting Niagara and millionaires. In Europe,\nhowever, it is different. Here we have plenty of models, and of every\nnationality. The Italian models are the best. The natural grace of\ntheir attitudes, as well as the wonderful picturesqueness of their\ncolouring, makes them facile--often too facile--subjects for the\npainter\'s brush. The French models, though not so beautiful as the\nItalian, possess a quickness of intellectual sympathy, a capacity, in\nfact, of understanding the artist, which is quite remarkable. They have\nalso a great command over the varieties of facial expression, are\npeculiarly dramatic, and can chatter the argot of the atelier as cleverly\nas the critic of the Gil Bias. The English models form a class entirely\nby themselves. They are not so picturesque as the Italian, nor so clever\nas the French, and they have absolutely no tradition, so to speak, of\ntheir order. Now and then some old veteran knocks at a studio door, and\nproposes to sit as Ajax defying the lightning, or as King Lear upon the\nblasted heath. One of them some time ago called on a popular painter\nwho, happening at the moment to require his services, engaged him, and\ntold him to begin by kneeling down in the attitude of prayer. \'Shall I\nbe Biblical or Shakespearean, sir?\' asked the veteran.\n\'Well--Shakespearean,\' answered the artist, wondering by what subtle\nnuance of expression the model would convey the difference. \'All right,\nsir,\' said the professor of posing, and he solemnly knelt down and began\nto wink with his left eye! This class, however, is dying out. As a rule\nthe model, nowadays, is a pretty girl, from about twelve to twenty-five\nyears of age, who knows nothing about art, cares less, and is merely\nanxious to earn seven or eight shillings a day without much trouble.\nEnglish models rarely look at a picture, and never venture on any\naesthetic theories. In fact, they realise very completely Mr. Whistler\'s\nidea of the function of an art critic, for they pass no criticisms at\nall. They accept all schools of art with the grand catholicity of the\nauctioneer, and sit to a fantastic young impressionist as readily as to a\nlearned and laborious academician. They are neither for the Whistlerites\nnor against them; the quarrel between the school of facts and the school\nof effects touches them not; idealistic and naturalistic are words that\nconvey no meaning to their ears; they merely desire that the studio shall\nbe warm, and the lunch hot, for all charming artists give their models\nlunch.\n\nAs to what they are asked to do they are equally indifferent. On Monday\nthey will don the rags of a beggar-girl for Mr. Pumper, whose pathetic\npictures of modern life draw such tears from the public, and on Tuesday\nthey will pose in a peplum for Mr. Phoebus, who thinks that all really\nartistic subjects are necessarily B.C. They career gaily through all\ncenturies and through all costumes, and, like actors, are interesting\nonly when they are not themselves. They are extremely good-natured, and\nvery accommodating. \'What do you sit for?\' said a young artist to a\nmodel who had sent him in her card (all models, by the way, have cards\nand a small black bag). \'Oh, for anything you like, sir,\' said the girl,\n\'landscape if necessary!\'\n\nIntellectually, it must be acknowledged, they are Philistines, but\nphysically they are perfect--at least some are. Though none of them can\ntalk Greek, many can look Greek, which to a nineteenth-century painter is\nnaturally of great importance. If they are allowed, they chatter a great\ndeal, but they never say anything. Their observations are the only\nbanalites heard in Bohemia. However, though they cannot appreciate the\nartist as artist, they are quite ready to appreciate the artist as a man.\nThey are very sensitive to kindness, respect and generosity. A beautiful\nmodel who had sat for two years to one of our most distinguished English\npainters, got engaged to a street vendor of penny ices. On her marriage\nthe painter sent her a pretty wedding present, and received in return a\nnice letter of thanks with the following remarkable postscript: \'Never\neat the green ices!\'\n\nWhen they are tired a wise artist gives them a rest. Then they sit in a\nchair and read penny dreadfuls, till they are roused from the tragedy of\nliterature to take their place again in the tragedy of art. A few of\nthem smoke cigarettes. This, however, is regarded by the other models as\nshowing a want of seriousness, and is not generally approved of. They\nare engaged by the day and by the half-day. The tariff is a shilling an\nhour, to which great artists usually add an omnibus fare. The two best\nthings about them are their extraordinary prettiness, and their extreme\nrespectability. As a class they are very well behaved, particularly\nthose who sit for the figure, a fact which is curious or natural\naccording to the view one takes of human nature. They usually marry\nwell, and sometimes they marry the artist. For an artist to marry his\nmodel is as fatal as for a gourmet to marry his cook: the one gets no\nsittings, and the other gets no dinners.\n\nOn the whole the English female models are very naive, very natural, and\nvery good-humoured. The virtues which the artist values most in them are\nprettiness and punctuality. Every sensible model consequently keeps a\ndiary of her engagements, and dresses neatly. The bad season is, of\ncourse, the summer, when the artists are out of town. However, of late\nyears some artists have engaged their models to follow them, and the wife\nof one of our most charming painters has often had three or four models\nunder her charge in the country, so that the work of her husband and his\nfriends should not be interrupted. In France the models migrate en masse\nto the little seaport villages or forest hamlets where the painters\ncongregate. The English models, however, wait patiently in London, as a\nrule, till the artists come back. Nearly all of them live with their\nparents, and help to support the house. They have every qualification\nfor being immortalised in art except that of beautiful hands. The hands\nof the English model are nearly always coarse and red.\n\nAs for the male models, there is the veteran whom we have mentioned\nabove. He has all the traditions of the grand style, and is rapidly\ndisappearing with the school he represents. An old man who talks about\nFuseli is, of course, unendurable, and, besides, patriarchs have ceased\nto be fashionable subjects. Then there is the true Academy model. He is\nusually a man of thirty, rarely good-looking, but a perfect miracle of\nmuscles. In fact he is the apotheosis of anatomy, and is so conscious of\nhis own splendour that he tells you of his tibia and his thorax, as if no\none else had anything of the kind. Then come the Oriental models. The\nsupply of these is limited, but there are always about a dozen in London.\nThey are very much sought after as they can remain immobile for hours,\nand generally possess lovely costumes. However, they have a very poor\nopinion of English art, which they regard as something between a vulgar\npersonality and a commonplace photograph. Next we have the Italian youth\nwho has come over specially to be a model, or takes to it when his organ\nis out of repair. He is often quite charming with his large melancholy\neyes, his crisp hair, and his slim brown figure. It is true he eats\ngarlic, but then he can stand like a faun and couch like a leopard, so he\nis forgiven. He is always full of pretty compliments, and has been known\nto have kind words of encouragement for even our greatest artists. As\nfor the English lad of the same age, he never sits at all. Apparently he\ndoes not regard the career of a model as a serious profession. In any\ncase he is rarely, if ever, to be got hold of. English boys, too, are\ndifficult to find. Sometimes an ex-model who has a son will curl his\nhair, and wash his face, and bring him the round of the studios, all soap\nand shininess. The young school don\'t like him, but the older school do,\nand when he appears on the walls of the Royal Academy he is called The\nInfant Samuel. Occasionally also an artist catches a couple of gamins in\nthe gutter and asks them to come to his studio. The first time they\nalways appear, but after that they don\'t keep their appointments. They\ndislike sitting still, and have a strong and perhaps natural objection to\nlooking pathetic. Besides, they are always under the impression that the\nartist is laughing at them. It is a sad fact, but there is no doubt that\nthe poor are completely unconscious of their own picturesqueness. Those\nof them who can be induced to sit do so with the idea that the artist is\nmerely a benevolent philanthropist who has chosen an eccentric method of\ndistributing alms to the undeserving. Perhaps the School Board will\nteach the London gamin his own artistic value, and then they will be\nbetter models than they are now. One remarkable privilege belongs to the\nAcademy model, that of extorting a sovereign from any newly elected\nAssociate or R.A. They wait at Burlington House till the announcement is\nmade, and then race to the hapless artist\'s house. The one who arrives\nfirst receives the money. They have of late been much troubled at the\nlong distances they have had to run, and they look with disfavour on the\nelection of artists who live at Hampstead or at Bedford Park, for it is\nconsidered a point of honour not to employ the underground railway,\nomnibuses, or any artificial means of locomotion. The race is to the\nswift.\n\nBesides the professional posers of the studio there are posers of the\nRow, the posers at afternoon teas, the posers in politics and the circus\nposers. All four classes are delightful, but only the last class is ever\nreally decorative. Acrobats and gymnasts can give the young painter\ninfinite suggestions, for they bring into their art an element of\nswiftness of motion and of constant change that the studio model\nnecessary lacks. What is interesting in these \'slaves of the ring\' is\nthat with them Beauty is an unconscious result not a conscious aim, the\nresult in fact of the mathematical calculation of curves and distances,\nof absolute precision of eye, of the scientific knowledge of the\nequilibrium of forces, and of perfect physical training. A good acrobat\nis always graceful, though grace is never his object; he is graceful\nbecause he does what he has to do in the best way in which it can be\ndone--graceful because he is natural. If an ancient Greek were to come\nto life now, which considering the probable severity of his criticisms\nwould be rather trying to our conceit, he would be found far oftener at\nthe circus than at the theatre. A good circus is an oasis of Hellenism\nin a world that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be\nbeautiful. If it were not for the running-ground at Eton, the towing-\npath at Oxford, the Thames swimming-baths, and the yearly circuses,\nhumanity would forget the plastic perfection of its own form, and\ndegenerate into a race of short-sighted professors and spectacled\nprecieuses. Not that the circus proprietors are, as a rule, conscious of\ntheir high mission. Do they not bore us with the haute ecole, and weary\nus with Shakespearean clowns?--Still, at least, they give us acrobats,\nand the acrobat is an artist. The mere fact that he never speaks to the\naudience shows how well he appreciates the great truth that the aim of\nart is not to reveal personality but to please. The clown may be\nblatant, but the acrobat is always beautiful. He is an interesting\ncombination of the spirit of Greek sculpture with the spangles of the\nmodern costumier. He has even had his niche in the novels of our age,\nand if Manette Salomon be the unmasking of the model, Les Freres Zemganno\nis the apotheosis of the acrobat.\n\nAs regards the influence of the ordinary model on our English school of\npainting, it cannot be said that it is altogether good. It is, of\ncourse, an advantage for the young artist sitting in his studio to be\nable to isolate \'a little corner of life,\' as the French say, from\ndisturbing surroundings, and to study it under certain effects of light\nand shade. But this very isolation leads often to mere mannerism in the\npainter, and robs him of that broad acceptance of the general facts of\nlife which is the very essence of art. Model-painting, in a word, while\nit may be the condition of art, is not by any means its aim. It is\nsimply practice, not perfection. Its use trains the eye and the hand of\nthe painter, its abuse produces in his work an effect of mere posing and\nprettiness. It is the secret of much of the artificiality of modern art,\nthis constant posing of pretty people, and when art becomes artificial it\nbecomes monotonous. Outside the little world of the studio, with its\ndraperies and its bric-a-brac, lies the world of life with its infinite,\nits Shakespearean variety. We must, however, distinguish between the two\nkinds of models, those who sit for the figure and those who sit for the\ncostume. The study of the first is always excellent, but the costume-\nmodel is becoming rather wearisome in modern pictures. It is really of\nvery little use to dress up a London girl in Greek draperies and to paint\nher as a goddess. The robe may be the robe of Athens, but the face is\nusually the face of Brompton. Now and then, it is true, one comes across\na model whose face is an exquisite anachronism, and who looks lovely and\nnatural in the dress of any century but her own. This, however, is\nrather rare. As a rule models are absolutely de notre siecle, and should\nbe painted as such. Unfortunately they are not, and, as a consequence,\nwe are shown every year a series of scenes from fancy dress balls which\nare called historical pictures, but are little more than mediocre\nrepresentations of modern people masquerading. In France they are wiser.\nThe French painter uses the model simply for study; for the finished\npicture he goes direct to life.\n\nHowever, we must not blame the sitters for the shortcomings of the\nartists. The English models are a well-behaved and hard-working class,\nand if they are more interested in artists than in art, a large section\nof the public is in the same condition, and most of our modern\nexhibitions seem to justify its choice.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER TO JOAQUIN MILLER\n\n\nWritten to Mr. Joaquin Miller in reply to a letter, dated February 9,\n1882, in reference to the behaviour of a section of the audience at\nWilde\'s lecture on the English Renaissance at the Grand Opera House,\nRochester, New York State, on February 7. It was first published in a\nvolume called Decorative Art in America, containing unauthorised reprints\nof certain reviews and letters contributed by Wilde to English\nnewspapers. (New York: Brentano\'s, 1906.)\n\nSt. Louis, February 28, 1882.\n\nMY DEAR JOAQUIN MILLER,--I thank you for your chivalrous and courteous\nletter. Believe me, I would as lief judge of the strength and splendour\nof sun and sea by the dust that dances in the beam and the bubble that\nbreaks on the wave, as take the petty and profitless vulgarity of one or\ntwo insignificant towns as any test or standard of the real spirit of a\nsane, strong and simple people, or allow it to affect my respect for the\nmany noble men or women whom it has been my privilege in this great\ncountry to know.\n\nFor myself and the cause which I represent I have no fears as regards the\nfuture. Slander and folly have their way for a season, but for a season\nonly; while, as touching the few provincial newspapers which have so\nvainly assailed me, or that ignorant and itinerant libeller of New\nEngland who goes lecturing from village to village in such open and\nostentatious isolation, be sure I have no time to waste on them. Youth\nbeing so glorious, art so godlike, and the very world about us so full of\nbeautiful things, and things worthy of reverence, and things honourable,\nhow should one stop to listen to the lucubrations of a literary gamin, to\nthe brawling and mouthing of a man whose praise would be as insolent as\nhis slander is impotent, or to the irresponsible and irrepressible\nchatter of the professionally unproductive?\n\nIt is a great advantage, I admit, to have done nothing, but one must not\nabuse even that advantage.\n\nWho, after all, that I should write of him, is this scribbling\nanonymuncule in grand old Massachusetts who scrawls and screams so glibly\nabout what he cannot understand? This apostle of inhospitality, who\ndelights to defile, to desecrate, and to defame the gracious courtesies\nhe is unworthy to enjoy? Who are these scribes who, passing with\npurposeless alacrity from the Police News to the Parthenon, and from\ncrime to criticism, sway with such serene incapacity the office which\nthey so lately swept? \'Narcissuses of imbecility,\' what should they see\nin the clear waters of Beauty and in the well undefiled of Truth but the\nshifting and shadowy image of their own substantial stupidity? Secure of\nthat oblivion for which they toil so laboriously and, I must acknowledge,\nwith such success, let them peer at us through their telescopes and\nreport what they like of us. But, my dear Joaquin, should we put them\nunder the microscope there would be really nothing to be seen.\n\nI look forward to passing another delightful evening with you on my\nreturn to New York, and I need not tell you that whenever you visit\nEngland you will be received with that courtesy with which it is our\npleasure to welcome all Americans, and that honour with which it is our\nprivilege to greet all poets.--Most sincerely and affectionately yours,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES ON WHISTLER\n\n\nI.\n(World, November 14, 1883.)\n\n\nFrom Oscar Wilde, Exeter, to J. M\'Neill Whistler, Tite Street.--Punch too\nridiculous--when you and I are together we never talk about anything\nexcept ourselves.\n\n\n\nII.\n(World, February 25, 1885.)\n\n\nDEAR BUTTERFLY,--By the aid of a biographical dictionary I made the\ndiscovery that there were once two painters, called Benjamin West and\nPaul Delaroche, who rashly lectured upon Art. As of their works nothing\nat all remains, I conclude that they explained themselves away.\n\nBe warned in time, James; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible. To be\ngreat is to be misunderstood.--Tout a vous, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\nIII.\n(World, November 24,1886.)\n\n\nATLAS,--This is very sad! With our James vulgarity begins at home, and\nshould be allowed to stay there.--A vous, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nREPLY TO WHISTLER\n\n\n(Truth, January 9, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of Truth.\n\nSIR,--I can hardly imagine that the public is in the very smallest degree\ninterested in the shrill shrieks of \'Plagiarism\' that proceed from time\nto time out of the lips of silly vanity or incompetent mediocrity.\n\nHowever, as Mr. James Whistler has had the impertinence to attack me with\nboth venom and vulgarity in your columns, I hope you will allow me to\nstate that the assertions contained in his letter are as deliberately\nuntrue as they are deliberately offensive.\n\nThe definition of a disciple as one who has the courage of the opinions\nof his master is really too old even for Mr. Whistler to be allowed to\nclaim it, and as for borrowing Mr. Whistler\'s ideas about art, the only\nthoroughly original ideas I have ever heard him express have had\nreference to his own superiority as a painter over painters greater than\nhimself.\n\nIt is a trouble for any gentleman to have to notice the lucubrations of\nso ill-bred and ignorant a person as Mr. Whistler, but your publication\nof his insolent letter left me no option in the matter.--I remain, sir,\nfaithfully yours, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, S. W.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS ON DORIAN GRAY\n\n\nI. MR. WILDE\'S BAD CASE\n\n\n(St. James\'s Gazette, June 26, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the St. James\'s Gazette.\n\nSIR,--I have read your criticism of my story, The Picture of Dorian Gray;\nand I need hardly say that I do not propose to discuss its merits or\ndemerits, its personalities or its lack of personality. England is a\nfree country, and ordinary English criticism is perfectly free and easy.\nBesides, I must admit that, either from temperament or taste, or from\nboth, I am quite incapable of understanding how any work of art can be\ncriticised from a moral standpoint. The sphere of art and the sphere of\nethics are absolutely distinct and separate; and it is to the confusion\nbetween the two that we owe the appearance of Mrs. Grundy, that amusing\nold lady who represents the only original form of humour that the middle\nclasses of this country have been able to produce.\n\nWhat I do object to most strongly is that you should have placarded the\ntown with posters on which was printed in large letters:--\n\n MR. OSCAR WILDE\'S\n LATEST ADVERTISEMENT:\n A BAD CASE.\n\nWhether the expression \'A Bad Case\' refers to my book or to the present\nposition of the Government, I cannot tell. What was silly and\nunnecessary was the use of the term \'advertisement.\'\n\nI think I may say without vanity--though I do not wish to appear to run\nvanity down--that of all men in England I am the one who requires least\nadvertisement. I am tired to death of being advertised--I feel no thrill\nwhen I see my name in a paper. The chronicle does not interest me any\nmore. I wrote this book entirely for my own pleasure, and it gave me\nvery great pleasure to write it. Whether it becomes popular or not is a\nmatter of absolute indifference to me. I am afraid, Sir, that the real\nadvertisement is your cleverly written article. The English public, as a\nmass, takes no interest in a work of art until it is told that the work\nin question is immoral, and your reclame will, I have no doubt, largely\nincrease the sale of the magazine; in which sale I may mention with some\nregret, I have no pecuniary interest.--I remain, Sir, your obedient\nservant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, June 25.\n\n\n\nII. MR. OSCAR WILDE AGAIN\n\n\n(St. James\'s Gazette, June 27, 1890.)\n\nSIR,--In your issue of today you state that my brief letter published in\nyour columns is the \'best reply\' I can make to your article upon Dorian\nGray. This is not so. I do not propose to discuss fully the matter\nhere, but I feel bound to say that your article contains the most\nunjustifiable attack that has been made upon any man of letters for many\nyears.\n\nThe writer of it, who is quite incapable of concealing his personal\nmalice, and so in some measure destroys the effect he wishes to produce,\nseems not to have the slightest idea of the temper in which a work of art\nshould be approached. To say that such a book as mine should be \'chucked\ninto the fire\' is silly. That is what one does with newspapers.\n\nOf the value of pseudo-ethical criticism in dealing with artistic work I\nhave spoken already. But as your writer has ventured into the perilous\ngrounds of literary criticism I ask you to allow me, in fairness not\nmerely to myself but to all men to whom literature is a fine art, to say\na few words about his critical method.\n\nHe begins by assailing me with much ridiculous virulence because the\nchief personages in my story are puppies. They _are_ puppies. Does he\nthink that literature went to the dogs when Thackeray wrote about\npuppydom? I think that puppies are extremely interesting from an\nartistic as well as from a psychological point of view.\n\nThey seem to me to be certainly far more interesting than prigs; and I am\nof opinion that Lord Henry Wotton is an excellent corrective of the\ntedious ideal shadowed forth in the semi-theological novels of our age.\n\nHe then makes vague and fearful insinuations about my grammar and my\nerudition. Now, as regards grammar, I hold that, in prose at any rate,\ncorrectness should always be subordinate to artistic effect and musical\ncadence; and any peculiarities of syntax that may occur in Dorian Gray\nare deliberately intended, and are introduced to show the value of the\nartistic theory in question. Your writer gives no instance of any such\npeculiarity. This I regret, because I do not think that any such\ninstances occur.\n\nAs regards erudition, it is always difficult, even for the most modest of\nus, to remember that other people do not know quite as much as one does\none\'s self. I myself frankly admit I cannot imagine how a casual\nreference to Suetonius and Petronius Arbiter can be construed into\nevidence of a desire to impress an unoffending and ill-educated public by\nan assumption of superior knowledge. I should fancy that the most\nordinary of scholars is perfectly well acquainted with the Lives of the\nCaesars and with the Satyricon.\n\nThe Lives of the Caesars, at any rate, forms part of the curriculum at\nOxford for those who take the Honour School of Literae Humaniores; and as\nfor the Satyricon it is popular even among pass-men, though I suppose\nthey are obliged to read it in translations.\n\nThe writer of the article then suggests that I, in common with that great\nand noble artist Count Tolstoi, take pleasure in a subject because it is\ndangerous. About such a suggestion there is this to be said. Romantic\nart deals with the exception and with the individual. Good people,\nbelonging as they do to the normal, and so, commonplace, type, are\nartistically uninteresting.\n\nBad people are, from the point of view of art, fascinating studies. They\nrepresent colour, variety and strangeness. Good people exasperate one\'s\nreason; bad people stir one\'s imagination. Your critic, if I must give\nhim so honourable a title, states that the people in my story have no\ncounterpart in life; that they are, to use his vigorous if somewhat\nvulgar phrase, \'mere catchpenny revelations of the non-existent.\' Quite\nso.\n\nIf they existed they would not be worth writing about. The function of\nthe artist is to invent, not to chronicle. There are no such people. If\nthere were I would not write about them. Life by its realism is always\nspoiling the subject-matter of art.\n\nThe superior pleasure in literature is to realise the non-existent.\n\nAnd finally, let me say this. You have reproduced, in a journalistic\nform, the comedy of Much Ado about Nothing and have, of course, spoilt it\nin your reproduction.\n\nThe poor public, hearing, from an authority so high as your own, that\nthis is a wicked book that should be coerced and suppressed by a Tory\nGovernment, will, no doubt, rush to it and read it. But, alas! they will\nfind that it is a story with a moral. And the moral is this: All excess,\nas well as all renunciation, brings its own punishment.\n\nThe painter, Basil Hallward, worshipping physical beauty far too much, as\nmost painters do, dies by the hand of one in whose soul he has created a\nmonstrous and absurd vanity. Dorian Gray, having led a life of mere\nsensation and pleasure, tries to kill conscience, and at that moment\nkills himself. Lord Henry Wotton seeks to be merely the spectator of\nlife. He finds that those who reject the battle are more deeply wounded\nthan those who take part in it.\n\nYes, there is a terrible moral in Dorian Gray--a moral which the prurient\nwill not be able to find in it, but it will be revealed to all whose\nminds are healthy. Is this an artistic error? I fear it is. It is the\nonly error in the book.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR\nWILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, June 26.\n\n\n\nIII. MR. OSCAR WILDE\'S DEFENCE\n\n\n(St. James\'s Gazette, June 28, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the St. James\'s Gazette.\n\nSIR,--As you still keep up, though in a somewhat milder form than before,\nyour attacks on me and my book, you not only confer on me the right, but\nyou impose upon me the duty of reply.\n\nYou state, in your issue of today, that I misrepresented you when I said\nthat you suggested that a book so wicked as mine should be \'suppressed\nand coerced by a Tory Government.\' Now, you did not propose this, but\nyou did suggest it. When you declare that you do not know whether or not\nthe Government will take action about my book, and remark that the\nauthors of books much less wicked have been proceeded against in law, the\nsuggestion is quite obvious.\n\nIn your complaint of misrepresentation you seem to me, Sir, to have been\nnot quite candid.\n\nHowever, as far as I am concerned, this suggestion is of no importance.\nWhat is of importance is that the editor of a paper like yours should\nappear to countenance the monstrous theory that the Government of a\ncountry should exercise a censorship over imaginative literature. This\nis a theory against which I, and all men of letters of my acquaintance,\nprotest most strongly; and any critic who admits the reasonableness of\nsuch a theory shows at once that he is quite incapable of understanding\nwhat literature is, and what are the rights that literature possesses. A\nGovernment might just as well try to teach painters how to paint, or\nsculptors how to model, as attempt to interfere with the style, treatment\nand subject-matter of the literary artist, and no writer, however eminent\nor obscure, should ever give his sanction to a theory that would degrade\nliterature far more than any didactic or so-called immoral book could\npossibly do.\n\nYou then express your surprise that \'so experienced a literary gentleman\'\nas myself should imagine that your critic was animated by any feeling of\npersonal malice towards him. The phrase \'literary gentleman\' is a vile\nphrase, but let that pass.\n\nI accept quite readily your assurance that your critic was simply\ncriticising a work of art in the best way that he could, but I feel that\nI was fully justified in forming the opinion of him that I did. He\nopened his article by a gross personal attack on myself. This, I need\nhardly say, was an absolutely unpardonable error of critical taste.\n\nThere is no excuse for it except personal malice; and you, Sir, should\nnot have sanctioned it. A critic should be taught to criticise a work of\nart without making any reference to the personality of the author. This,\nin fact, is the beginning of criticism. However, it was not merely his\npersonal attack on me that made me imagine that he was actuated by\nmalice. What really confirmed me in my first impression was his\nreiterated assertion that my book was tedious and dull.\n\nNow, if I were criticising my book, which I have some thoughts of doing,\nI think I would consider it my duty to point out that it is far too\ncrowded with sensational incident, and far too paradoxical in style, as\nfar, at any rate, as the dialogue goes. I feel that from a standpoint of\nart these are true defects in the book. But tedious and dull the book is\nnot.\n\nYour critic has cleared himself of the charge of personal malice, his\ndenial and yours being quite sufficient in the matter; but he has done so\nonly by a tacit admission that he has really no critical instinct about\nliterature and literary work, which, in one who writes about literature,\nis, I need hardly say, a much graver fault than malice of any kind.\n\nFinally, Sir, allow me to say this. Such an article as you have\npublished really makes me despair of the possibility of any general\nculture in England. Were I a French author, and my book brought out in\nParis, there is not a single literary critic in France on any paper of\nhigh standing who would think for a moment of criticising it from an\nethical standpoint. If he did so he would stultify himself, not merely\nin the eyes of all men of letters, but in the eyes of the majority of the\npublic.\n\nYou have yourself often spoken against Puritanism. Believe me, Sir,\nPuritanism is never so offensive and destructive as when it deals with\nart matters. It is there that it is radically wrong. It is this\nPuritanism, to which your critic has given expression, that is always\nmarring the artistic instinct of the English. So far from encouraging\nit, you should set yourself against it, and should try to teach your\ncritics to recognise the essential difference between art and life.\n\nThe gentleman who criticised my book is in a perfectly hopeless confusion\nabout it, and your attempt to help him out by proposing that the subject-\nmatter of art should be limited does not mend matters. It is proper that\nlimitation should be placed on action. It is not proper that limitation\nshould be placed on art. To art belong all things that are and all\nthings that are not, and even the editor of a London paper has no right\nto restrain the freedom of art in the selection of subject-matter. I now\ntrust, Sir, that these attacks on me and on my book will cease. There\nare forms of advertisement that are unwarranted and unwarrantable.--I am,\nSir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, S. W., June 27.\n\n\n\nIV. (St. James\'s Gazette, June 30, 1890.)\n\n\nTo the Editor of the St. James\'s Gazette.\n\nSIR,--In your issue of this evening you publish a letter from \'A London\nEditor\' which clearly insinuates in the last paragraph that I have in\nsome way sanctioned the circulation of an expression of opinion, on the\npart of the proprietors of Lippincott\'s Magazine, of the literary and\nartistic value of my story of The Picture of Dorian Gray.\n\nAllow me, Sir, to state that there are no grounds for this insinuation. I\nwas not aware that any such document was being circulated; and I have\nwritten to the agents, Messrs. Ward and Lock--who cannot, I feel sure, be\nprimarily responsible for its appearance--to ask them to withdraw it at\nonce. No publisher should ever express an opinion of the value of what\nhe publishes. That is a matter entirely for the literary critic to\ndecide.\n\nI must admit, as one to whom contemporary literature is constantly\nsubmitted for criticism, that the only thing that ever prejudices me\nagainst a book is the lack of literary style; but I can quite understand\nhow any ordinary critic would be strongly prejudiced against a work that\nwas accompanied by a premature and unnecessary panegyric from the\npublisher. A publisher is simply a useful middleman. It is not for him\nto anticipate the verdict of criticism.\n\nI may, however, while expressing my thanks to the \'London Editor\' for\ndrawing my attention to this, I trust, purely American method of\nprocedure, venture to differ from him in one of his criticisms. He\nstates that he regards the expression \'complete\' as applied to a story,\nas a specimen of the \'adjectival exuberance of the puffer.\' Here, it\nseems to me, he sadly exaggerates. What my story is is an interesting\nproblem. What my story is not is a \'novelette\'--a term which you have\nmore than once applied to it. There is no such word in the English\nlanguage as novelette. It should not be used. It is merely part of the\nslang of Fleet Street.\n\nIn another part of your paper, Sir, you state that I received your\nassurance of the lack of malice in your critic \'somewhat grudgingly.\'\nThis is not so. I frankly said that I accepted that assurance \'quite\nreadily,\' and that your own denial and that of your own critic were\n\'sufficient.\'\n\nNothing more generous could have been said. What I did feel was that you\nsaved your critic from the charge of malice by convicting him of the\nunpardonable crime of lack of literary instinct. I still feel that. To\ncall my book an ineffective attempt at allegory, that in the hands of Mr.\nAnstey might have been made striking, is absurd.\n\nMr. Anstey\'s sphere in literature and my sphere are different.\n\nYou then gravely ask me what rights I imagine literature possesses. That\nis really an extraordinary question for the editor of a newspaper such as\nyours to ask. The rights of literature, Sir, are the rights of\nintellect.\n\nI remember once hearing M. Renan say that he would sooner live under a\nmilitary despotism than under the despotism of the Church, because the\nformer merely limited the freedom of action, while the latter limited the\nfreedom of mind.\n\nYou say that a work of art is a form of action. It is not. It is the\nhighest mode of thought.\n\nIn conclusion, Sir, let me ask you not to force on me this continued\ncorrespondence by daily attacks. It is a trouble and a nuisance.\n\nAs you assailed me first, I have a right to the last word. Let that last\nword be the present letter, and leave my book, I beg you, to the\nimmortality that it deserves.--I am, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, S.W., June 28.\n\n\n\nV. \'DORIAN GRAY\'\n\n\n(Daily Chronicle, July 2, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Daily Chronicle.\n\nSIR,--Will you allow me to correct some errors into which your critic has\nfallen in his review of my story, The Picture of Dorian Gray, published\nin today\'s issue of your paper?\n\nYour critic states, to begin with, that I make desperate attempts to\n\'vamp up\' a moral in my story. Now, I must candidly confess that I do\nnot know what \'vamping\' is. I see, from time to time, mysterious\nadvertisements in the newspapers about \'How to Vamp,\' but what vamping\nreally means remains a mystery to me--a mystery that, like all other\nmysteries, I hope some day to explore.\n\nHowever, I do not propose to discuss the absurd terms used by modern\njournalism. What I want to say is that, so far from wishing to emphasise\nany moral in my story, the real trouble I experienced in writing the\nstory was that of keeping the extremely obvious moral subordinate to the\nartistic and dramatic effect.\n\nWhen I first conceived the idea of a young man selling his soul in\nexchange for eternal youth--an idea that is old in the history of\nliterature, but to which I have given new form--I felt that, from an\naesthetic point of view, it would be difficult to keep the moral in its\nproper secondary place; and even now I do not feel quite sure that I have\nbeen able to do so. I think the moral too apparent. When the book is\npublished in a volume I hope to correct this defect.\n\nAs for what the moral is, your critic states that it is this--that when a\nman feels himself becoming \'too angelic\' he should rush out and make a\n\'beast of himself.\' I cannot say that I consider this a moral. The real\nmoral of the story is that all excess, as well as all renunciation,\nbrings its punishment, and this moral is so far artistically and\ndeliberately suppressed that it does not enunciate its law as a general\nprinciple, but realises itself purely in the lives of individuals, and so\nbecomes simply a dramatic element in a work of art, and not the object of\nthe work of art itself.\n\nYour critic also falls into error when he says that Dorian Gray, having a\n\'cool, calculating, conscienceless character,\' was inconsistent when he\ndestroyed the picture of his own soul, on the ground that the picture did\nnot become less hideous after he had done what, in his vanity, he had\nconsidered his first good action. Dorian Gray has not got a cool,\ncalculating, conscienceless character at all. On the contrary, he is\nextremely impulsive, absurdly romantic, and is haunted all through his\nlife by an exaggerated sense of conscience which mars his pleasures for\nhim and warns him that youth and enjoyment are not everything in the\nworld. It is finally to get rid of the conscience that had dogged his\nsteps from year to year that he destroys the picture; and thus in his\nattempt to kill conscience Dorian Gray kills himself.\n\nYour critic then talks about \'obtrusively cheap scholarship.\' Now,\nwhatever a scholar writes is sure to display scholarship in the\ndistinction of style and the fine use of language; but my story contains\nno learned or pseudo-learned discussions, and the only literary books\nthat it alludes to are books that any fairly educated reader may be\nsupposed to be acquainted with, such as the Satyricon of Petronius\nArbiter, or Gautier\'s Emaux et Camees. Such books as Le Conso\'s\nClericalis Disciplina belong not to culture, but to curiosity. Anybody\nmay be excused for not knowing them.\n\nFinally, let me say this--the aesthetic movement produced certain curious\ncolours, subtle in their loveliness and fascinating in their almost\nmystical tone. They were, and are, our reaction against the crude\nprimaries of a doubtless more respectable but certainly less cultivated\nage. My story is an essay on decorative art. It reacts against the\ncrude brutality of plain realism. It is poisonous if you like, but you\ncannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we artists\naim at.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, June 30.\n\n\n\nVI. MR. WILDE\'S REJOINDER\n\n\n(Scots Observer, July 12, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Scots Observer.\n\nSIR,--You have published a review of my story, The Picture of Dorian\nGray. As this review is grossly unjust to me as an artist, I ask you to\nallow me to exercise in your columns my right of reply.\n\nYour reviewer, Sir, while admitting that the story in question is\n\'plainly the work of a man of letters,\' the work of one who has \'brains,\nand art, and style,\' yet suggests, and apparently in all seriousness,\nthat I have written it in order that it should be read by the most\ndepraved members of the criminal and illiterate classes. Now, Sir, I do\nnot suppose that the criminal and illiterate classes ever read anything\nexcept newspapers. They are certainly not likely to be able to\nunderstand anything of mine. So let them pass, and on the broad question\nof why a man of letters writes at all let me say this.\n\nThe pleasure that one has in creating a work of art is a purely personal\npleasure, and it is for the sake of this pleasure that one creates. The\nartist works with his eye on the object. Nothing else interests him.\nWhat people are likely to say does not even occur to him.\n\nHe is fascinated by what he has in hand. He is indifferent to others. I\nwrite because it gives me the greatest possible artistic pleasure to\nwrite. If my work pleases the few I am gratified. If it does not, it\ncauses me no pain. As for the mob, I have no desire to be a popular\nnovelist. It is far too easy.\n\nYour critic then, Sir, commits the absolutely unpardonable crime of\ntrying to confuse the artist with his subject-matter. For this, Sir,\nthere is no excuse at all.\n\nOf one who is the greatest figure in the world\'s literature since Greek\ndays, Keats remarked that he had as much pleasure in conceiving the evil\nas he had in conceiving the good. Let your reviewer, Sir, consider the\nbearings of Keats\'s fine criticism, for it is under these conditions that\nevery artist works. One stands remote from one\'s subject-matter. One\ncreates it and one contemplates it. The further away the subject-matter\nis, the more freely can the artist work.\n\nYour reviewer suggests that I do not make it sufficiently clear whether I\nprefer virtue to wickedness or wickedness to virtue. An artist, Sir, has\nno ethical sympathies at all. Virtue and wickedness are to him simply\nwhat the colours on his palette are to the painter. They are no more and\nthey are no less. He sees that by their means a certain artistic effect\ncan be produced and he produces it. Iago may be morally horrible and\nImogen stainlessly pure. Shakespeare, as Keats said, had as much delight\nin creating the one as he had in creating the other.\n\nIt was necessary, Sir, for the dramatic development of this story to\nsurround Dorian Gray with an atmosphere of moral corruption. Otherwise\nthe story would have had no meaning and the plot no issue. To keep this\natmosphere vague and indeterminate and wonderful was the aim of the\nartist who wrote the story. I claim, Sir, that he has succeeded. Each\nman sees his own sin in Dorian Gray. What Dorian Gray\'s sins are no one\nknows. He who finds them has brought them.\n\nIn conclusion, Sir, let me say how really deeply I regret that you should\nhave permitted such a notice as the one I feel constrained to write on to\nhave appeared in your paper. That the editor of the St. James\'s Gazette\nshould have employed Caliban as his art-critic was possibly natural. The\neditor of the Scots Observer should not have allowed Thersites to make\nmows in his review. It is unworthy of so distinguished a man of\nletters.--I am, etc.,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, July 9.\n\n\n\nVII. ART AND MORALITY\n\n\n(Scots Observer, August 2, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Scots Observer.\n\nSIR,--In a letter dealing with the relations of art to morals recently\npublished in your columns--a letter which I may say seems to me in many\nrespects admirable, especially in its insistence on the right of the\nartist to select his own subject-matter--Mr. Charles Whibley suggests\nthat it must be peculiarly painful for me to find that the ethical import\nof Dorian Gray has been so strongly recognised by the foremost Christian\npapers of England and America that I have been greeted by more than one\nof them as a moral reformer.\n\nAllow me, Sir, to reassure, on this point, not merely Mr. Charles Whibley\nhimself but also your, no doubt, anxious readers. I have no hesitation\nin saying that I regard such criticisms as a very gratifying tribute to\nmy story. For if a work of art is rich, and vital and complete, those\nwho have artistic instincts will see its beauty, and those to whom ethics\nappeal more strongly than aesthetics will see its moral lesson. It will\nfill the cowardly with terror, and the unclean will see in it their own\nshame. It will be to each man what he is himself. It is the spectator,\nand not life, that art really mirrors.\n\nAnd so in the case of Dorian Gray the purely literary critic, as in the\nSpeaker and elsewhere, regards it as a \'serious\' and \'fascinating\' work\nof art: the critic who deals with art in its relation to conduct, as the\nChristian Leader and the Christian World, regards it as an ethical\nparable: Light, which I am told is the organ of the English mystics,\nregards it as a work of high spiritual import; the St. James\'s Gazette,\nwhich is seeking apparently to be the organ of the prurient, sees or\npretends to see in it all kinds of dreadful things, and hints at Treasury\nprosecutions; and your Mr. Charles Whibley genially says that he\ndiscovers in it \'lots of morality.\'\n\nIt is quite true that he goes on to say that he detects no art in it. But\nI do not think that it is fair to expect a critic to be able to see a\nwork of art from every point of view. Even Gautier had his limitations\njust as much as Diderot had, and in modern England Goethes are rare. I\ncan only assure Mr. Charles Whibley that no moral apotheosis to which he\nhas added the most modest contribution could possibly be a source of\nunhappiness to an artist.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, July 1890.\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\n(Scots Observer, August 16, 1890.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Scots Observer.\n\nSIR,--I am afraid I cannot enter into any newspaper discussion on the\nsubject of art with Mr. Whibley, partly because the writing of letters is\nalways a trouble to me, and partly because I regret to say that I do not\nknow what qualifications Mr. Whibley possesses for the discussion of so\nimportant a topic. I merely noticed his letter because, I am sure\nwithout in any way intending it, he made a suggestion about myself\npersonally that was quite inaccurate. His suggestion was that it must\nhave been painful to me to find that a certain section of the public, as\nrepresented by himself and the critics of some religious publications,\nhad insisted on finding what he calls \'lots of morality\' in my story of\nThe Picture of Dorian Gray.\n\nBeing naturally desirous of setting your readers right on a question of\nsuch vital interest to the historian, I took the opportunity of pointing\nout in your columns that I regarded all such criticisms as a very\ngratifying tribute to the ethical beauty of the story, and I added that I\nwas quite ready to recognise that it was not really fair to ask of any\nordinary critic that he should be able to appreciate a work of art from\nevery point of view.\n\nI still hold this opinion. If a man sees the artistic beauty of a thing,\nhe will probably care very little for its ethical import. If his\ntemperament is more susceptible to ethical than to aesthetic influences,\nhe will be blind to questions of style, treatment and the like. It takes\na Goethe to see a work of art fully, completely and perfectly, and I\nthoroughly agree with Mr. Whibley when he says that it is a pity that\nGoethe never had an opportunity of reading Dorian Gray. I feel quite\ncertain that he would have been delighted by it, and I only hope that\nsome ghostly publisher is even now distributing shadowy copies in the\nElysian fields, and that the cover of Gautier\'s copy is powdered with\ngilt asphodels.\n\nYou may ask me, Sir, why I should care to have the ethical beauty of my\nstory recognised. I answer, Simply because it exists, because the thing\nis there.\n\nThe chief merit of Madame Bovary is not the moral lesson that can be\nfound in it, any more than the chief merit of Salammbo is its archaeology;\nbut Flaubert was perfectly right in exposing the ignorance of those who\ncalled the one immoral and the other inaccurate; and not merely was he\nright in the ordinary sense of the word, but he was artistically right,\nwhich is everything. The critic has to educate the public; the artist\nhas to educate the critic.\n\nAllow me to make one more correction, Sir, and I will have done with Mr.\nWhibley. He ends his letter with the statement that I have been\nindefatigable in my public appreciation of my own work. I have no doubt\nthat in saying this he means to pay me a compliment, but he really\noverrates my capacity, as well as my inclination for work. I must\nfrankly confess that, by nature and by choice, I am extremely indolent.\n\nCultivated idleness seems to me to be the proper occupation for man. I\ndislike newspaper controversies of any kind, and of the two hundred and\nsixteen criticisms of Dorian Gray that have passed from my library table\ninto the wastepaper basket I have taken public notice of only three. One\nwas that which appeared in the Scots Observer. I noticed it because it\nmade a suggestion, about the intention of the author in writing the book,\nwhich needed correction. The second was an article in the St. James\'s\nGazette. It was offensively and vulgarly written, and seemed to me to\nrequire immediate and caustic censure. The tone of the article was an\nimpertinence to any man of letters.\n\nThe third was a meek attack in a paper called the Daily Chronicle. I\nthink my writing to the Daily Chronicle was an act of pure wilfulness. In\nfact, I feel sure it was. I quite forget what they said. I believe they\nsaid that Dorian Gray was poisonous, and I thought that, on alliterative\ngrounds, it would be kind to remind them that, however that may be, it is\nat any rate perfect. That was all. Of the other two hundred and\nthirteen criticisms I have taken no notice. Indeed, I have not read more\nthan half of them. It is a sad thing, but one wearies even of praise.\n\nAs regards Mr. Brown\'s letter, it is interesting only in so far as it\nexemplifies the truth of what I have said above on the question of the\ntwo obvious schools of critics. Mr. Brown says frankly that he considers\nmorality to be the \'strong point\' of my story. Mr. Brown means well, and\nhas got hold of a half truth, but when he proceeds to deal with the book\nfrom the artistic standpoint he, of course, goes sadly astray. To class\nDorian Gray with M. Zola\'s La Terre is as silly as if one were to class\nMusset\'s Fortunio with one of the Adelphi melodramas. Mr. Brown should\nbe content with ethical appreciation. There he is impregnable.\n\nMr. Cobban opens badly by describing my letter, setting Mr. Whibley right\non a matter of fact, as an \'impudent paradox.\' The term \'impudent\' is\nmeaningless, and the word \'paradox\' is misplaced. I am afraid that\nwriting to newspapers has a deteriorating influence on style. People get\nviolent and abusive and lose all sense of proportion, when they enter\nthat curious journalistic arena in which the race is always to the\nnoisiest. \'Impudent paradox\' is neither violent nor abusive, but it is\nnot an expression that should have been used about my letter. However,\nMr. Cobban makes full atonement afterwards for what was, no doubt, a mere\nerror of manner, by adopting the impudent paradox in question as his own,\nand pointing out that, as I had previously said, the artist will always\nlook at the work of art from the standpoint of beauty of style and beauty\nof treatment, and that those who have not got the sense of beauty, or\nwhose sense of beauty is dominated by ethical considerations, will always\nturn their attention to the subject-matter and make its moral import the\ntest and touchstone of the poem or novel or picture that is presented to\nthem, while the newspaper critic will sometimes take one side and\nsometimes the other, according as he is cultured or uncultured. In fact,\nMr. Cobban converts the impudent paradox into a tedious truism, and, I\ndare say, in doing so does good service.\n\nThe English public likes tediousness, and likes things to be explained to\nit in a tedious way.\n\nMr. Cobban has, I have no doubt, already repented of the unfortunate\nexpression with which he has made his debut, so I will say no more about\nit. As far as I am concerned he is quite forgiven.\n\nAnd finally, Sir, in taking leave of the Scots Observer I feel bound to\nmake a candid confession to you.\n\nIt has been suggested to me by a great friend of mine, who is a charming\nand distinguished man of letters, and not unknown to you personally, that\nthere have been really only two people engaged in this terrible\ncontroversy, and that those two people are the editor of the Scots\nObserver and the author of Dorian Gray. At dinner this evening, over\nsome excellent Chianti, my friend insisted that under assumed and\nmysterious names you had simply given dramatic expression to the views of\nsome of the semi-educated classes of our community, and that the letters\nsigned \'H.\' were your own skilful, if somewhat bitter, caricature of the\nPhilistine as drawn by himself. I admit that something of the kind had\noccurred to me when I read \'H.\'s\' first letter--the one in which he\nproposes that the test of art should be the political opinions of the\nartist, and that if one differed from the artist on the question of the\nbest way of misgoverning Ireland, one should always abuse his work.\nStill, there are such infinite varieties of Philistines, and North\nBritain is so renowned for seriousness, that I dismissed the idea as one\nunworthy of the editor of a Scotch paper. I now fear that I was wrong,\nand that you have been amusing yourself all the time by inventing little\npuppets and teaching them how to use big words. Well, Sir, if it be\nso--and my friend is strong upon the point--allow me to congratulate you\nmost sincerely on the cleverness with which you have reproduced that lack\nof literary style which is, I am told, essential for any dramatic and\nlifelike characterisation. I confess that I was completely taken in; but\nI bear no malice; and as you have, no doubt, been laughing at me up your\nsleeve, let me now join openly in the laugh, though it be a little\nagainst myself. A comedy ends when the secret is out. Drop your curtain\nand put your dolls to bed. I love Don Quixote, but I do not wish to\nfight any longer with marionettes, however cunning may be the master-hand\nthat works their wires. Let them go, Sir, on the shelf. The shelf is\nthe proper place for them. On some future occasion you can re-label them\nand bring them out for our amusement. They are an excellent company, and\ngo well through their tricks, and if they are a little unreal, I am not\nthe one to object to unreality in art. The jest was really a good one.\nThe only thing that I cannot understand is why you gave your marionettes\nsuch extraordinary and improbable names.--I remain, Sir, your obedient\nservant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, August 13.\n\n\n\n\nAN ANGLO-INDIAN\'S COMPLAINT\n\n\n(Times, September 26, 1891.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Times.\n\nSIR,--The writer of a letter signed \'An Indian Civilian\' that appears in\nyour issue of today makes a statement about me which I beg you to allow\nme to correct at once.\n\nHe says I have described the Anglo-Indians as being vulgar. This is not\nthe case. Indeed, I have never met a vulgar Anglo-Indian. There may be\nmany, but those whom I have had the pleasure of meeting here have been\nchiefly scholars, men interested in art and thought, men of cultivation;\nnearly all of them have been exceedingly brilliant talkers; some of them\nhave been exceedingly brilliant writers.\n\nWhat I did say--I believe in the pages of the Nineteenth Century\n{158}--was that vulgarity is the distinguishing note of those\nAnglo-Indians whom Mr. Rudyard Kipling loves to write about, and writes\nabout so cleverly. This is quite true, and there is no reason why Mr.\nRudyard Kipling should not select vulgarity as his subject-matter, or as\npart of it. For a realistic artist, certainly, vulgarity is a most\nadmirable subject. How far Mr. Kipling\'s stories really mirror Anglo-\nIndian society I have no idea at all, nor, indeed, am I ever much\ninterested in any correspondence between art and nature. It seems to me\na matter of entirely secondary importance. I do not wish, however, that\nit should be supposed that I was passing a harsh and saugrenu judgment on\nan important and in many ways distinguished class, when I was merely\npointing out the characteristic qualities of some puppets in a\nprose-play.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\nSeptember 25.\n\n\n\n\nA HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES\n\n\nI.\n\n\n(Speaker, December 5, 1891.)\n\nSIR.--I have just purchased, at a price that for any other English\nsixpenny paper I would have considered exorbitant, a copy of the Speaker\nat one of the charming kiosks that decorate Paris; institutions, by the\nway, that I think we should at once introduce into London. The kiosk is\na delightful object, and, when illuminated at night from within, as\nlovely as a fantastic Chinese lantern, especially when the transparent\nadvertisements are from the clever pencil of M. Cheret. In London we\nhave merely the ill-clad newsvendor, whose voice, in spite of the\nadmirable efforts of the Royal College of Music to make England a really\nmusical nation, is always out of tune, and whose rags, badly designed and\nbadly worn, merely emphasise a painful note of uncomely misery, without\nconveying that impression of picturesqueness which is the only thing that\nmakes the poverty of others at all bearable.\n\nIt is not, however, about the establishment of kiosks in London that I\nwish to write to you, though I am of opinion that it is a thing that the\nCounty Council should at once take in hand. The object of my letter is\nto correct a statement made in a paragraph of your interesting paper.\n\nThe writer of the paragraph in question states that the decorative\ndesigns that make lovely my book, A House of Pomegranates, are by the\nhand of Mr. Shannon, while the delicate dreams that separate and herald\neach story are by Mr. Ricketts. The contrary is the case. Mr. Shannon\nis the drawer of the dreams, and Mr. Ricketts is the subtle and fantastic\ndecorator. Indeed, it is to Mr. Ricketts that the entire decorative\ndesign of the book is due, from the selection of the type and the placing\nof the ornamentation, to the completely beautiful cover that encloses the\nwhole. The writer of the paragraph goes on to state that he does not\n\'like the cover.\' This is, no doubt, to be regretted, though it is not a\nmatter of much importance, as there are only two people in the world whom\nit is absolutely necessary that the cover should please. One is Mr.\nRicketts, who designed it, the other is myself, whose book it binds. We\nboth admire it immensely! The reason, however, that your critic gives\nfor his failure to gain from the cover any impression of beauty seems to\nme to show a lack of artistic instinct on his part, which I beg you will\nallow me to try to correct.\n\nHe complains that a portion of the design on the left-hand side of the\ncover reminds him of an Indian club with a house-painter\'s brush on top\nof it, while a portion of the design on the right-hand side suggests to\nhim the idea of \'a chimney-pot hat with a sponge in it.\' Now, I do not\nfor a moment dispute that these are the real impressions your critic\nreceived. It is the spectator, and the mind of the spectator, as I\npointed out in the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, that art really\nmirrors. What I want to indicate is this: the artistic beauty of the\ncover of my book resides in the delicate tracing, arabesques, and massing\nof many coral-red lines on a ground of white ivory, the colour effect\nculminating in certain high gilt notes, and being made still more\npleasurable by the overlapping band of moss-green cloth that holds the\nbook together.\n\nWhat the gilt notes suggest, what imitative parallel may be found to them\nin that chaos that is termed Nature, is a matter of no importance. They\nmay suggest, as they do sometimes to me, peacocks and pomegranates and\nsplashing fountains of gold water, or, as they do to your critic, sponges\nand Indian clubs and chimney-pot hats. Such suggestions and evocations\nhave nothing whatsoever to do with the aesthetic quality and value of the\ndesign. A thing in Nature becomes much lovelier if it reminds us of a\nthing in Art, but a thing in Art gains no real beauty through reminding\nus of a thing in Nature. The primary aesthetic impression of a work of\nart borrows nothing from recognition or resemblance. These belong to a\nlater and less perfect stage of apprehension.\n\nProperly speaking, they are no part of a real aesthetic impression at\nall, and the constant preoccupation with subject-matter that\ncharacterises nearly all our English art-criticism, is what makes our art-\ncriticisms, especially as regards literature, so sterile, so profitless,\nso much beside the mark, and of such curiously little account.--I remain,\nSir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\nBOULEVARD DES CAPUCINES, PARIS.\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1891.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.\n\nSIR,--I have just had sent to me from London a copy of the Pall Mall\nGazette, containing a review of my book A House of Pomegranates. {163}\nThe writer of this review makes a certain suggestion which I beg you will\nallow me to correct at once.\n\nHe starts by asking an extremely silly question, and that is, whether or\nnot I have written this book for the purpose of giving pleasure to the\nBritish child. Having expressed grave doubts on this subject, a subject\non which I cannot conceive any fairly educated person having any doubts\nat all, he proceeds, apparently quite seriously, to make the extremely\nlimited vocabulary at the disposal of the British child the standard by\nwhich the prose of an artist is to be judged! Now, in building this\nHouse of Pomegranates, I had about as much intention of pleasing the\nBritish child as I had of pleasing the British public. Mamilius is as\nentirely delightful as Caliban is entirely detestable, but neither the\nstandard of Mamilius nor the standard of Caliban is my standard. No\nartist recognises any standard of beauty but that which is suggested by\nhis own temperament. The artist seeks to realise, in a certain material,\nhis immaterial idea of beauty, and thus to transform an idea into an\nideal. That is the way an artist makes things. That is why an artist\nmakes things. The artist has no other object in making things. Does\nyour reviewer imagine that Mr. Shannon, for instance, whose delicate and\nlovely illustrations he confesses himself quite unable to see, draws for\nthe purpose of giving information to the blind?--I remain, Sir, your\nobedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\nBOULEVARD DES CAPUCINES, PARIS.\n\n\n\n\nPUPPETS AND ACTORS\n\n\n(Daily Telegraph, February 20, 1892.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Daily Telegraph.\n\nSIR,--I have just been sent an article that seems to have appeared in\nyour paper some days ago, {164} in which it is stated that, in the course\nof some remarks addressed to the Playgoers\' Club on the occasion of my\ntaking the chair at their last meeting, I laid it down as an axiom that\nthe stage is only \'a frame furnished with a set of puppets.\'\n\nNow, it is quite true that I hold that the stage is to a play no more\nthan a picture-frame is to a painting, and that the actable value of a\nplay has nothing whatsoever to do with its value as a work of art. In\nthis century, in England, to take an obvious example, we have had only\ntwo great plays--one is Shelley\'s Cenci, the other Mr. Swinburne\'s\nAtalanta in Calydon, and neither of them is in any sense of the word an\nactable play. Indeed, the mere suggestion that stage representation is\nany test of a work of art is quite ridiculous. In the production of\nBrowning\'s plays, for instance, in London and at Oxford, what was being\ntested was obviously the capacity of the modern stage to represent, in\nany adequate measure or degree, works of introspective method and strange\nor sterile psychology. But the artistic value of Strqfford or In a\nBalcony was settled when Robert Browning wrote their last lines. It is\nnot, Sir, by the mimes that the muses are to be judged.\n\nSo far, the writer of the article in question is right. Where he goes\nwrong is in saying that I describe this frame--the stage--as being\nfurnished with a set of puppets. He admits that he speaks only by\nreport, but he should have remembered, Sir, that report is not merely a\nlying jade, which, personally, I would willingly forgive her, but a jade\nwho lies without lovely invention is a thing that I, at any rate, can\nforgive her, never.\n\nWhat I really said was that the frame we call the stage was \'peopled with\neither living actors or moving puppets,\' and I pointed out briefly, of\nnecessity, that the personality of the actor is often a source of danger\nin the perfect presentation of a work of art. It may distort. It may\nlead astray. It may be a discord in the tone or symphony. For anybody\ncan act. Most people in England do nothing else. To be conventional is\nto be a comedian. To act a particular part, however, is a very different\nthing, and a very difficult thing as well. The actor\'s aim is, or should\nbe, to convert his own accidental personality into the real and essential\npersonality of the character he is called upon to personate, whatever\nthat character may be; or perhaps I should say that there are two schools\nof action--the school of those who attain their effect by exaggeration of\npersonality, and the school of those who attain it by suppression. It\nwould be too long to discuss these schools, or to decide which of them\nthe dramatist loves best. Let me note the danger of personality, and\npass to my puppets.\n\nThere are many advantages in puppets. They never argue. They have no\ncrude views about art. They have no private lives. We are never\nbothered by accounts of their virtues, or bored by recitals of their\nvices; and when they are out of an engagement they never do good in\npublic or save people from drowning, nor do they speak more than is set\ndown for them. They recognise the presiding intellect of the dramatist,\nand have never been known to ask for their parts to be written up. They\nare admirably docile, and have no personalities at all. I saw lately, in\nParis, a performance by certain puppets of Shakespeare\'s Tempest, in M.\nMaurice Boucher\'s translation. Miranda was the mirage of Miranda,\nbecause an artist has so fashioned her; and Ariel was true Ariel, because\nso had she been made. Their gestures were quite sufficient, and the\nwords that seemed to come from their little lips were spoken by poets who\nhad beautiful voices. It was a delightful performance, and I remember it\nstill with delight, though Miranda took no notice of the flowers I sent\nher after the curtain fell. For modern plays, however, perhaps we had\nbetter have living players, for in modern plays actuality is everything.\nThe charm--the ineffable charm--of the unreal is here denied us, and\nrightly.\n\nSuffer me one more correction. Your writer describes the author of the\nbrilliant fantastic lecture on \'The Modern Actor\' as a protege of mine.\nAllow me to state that my acquaintance with Mr. John Gray is, I regret to\nsay, extremely recent, and that I sought it because he had already a\nperfected mode of expression both in prose and verse. All artists in\nthis vulgar age need protection certainly. Perhaps they have always\nneeded it. But the nineteenth-century artist finds it not in Prince, or\nPope, or Patron, but in high indifference of temper, in the pleasure of\nthe creation of beautiful things, and the long contemplation of them, in\ndisdain of what in life is common and ignoble and in such felicitous\nsense of humour as enables one to see how vain and foolish is all popular\nopinion, and popular judgment, upon the wonderful things of art. These\nqualities Mr. John Gray possesses in a marked degree. He needs no other\nprotection, nor, indeed, would he accept it.--I remain, Sir, your\nobedient servant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nLADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN: AN EXPLANATION\n\n\n(St. James\'s Gazette, February 27, 1892.)\n\nTo the Editor of the St. James\'s Gazette.\n\nSIR,--Allow me to correct a statement put forward in your issue of this\nevening to the effect that I have made a certain alteration in my play in\nconsequence of the criticism of some journalists who write very\nrecklessly and very foolishly in the papers about dramatic art. This\nstatement is entirely untrue and grossly ridiculous.\n\nThe facts are as follows. On last Saturday night, after the play was\nover, and the author, cigarette in hand, had delivered a delightful and\nimmortal speech, I had the pleasure of entertaining at supper a small\nnumber of personal friends; and as none of them was older than myself I,\nnaturally, listened to their artistic views with attention and pleasure.\nThe opinions of the old on matters of Art are, of course, of no value\nwhatsoever. The artistic instincts of the young are invariably\nfascinating; and I am bound to state that all my friends, without\nexception, were of opinion that the psychological interest of the second\nact would be greatly increased by the disclosure of the actual\nrelationship existing between Lady Windermere and Mrs. Erlynne--an\nopinion, I may add, that had previously been strongly held and urged by\nMr. Alexander.\n\nAs to those of us who do not look on a play as a mere question of\npantomime and clowning psychological interest is everything, I\ndetermined, consequently, to make a change in the precise moment of\nrevelation. This determination, however, was entered into long before I\nhad the opportunity of studying the culture, courtesy, and critical\nfaculty displayed in such papers as the Referee, Reynolds\', and the\nSunday Sun.\n\nWhen criticism becomes in England a real art, as it should be, and when\nnone but those of artistic instinct and artistic cultivation is allowed\nto write about works of art, artists will, no doubt, read criticisms with\na certain amount of intellectual interest. As things are at present, the\ncriticisms of ordinary newspapers are of no interest whatsoever, except\nin so far as they display, in its crudest form, the Boeotianism of a\ncountry that has produced some Athenians, and in which some Athenians\nhave come to dwell.--I am, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\nFebruary 26.\n\n\n\n\nSALOME\n\n\n(Times, March 2, 1893.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Times.\n\nSIR,--My attention has been drawn to a review of Salome which was\npublished in your columns last week. {170} The opinions of English\ncritics on a French work of mine have, of course, little, if any,\ninterest for me. I write simply to ask you to allow me to correct a\nmisstatement that appears in the review in question.\n\nThe fact that the greatest tragic actress of any stage now living saw in\nmy play such beauty that she was anxious to produce it, to take herself\nthe part of the heroine, to lend to the entire poem the glamour of her\npersonality, and to my prose the music of her flute-like voice--this was\nnaturally, and always will be, a source of pride and pleasure to me, and\nI look forward with delight to seeing Mme. Bernhardt present my play in\nParis, that vivid centre of art, where religious dramas are often\nperformed. But my play was in no sense of the words written for this\ngreat actress. I have never written a play for any actor or actress, nor\nshall I ever do so. Such work is for the artisan in literature--not for\nthe artist.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THIRTEEN CLUB\n\n\n(Times, January 16, 1894.)\n\nAt a dinner of the Thirteen Club held at the Holborn Restaurant on\nJanuary 13, 1894, the Chairman (Mr. Harry Furniss) announced that from\nMr. Oscar Wilde the following letter had been received:--\n\nI have to thank the members of your Club for their kind invitation, for\nwhich convey to them, I beg you, my sincere thanks. But I love\nsuperstitions. They are the colour element of thought and imagination.\nThey are the opponents of common sense. Common sense is the enemy of\nromance. The aim of your Society seems to be dreadful. Leave us some\nunreality. Do not make us too offensively sane. I love dining out, but\nwith a Society with so wicked an object as yours I cannot dine. I regret\nit. I am sure you will all be charming, but I could not come, though 13\nis a lucky number.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM\n\n\nI.\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 20, 1894.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.\n\nSIR,--Will you allow me to draw your attention to a very interesting\nexample of the ethics of modern journalism, a quality of which we have\nall heard so much and seen so little?\n\nAbout a month ago Mr. T. P. O\'Connor published in the Sunday Sun some\ndoggerel verses entitled \'The Shamrock,\' and had the amusing impertinence\nto append my name to them as their author. As for some years past all\nkinds of scurrilous personal attacks had been made on me in Mr.\nO\'Connor\'s newspapers, I determined to take no notice at all of the\nincident.\n\nEnraged, however, by my courteous silence, Mr. O\'Connor returns to the\ncharge this week. He now solemnly accuses me of plagiarising the poem he\nhad the vulgarity to attribute to me. {172}\n\nThis seems to me to pass beyond even those bounds of coarse humour and\ncoarser malice that are, by the contempt of all, conceded to the ordinary\njournalist, and it is really very distressing to find so low a standard\nof ethics in a Sunday newspaper.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\nSeptember 18.\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, September 25, 1894.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.\n\nSIR,--The assistant editor of the Sunday Sun, on whom seems to devolve\nthe arduous duty of writing Mr. T. P. O\'Connor\'s apologies for him, does\nnot, I observe with regret, place that gentleman\'s conduct in any more\nattractive or more honourable light by the attempted explanation that\nappears in the letter published in your issue of today. For the future\nit would be much better if Mr. O\'Connor would always write his own\napologies. That he can do so exceedingly well no one is more ready to\nadmit than myself. I happen to possess one from him.\n\nThe assistant editor\'s explanation, stripped of its unnecessary verbiage,\namounts to this: It is now stated that some months ago, somebody, whose\nname, observe, is not given, forwarded to the office of the Sunday Sun a\nmanuscript in his own handwriting, containing some fifth-rate verses with\nmy name appended to them as their author. The assistant editor frankly\nadmits that they had grave doubts about my being capable of such an\nastounding production. To me, I must candidly say, it seems more\nprobable that they never for a single moment believed that the verses\nwere really from my pen. Literary instinct is, of course, a very rare\nthing, and it would be too much to expect any true literary instinct to\nbe found among the members of the staff of an ordinary newspaper; but had\nMr. O\'Connor really thought that the production, such as it is, was mine,\nhe would naturally have asked my permission before publishing it. Great\nlicence of comment and attack of every kind is allowed nowadays to\nnewspapers, but no respectable editor would dream of printing and\npublishing a man\'s work without first obtaining his consent.\n\nMr. O\'Connor\'s subsequent conduct in accusing me of plagiarism, when it\nwas proved to him on unimpeachable authority that the verses he had\nvulgarly attributed to me were not by me at all, I have already commented\non. It is perhaps best left to the laughter of the gods and the sorrow\nof men. I would like, however, to point out that when Mr. O\'Connor, with\nthe kind help of his assistant editor, states, as a possible excuse for\nhis original sin, that he and the members of his staff \'took refuge\' in\nthe belief that the verses in question might conceivably be some very\nearly and useful work of mine, he and the members of his staff showed a\nlamentable ignorance of the nature of the artistic temperament. Only\nmediocrities progress. An artist revolves in a cycle of masterpieces,\nthe first of which is no less perfect than the last.\n\nIn conclusion, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in opening to me\nthe columns of your valuable paper, and also to express the hope that the\npainful expose of Mr. O\'Connor\'s conduct that I have been forced to make\nwill have the good result of improving the standard of journalistic\nethics in England.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\nWORTHING, September 22.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREEN CARNATION\n\n\n(Pall Mall Gazette, October 2, 1894.)\n\nTo the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.\n\nSIR,--Kindly allow me to contradict, in the most emphatic manner, the\nsuggestion, made in your issue of Thursday last, and since then copied\ninto many other newspapers, that I am the author of The Green Carnation.\n\nI invented that magnificent flower. But with the middle-class and\nmediocre book that usurps its strangely beautiful name I have, I need\nhardly say, nothing whatsoever to do. The flower is a work of art. The\nbook is not.--I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE.\n\nWORTHING, October 1.\n\n\n\n\nPHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG\n\n\n(Chameleon, December 1894 )\n\nThe first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the\nsecond duty is no one has as yet discovered.\n\nWickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious\nattractiveness of others.\n\nIf the poor only had profiles there would be no difficulty in solving the\nproblem of poverty.\n\nThose who see any difference between soul and body have neither.\n\nA really well-made buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature.\n\nReligions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the record of\ndead religions.\n\nThe well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves.\n\nNothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance.\n\nDulness is the coming of age of seriousness.\n\nIn all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. In\nall important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential.\n\nIf one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.\n\nPleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing ages like\nhappiness.\n\nIt is only by not paying one\'s bills that one can hope to live in the\nmemory of the commercial classes.\n\nNo crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is the conduct\nof others.\n\nOnly the shallow know themselves.\n\nTime is waste of money.\n\nOne should always be a little improbable.\n\nThere is a fatality about all good resolutions. They are invariably made\ntoo soon.\n\nThe only way to atone for being occasionally a little overdressed is by\nbeing always absolutely over-educated.\n\nTo be premature is to be perfect.\n\nAny preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct shows\nan arrested intellectual development.\n\nAmbition is the last refuge of the failure.\n\nA truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it.\n\nIn examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot answer.\n\nGreek dress was in its essence inartistic. Nothing should reveal the\nbody but the body.\n\nOne should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.\n\nIt is only the superficial qualities that last. Man\'s deeper nature is\nsoon found out.\n\nIndustry is the root of all ugliness.\n\nThe ages live in history through their anachronisms.\n\nIt is only the gods who taste of death. Apollo has passed away, but\nHyacinth, whom men say he slew, lives on. Nero and Narcissus are always\nwith us.\n\nThe old believe everything: the middle-aged suspect everything: the young\nknow everything.\n\nThe condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth.\n\nOnly the great masters of style ever succeed in being obscure.\n\nThere is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there\nare in England at the present moment who start life with perfect\nprofiles, and end by adopting some useful profession.\n\nTo love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RISE OF HISTORICAL CRITICISM\n\n\nThe first portion of this essay is given at the end of the volume\ncontaining Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime and Other Prose Pieces. Recently\nthe remainder of the original manuscript has been discovered, and is here\npublished for the first time. It was written for the Chancellor\'s\nEnglish Essay Prize at Oxford in 1879, the subject being \'Historical\nCriticism among the Ancients.\' The prize was not awarded. To Professor\nJ. W. Mackail thanks are due for revising the proofs.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\nIt is evident that here Thucydides is ready to admit the variety of\nmanifestations which external causes bring about in their workings on the\nuniform character of the nature of man. Yet, after all is said, these\nare perhaps but very general statements: the ordinary effects of peace\nand war are dwelt on, but there is no real analysis of the immediate\ncauses and general laws of the phenomena of life, nor does Thucydides\nseem to recognise the truth that if humanity proceeds in circles, the\ncircles are always widening.\n\nPerhaps we may say that with him the philosophy of history is partly in\nthe metaphysical stage, and see, in the progress of this idea from\nHerodotus to Polybius, the exemplification of the Comtian law of the\nthree stages of thought, the theological, the metaphysical, and the\nscientific: for truly out of the vagueness of theological mysticism this\nconception which we call the Philosophy of History was raised to a\nscientific principle, according to which the past was explained and the\nfuture predicted by reference to general laws.\n\nNow, just as the earliest account of the nature of the progress of\nhumanity is to be found in Plato, so in him we find the first explicit\nattempt to found a universal philosophy of history upon wide rational\ngrounds. Having created an ideally perfect state, the philosopher\nproceeds to give an elaborate theory of the complex causes which produce\nrevolutions of the moral effects of various forms of government and\neducation, of the rise of the criminal classes and their connection with\npauperism, and, in a word, to create history by the deductive method and\nto proceed from a priori psychological principles to discover the\ngoverning laws of the apparent chaos of political life.\n\nThere have been many attempts since Plato to deduce from a single\nphilosophical principle all the phenomena which experience subsequently\nverifies for us. Fichte thought he could predict the world-plan from the\nidea of universal time. Hegel dreamed he had found the key to the\nmysteries of life in the development of freedom, and Krause in the\ncategories of being. But the one scientific basis on which the true\nphilosophy of history must rest is the complete knowledge of the laws of\nhuman nature in all its wants, its aspirations, its powers and its\ntendencies: and this great truth, which Thucydides may be said in some\nmeasure to have apprehended, was given to us first by Plato.\n\nNow, it cannot be accurately said of this philosopher that either his\nphilosophy or his history is entirely and simply a priori. On est de son\nsiecle meme quand on y proteste, and so we find in him continual\nreferences to the Spartan mode of life, the Pythagorean system, the\ngeneral characteristics of Greek tyrannies and Greek democracies. For\nwhile, in his account of the method of forming an ideal state, he says\nthat the political artist is indeed to fix his gaze on the sun of\nabstract truth in the heavens of the pure reason, but is sometimes to\nturn to the realisation of the ideals on earth: yet, after all, the\ngeneral character of the Platonic method, which is what we are specially\nconcerned with, is essentially deductive and a priori. And he himself,\nin the building up of his Nephelococcygia, certainly starts with a\n[Greek], making a clean sweep of all history and all experience; and it\nwas essentially as an a priori theorist that he is criticised by\nAristotle, as we shall see later.\n\nTo proceed to closer details regarding the actual scheme of the laws of\npolitical revolutions as drawn out by Plato, we must first note that the\nprimary cause of the decay of the ideal state is the general principle,\ncommon to the vegetable and animal worlds as well as to the world of\nhistory, that all created things are fated to decay--a principle which,\nthough expressed in the terms of a mere metaphysical abstraction, is yet\nperhaps in its essence scientific. For we too must hold that a\ncontinuous redistribution of matter and motion is the inevitable result\nof the normal persistence of Force, and that perfect equilibrium is as\nimpossible in politics as it certainly is in physics.\n\nThe secondary causes which mar the perfection of the Platonic \'city of\nthe sun\' are to be found in the intellectual decay of the race consequent\non injudicious marriages and in the Philistine elevation of physical\nachievements over mental culture; while the hierarchical succession of\nTimocracy and Oligarchy, Democracy and Tyranny, is dwelt on at great\nlength and its causes analysed in a very dramatic and psychological\nmanner, if not in that sanctioned by the actual order of history.\n\nAnd indeed it is apparent at first sight that the Platonic succession of\nstates represents rather the succession of ideas in the philosophic mind\nthan any historical succession of time.\n\nAristotle meets the whole simply by an appeal to facts. If the theory of\nthe periodic decay of all created things, he urges, be scientific, it\nmust be universal, and so true of all the other states as well as of the\nideal. Besides, a state usually changes into its contrary and not to the\nform next to it; so the ideal state would not change into Timocracy;\nwhile Oligarchy, more often than Tyranny, succeeds Democracy. Plato,\nbesides, says nothing of what a Tyranny would change to. According to\nthe cycle theory it ought to pass into the ideal state again, but as a\nfact one Tyranny is changed into another as at Sicyon, or into a\nDemocracy as at Syracuse, or into an Aristocracy as at Carthage. The\nexample of Sicily, too, shows that an Oligarchy is often followed by a\nTyranny, as at Leontini and Gela. Besides, it is absurd to represent\ngreed as the chief motive of decay, or to talk of avarice as the root of\nOligarchy, when in nearly all true oligarchies money-making is forbidden\nby law. And finally the Platonic theory neglects the different kinds of\ndemocracies and of tyrannies.\n\nNow nothing can be more important than this passage in Aristotle\'s\nPolitics (v. 12.), which may be said to mark an era in the evolution of\nhistorical criticism. For there is nothing on which Aristotle insists so\nstrongly as that the generalisations from facts ought to be added to the\ndata of the a priori method--a principle which we know to be true not\nmerely of deductive speculative politics but of physics also: for are not\nthe residual phenomena of chemists a valuable source of improvement in\ntheory?\n\nHis own method is essentially historical though by no means empirical. On\nthe contrary, this far-seeing thinker, rightly styled il maestro di color\nche sanno, may be said to have apprehended clearly that the true method\nis neither exclusively empirical nor exclusively speculative, but rather\na union of both in the process called Analysis or the Interpretation of\nFacts, which has been defined as the application to facts of such general\nconceptions as may fix the important characteristics of the phenomena,\nand present them permanently in their true relations. He too was the\nfirst to point out, what even in our own day is incompletely appreciated,\nthat nature, including the development of man, is not full of incoherent\nepisodes like a bad tragedy, that inconsistency and anomaly are as\nimpossible in the moral as they are in the physical world, and that where\nthe superficial observer thinks he sees a revolution the philosophical\ncritic discerns merely the gradual and rational evolution of the\ninevitable results of certain antecedents.\n\nAnd while admitting the necessity of a psychological basis for the\nphilosophy of history, he added to it the important truth that man, to be\napprehended in his proper position in the universe as well as in his\nnatural powers, must be studied from below in the hierarchical\nprogression of higher function from the lower forms of life. The\nimportant maxim, that to obtain a clear conception of anything we must\n\'study it in its growth from the very beginning\' is formally set down in\nthe opening of the Politics, where, indeed, we shall find the other\ncharacteristic features of the modern Evolutionary theory, such as the\n\'Differentiation of Function\' and the \'Survival of the Fittest\'\nexplicitly set forth.\n\nWhat a valuable step this was in the improvement of the method of\nhistorical criticism it is needless to point out. By it, one may say,\nthe true thread was given to guide one\'s steps through the bewildering\nlabyrinth of facts. For history (to use terms with which Aristotle has\nmade us familiar) may be looked at from two essentially different\nstandpoints; either as a work of art whose [Greek] or final cause is\nexternal to it and imposed on it from without; or as an organism\ncontaining the law of its own development in itself, and working out its\nperfection merely by the fact of being what it is. Now, if we adopt the\nformer, which we may style the theological view, we shall be in continual\ndanger of tripping into the pitfall of some a priori conclusion--that\nbourne from which, it has been truly said, no traveller ever returns.\n\nThe latter is the only scientific theory and was apprehended in its\nfulness by Aristotle, whose application of the inductive method to\nhistory, and whose employment of the evolutionary theory of humanity,\nshow that he was conscious that the philosophy of history is nothing\nseparate from the facts of history but is contained in them, and that the\nrational law of the complex phenomena of life, like the ideal in the\nworld of thought, is to be reached through the facts, not superimposed on\nthem-- [Greek] not [Greek].\n\nAnd finally, in estimating the enormous debt which the science of\nhistorical criticism owes to Aristotle, we must not pass over his\nattitude towards those two great difficulties in the formation of a\nphilosophy of history on which I have touched above. I mean the\nassertion of extra-natural interference with the normal development of\nthe world and of the incalculable influence exercised by the power of\nfree will.\n\nNow, as regards the former, he may be said to have neglected it entirely.\nThe special acts of providence proceeding from God\'s immediate government\nof the world, which Herodotus saw as mighty landmarks in history, would\nhave been to him essentially disturbing elements in that universal reign\nof law, the extent of whose limitless empire he of all the great thinkers\nof antiquity was the first explicitly to recognise.\n\nStanding aloof from the popular religion as well as from the deeper\nconceptions of Herodotus and the Tragic School, he no longer thought of\nGod as of one with fair limbs and treacherous face haunting wood and\nglade, nor would he see in him a jealous judge continually interfering in\nthe world\'s history to bring the wicked to punishment and the proud to a\nfall. God to him was the incarnation of the pure Intellect, a being\nwhose activity was the contemplation of his own perfection, one whom\nPhilosophy might imitate but whom prayers could never move, to the\nsublime indifference of whose passionless wisdom what were the sons of\nmen, their desires or their sins? While, as regards the other difficulty\nand the formation of a philosophy of history, the conflict of free will\nwith general laws appears first in Greek thought in the usual theological\nform in which all great ideas seem to be cradled at their birth.\n\nIt was such legends as those of OEdipus and Adrastus, exemplifying the\nstruggles of individual humanity against the overpowering force of\ncircumstances and necessity, which gave to the early Greeks those same\nlessons which we of modern days draw, in somewhat less artistic fashion,\nfrom the study of statistics and the laws of physiology.\n\nIn Aristotle, of course, there is no trace of supernatural influence. The\nFuries, which drive their victim into sin first and then punishment, are\nno longer \'viper-tressed goddesses with eyes and mouth aflame,\' but those\nevil thoughts which harbour within the impure soul. In this, as in all\nother points, to arrive at Aristotle is to reach the pure atmosphere of\nscientific and modern thought.\n\nBut while he rejected pure necessitarianism in its crude form as\nessentially a reductio ad absurdum of life, he was fully conscious of the\nfact that the will is not a mysterious and ultimate unit of force beyond\nwhich we cannot go and whose special characteristic is inconsistency, but\na certain creative attitude of the mind which is, from the first,\ncontinually influenced by habits, education and circumstance; so\nabsolutely modifiable, in a word, that the good and the bad man alike\nseem to lose the power of free will; for the one is morally unable to\nsin, the other physically incapacitated for reformation.\n\nAnd of the influence of climate and temperature in forming the nature of\nman (a conception perhaps pressed too far in modern days when the \'race\ntheory\' is supposed to be a sufficient explanation of the Hindoo, and the\nlatitude and longitude of a country the best guide to its morals {188})\nAristotle is completely unaware. I do not allude to such smaller points\nas the oligarchical tendencies of a horse-breeding country and the\ndemocratic influence of the proximity of the sea (important though they\nare for the consideration of Greek history), but rather to those wider\nviews in the seventh book of his Politics, where he attributes the happy\nunion in the Greek character of intellectual attainments with the spirit\nof progress to the temperate climate they enjoyed, and points out how the\nextreme cold of the north dulls the mental faculties of its inhabitants\nand renders them incapable of social organisation or extended empire;\nwhile to the enervating heat of eastern countries was due that want of\nspirit and bravery which then, as now, was the characteristic of the\npopulation in that quarter of the globe.\n\nThucydides has shown the causal connection between political revolutions\nand the fertility of the soil, but goes a step farther and points out the\npsychological influences on a people\'s character exercised by the various\nextremes of climate--in both cases the first appearance of a most\nvaluable form of historical criticism.\n\nTo the development of Dialectic, as to God, intervals of time are of no\naccount. From Plato and Aristotle we pass direct to Polybius.\n\nThe progress of thought from the philosopher of the Academe to the\nArcadian historian may be best illustrated by a comparison of the method\nby which each of the three writers, whom I have selected as the highest\nexpressions of the rationalism of his respective age, attained to his\nideal state: for the latter conception may be in a measure regarded as\nrepresenting the most spiritual principle which they could discern in\nhistory.\n\nNow, Plato created his on a priori principles: Aristotle formed his by an\nanalysis of existing constitutions; Polybius found his realised for him\nin the actual world of fact. Aristotle criticised the deductive\nspeculations of Plato by means of inductive negative instances, but\nPolybius will not take the \'Cloud City\' of the Republic into account at\nall. He compares it to an athlete who has never run on \'Constitution\nHill,\' to a statue so beautiful that it is entirely removed from the\nordinary conditions of humanity, and consequently from the canons of\ncriticism.\n\nThe Roman state had attained in his eyes, by means of the mutual\ncounteraction of three opposing forces, {190} that stable equilibrium in\npolitics which was the ideal of all the theoretical writers of antiquity.\nAnd in connection with this point it will be convenient to notice here\nhow much truth there is contained in the accusation so often brought\nagainst the ancients that they knew nothing of the idea of Progress, for\nthe meaning of many of their speculations will be hidden from us if we do\nnot try and comprehend first what their aim was, and secondly why it was\nso.\n\nNow, like all wide generalities, this statement is at least inaccurate.\nThe prayer of Plato\'s ideal city--[Greek], might be written as a text\nover the door of the last Temple to Humanity raised by the disciples of\nFourier and Saint Simon, but it is certainly true that their ideal\nprinciple was order and permanence, not indefinite progress. For,\nsetting aside the artistic prejudices which would have led the Greeks to\nreject this idea of unlimited improvement, we may note that the modern\nconception of progress rests partly on the new enthusiasm and worship of\nhumanity, partly on the splendid hopes of material improvements in\ncivilisation which applied science has held out to us, two influences\nfrom which ancient Greek thought seems to have been strangely free. For\nthe Greeks marred the perfect humanism of the great men whom they\nworshipped, by imputing to them divinity and its supernatural powers;\nwhile their science was eminently speculative and often almost mystic in\nits character, aiming at culture and not utility, at higher spirituality\nand more intense reverence for law, rather than at the increased\nfacilities of locomotion and the cheap production of common things about\nwhich our modern scientific school ceases not to boast. And lastly, and\nperhaps chiefly, we must remember that the \'plague spot of all Greek\nstates,\' as one of their own writers has called it, was the terrible\ninsecurity to life and property which resulted from the factions and\nrevolutions which ceased not to trouble Greece at all times, raising a\nspirit of fanaticism such as religion raised in the middle ages of\nEurope.\n\nThese considerations, then, will enable us to understand first how it was\nthat, radical and unscrupulous reformers as the Greek political theorists\nwere, yet, their end once attained, no modern conservatives raised such\noutcry against the slightest innovation. Even acknowledged improvements\nin such things as the games of children or the modes of music were\nregarded by them with feelings of extreme apprehension as the herald of\nthe drapeau rouge of reform. And secondly, it will show us how it was\nthat Polybius found his ideal in the commonwealth of Rome, and Aristotle,\nlike Mr. Bright, in the middle classes. Polybius, however, is not\ncontent merely with pointing out his ideal state, but enters at\nconsiderable length into the question of those general laws whose\nconsideration forms the chief essential of the philosophy of history.\n\nHe starts by accepting the general principle that all things are fated to\ndecay (which I noticed in the case of Plato), and that \'as iron produces\nrust and as wood breeds the animals that destroy it, so every state has\nin it the seeds of its own corruption.\' He is not, however, content to\nrest there, but proceeds to deal with the more immediate causes of\nrevolutions, which he says are twofold in nature, either external or\ninternal. Now, the former, depending as they do on the synchronous\nconjunction of other events outside the sphere of scientific estimation,\nare from their very character incalculable; but the latter, though\nassuming many forms, always result from the over-great preponderance of\nany single element to the detriment of the others, the rational law lying\nat the base of all varieties of political changes being that stability\ncan result only from the statical equilibrium produced by the\ncounteraction of opposing parts, since the more simple a constitution is\nthe more it is insecure. Plato had pointed out before how the extreme\nliberty of a democracy always resulted in despotism, but Polybius\nanalyses the law and shows the scientific principles on which it rests.\n\nThe doctrine of the instability of pure constitutions forms an important\nera in the philosophy of history. Its special applicability to the\npolitics of our own day has been illustrated in the rise of the great\nNapoleon, when the French state had lost those divisions of caste and\nprejudice, of landed aristocracy and moneyed interest, institutions in\nwhich the vulgar see only barriers to Liberty but which are indeed the\nonly possible defences against the coming of that periodic Sirius of\npolitics, the [Greek]\n\nThere is a principle which Tocqueville never wearies of explaining, and\nwhich has been subsumed by Mr. Herbert Spencer under that general law\ncommon to all organic bodies which we call the Instability of the\nHomogeneous. The various manifestations of this law, as shown in the\nnormal, regular revolutions and evolutions of the different forms of\ngovernment, {193a} are expounded with great clearness by Polybius, who\nclaimed for his theory in the Thucydidean spirit, that it is a [Greek],\nnot a mere [Greek], and that a knowledge of it will enable the impartial\nobserver {193b} to discover at any time what period of its constitutional\nevolution any particular state has already reached and into what form it\nwill be next differentiated, though possibly the exact time of the\nchanges may be more or less uncertain. {193c}\n\nNow in this necessarily incomplete account of the laws of political\nrevolutions as expounded by Polybius enough perhaps has been said to show\nwhat is his true position in the rational development of the \'Idea\' which\nI have called the Philosophy of History, because it is the unifying of\nhistory. Seen darkly as it is through the glass of religion in the pages\nof Herodotus, more metaphysical than scientific with Thucydides, Plato\nstrove to seize it by the eagle-flight of speculation, to reach it with\nthe eager grasp of a soul impatient of those slower and surer inductive\nmethods which Aristotle, in his trenchant criticism of his great master,\nshowed were more brilliant than any vague theory, if the test of\nbrilliancy is truth.\n\nWhat then is the position of Polybius? Does any new method remain for\nhim? Polybius was one of those many men who are born too late to be\noriginal. To Thucydides belongs the honour of being the first in the\nhistory of Greek thought to discern the supreme calm of law and order\nunderlying the fitful storms of life, and Plato and Aristotle each\nrepresents a great new principle. To Polybius belongs the office--how\nnoble an office he made it his writings show--of making more explicit the\nideas which were implicit in his predecessors, of showing that they were\nof wider applicability and perhaps of deeper meaning than they had seemed\nbefore, of examining with more minuteness the laws which they had\ndiscovered, and finally of pointing out more clearly than any one had\ndone the range of science and the means it offered for analysing the\npresent and predicting what was to come. His office thus was to gather\nup what they had left, to give their principles new life by a wider\napplication.\n\nPolybius ends this great diapason of Greek thought. When the Philosophy\nof history appears next, as in Plutarch\'s tract on \'Why God\'s anger is\ndelayed,\' the pendulum of thought had swung back to where it began. His\ntheory was introduced to the Romans under the cultured style of Cicero,\nand was welcomed by them as the philosophical panegyric of their state.\nThe last notice of it in Latin literature is in the pages of Tacitus, who\nalludes to the stable polity formed out of these elements as a\nconstitution easier to commend than to produce and in no case lasting.\nYet Polybius had seen the future with no uncertain eye, and had\nprophesied the rise of the Empire from the unbalanced power of the\nochlocracy fifty years and more before there was joy in the Julian\nhousehold over the birth of that boy who, borne to power as the champion\nof the people, died wearing the purple of a king.\n\nNo attitude of historical criticism is more important than the means by\nwhich the ancients attained to the philosophy of history. The principle\nof heredity can be exemplified in literature as well as in organic life:\nAristotle, Plato and Polybius are the lineal ancestors of Fichte and\nHegel, of Vico and Cousin, of Montesquieu and Tocqueville.\n\nAs my aim is not to give an account of historians but to point out those\ngreat thinkers whose methods have furthered the advance of this spirit of\nhistorical criticism, I shall pass over those annalists and chroniclers\nwho intervened between Thucydides and Polybius. Yet perhaps it may serve\nto throw new light on the real nature of this spirit and its intimate\nconnection with all other forms of advanced thought if I give some\nestimate of the character and rise of those many influences prejudicial\nto the scientific study of history which cause such a wide gap between\nthese two historians.\n\nForemost among these is the growing influence of rhetoric and the\nIsocratean school, which seems to have regarded history as an arena for\nthe display of either pathos or paradoxes, not a scientific investigation\ninto laws.\n\nThe new age is the age of style. The same spirit of exclusive attention\nto form which made Euripides often, like Swinburne, prefer music to\nmeaning and melody to morality, which gave to the later Greek statues\nthat refined effeminacy, that overstrained gracefulness of attitude, was\nfelt in the sphere of history. The rules laid down for historical\ncomposition are those relating to the aesthetic value of digressions, the\nlegality of employing more than one metaphor in the same sentence, and\nthe like; and historians are ranked not by their power of estimating\nevidence but by the goodness of the Greek they write.\n\nI must note also the important influence on literature exercised by\nAlexander the Great; for while his travels encouraged the more accurate\nresearch of geography, the very splendour of his achievements seems to\nhave brought history again into the sphere of romance. The appearance of\nall great men in the world is followed invariably by the rise of that\nmythopoeic spirit and that tendency to look for the marvellous, which is\nso fatal to true historical criticism. An Alexander, a Napoleon, a\nFrancis of Assisi and a Mahomet are thought to be outside the limiting\nconditions of rational law, just as comets were supposed to be not very\nlong ago. While the founding of that city of Alexandria, in which\nWestern and Eastern thought met with such strange result to both,\ndiverted the critical tendencies of the Greek spirit into questions of\ngrammar, philology and the like, the narrow, artificial atmosphere of\nthat University town (as we may call it) was fatal to the development of\nthat independent and speculative spirit of research which strikes out new\nmethods of inquiry, of which historical criticism is one.\n\nThe Alexandrines combined a great love of learning with an ignorance of\nthe true principles of research, an enthusiastic spirit for accumulating\nmaterials with a wonderful incapacity to use them. Not among the hot\nsands of Egypt, or the Sophists of Athens, but from the very heart of\nGreece rises the man of genius on whose influence in the evolution of the\nphilosophy of history I have a short time ago dwelt. Born in the serene\nand pure air of the clear uplands of Arcadia, Polybius may be said to\nreproduce in his work the character of the place which gave him birth.\nFor, of all the historians--I do not say of antiquity but of all\ntime--none is more rationalistic than he, none more free from any belief\nin the \'visions and omens, the monstrous legends, the grovelling\nsuperstitions and unmanly craving for the supernatural\' ([Greek] {197a})\nwhich he is compelled to notice himself as the characteristics of some of\nthe historians who preceded him. Fortunate in the land which bore him,\nhe was no less blessed in the wondrous time of his birth. For,\nrepresenting in himself the spiritual supremacy of the Greek intellect\nand allied in bonds of chivalrous friendship to the world-conqueror of\nhis day, he seems led as it were by the hand of Fate \'to comprehend,\' as\nhas been said, \'more clearly than the Romans themselves the historical\nposition of Rome,\' and to discern with greater insight than all other men\ncould those two great resultants of ancient civilisation, the material\nempire of the city of the seven hills, and the intellectual sovereignty\nof Hellas.\n\nBefore his own day, he says, {197b} the events of the world were\nunconnected and separate and the histories confined to particular\ncountries. Now, for the first time the universal empire of the Romans\nrendered a universal history possible. {198a} This, then, is the august\nmotive of his work: to trace the gradual rise of this Italian city from\nthe day when the first legion crossed the narrow strait of Messina and\nlanded on the fertile fields of Sicily to the time when Corinth in the\nEast and Carthage in the West fell before the resistless wave of empire\nand the eagles of Rome passed on the wings of universal victory from\nCalpe and the Pillars of Hercules to Syria and the Nile. At the same\ntime he recognised that the scheme of Rome\'s empire was worked out under\nthe aegis of God\'s will. {198b} For, as one of the Middle Age scribes\nmost truly says, the [Greek] of Polybius is that power which we\nChristians call God; the second aim, as one may call it, of his history\nis to point out the rational and human and natural causes which brought\nthis result, distinguishing, as we should say, between God\'s mediate and\nimmediate government of the world.\n\nWith any direct intervention of God in the normal development of Man, he\nwill have nothing to do: still less with any idea of chance as a factor\nin the phenomena of life. Chance and miracles, he says, are mere\nexpressions for our ignorance of rational causes. The spirit of\nrationalism which we recognised in Herodotus as a vague uncertain\nattitude and which appears in Thucydides as a consistent attitude of mind\nnever argued about or even explained, is by Polybius analysed and\nformulated as the great instrument of historical research.\n\nHerodotus, while believing on principle in the supernatural, yet was\nsceptical at times. Thucydides simply ignored the supernatural. He did\nnot discuss it, but he annihilated it by explaining history without it.\nPolybius enters at length into the whole question and explains its origin\nand the method of treating it. Herodotus would have believed in Scipio\'s\ndream. Thucydides would have ignored it entirely. Polybius explains it.\nHe is the culmination of the rational progression of Dialectic.\n\'Nothing,\' he says, \'shows a foolish mind more than the attempt to\naccount for any phenomena on the principle of chance or supernatural\nintervention. History is a search for rational causes, and there is\nnothing in the world--even those phenomena which seem to us the most\nremote from law and improbable--which is not the logical and inevitable\nresult of certain rational antecedents.\'\n\nSome things, of course, are to be rejected a priori without entering into\nthe subject: \'As regards such miracles,\' he says, {199} \'as that on a\ncertain statue of Artemis rain or snow never falls though the statue\nstands in the open air, or that those who enter God\'s shrine in Arcadia\nlose their natural shadows, I cannot really be expected to argue upon the\nsubject. For these things are not only utterly improbable but absolutely\nimpossible.\'\n\n\'For us to argue reasonably on an acknowledged absurdity is as vain a\ntask as trying to catch water in a sieve; it is really to admit the\npossibility of the supernatural, which is the very point at issue.\'\n\nWhat Polybius felt was that to admit the possibility of a miracle is to\nannihilate the possibility of history: for just as scientific and\nchemical experiments would be either impossible or useless if exposed to\nthe chance of continued interference on the part of some foreign body, so\nthe laws and principles which govern history, the causes of phenomena,\nthe evolution of progress, the whole science, in a word, of man\'s\ndealings with his own race and with nature, will remain a sealed book to\nhim who admits the possibility of extra-natural interference.\n\nThe stories of miracles, then, are to be rejected on a priori rational\ngrounds, but in the case of events which we know to have happened the\nscientific historian will not rest till he has discovered their natural\ncauses which, for instance, in the case of the wonderful rise of the\nRoman Empire--the most marvellous thing, Polybius says, which God ever\nbrought about {200a}--are to be found in the excellence of their\nconstitution ([Greek]), the wisdom of their advisers, their splendid\nmilitary arrangements, and their superstition ([Greek]). For while\nPolybius regarded the revealed religion as, of course, objective reality\nof truth, {200b} he laid great stress on its moral subjective influence,\ngoing, in one passage on the subject, even so far as almost to excuse the\nintroduction of the supernatural in very small quantities into history on\naccount of the extremely good effect it would have on pious people.\n\nBut perhaps there is no passage in the whole of ancient and modern\nhistory which breathes such a manly and splendid spirit of rationalism as\none preserved to us in the Vatican--strange resting-place for it!--in\nwhich he treats of the terrible decay of population which had fallen on\nhis native land in his own day, and which by the general orthodox public\nwas regarded as a special judgment of God, sending childlessness on women\nas a punishment for the sins of the people. For it was a disaster quite\nwithout parallel in the history of the land, and entirely unforeseen by\nany of its political-economy writers who, on the contrary, were always\nanticipating that danger would arise from an excess of population\noverrunning its means of subsistence, and becoming unmanageable through\nits size. Polybius, however, will have nothing to do with either priest\nor worker of miracles in this matter. He will not even seek that \'sacred\nHeart of Greece,\' Delphi, Apollo\'s shrine, whose inspiration even\nThucydides admitted and before whose wisdom Socrates bowed. How foolish,\nhe says, were the man who on this matter would pray to God. We must\nsearch for the rational causes, and the causes are seen to be clear, and\nthe method of prevention also. He then proceeds to notice how all this\narose from the general reluctance to marriage and to bearing the expense\nof educating a large family which resulted from the carelessness and\navarice of the men of his day, and he explains on entirely rational\nprinciples the whole of this apparently supernatural judgment.\n\nNow, it is to be borne in mind that while his rejection of miracles as\nviolation of inviolable laws is entirely a priori--for, discussion of\nsuch a matter is, of course, impossible for a rational thinker--yet his\nrejection of supernatural intervention rests entirely on the scientific\ngrounds of the necessity of looking for natural causes. And he is quite\nlogical in maintaining his position on these principles. For, where it\nis either difficult or impossible to assign any rational cause for\nphenomena, or to discover their laws, he acquiesces reluctantly in the\nalternative of admitting some extra-natural interference which his\nessentially scientific method of treating the matter has logically forced\non him, approving, for instance, of prayers for rain, on the express\nground that the laws of meteorology had not yet been ascertained. He\nwould, of course, have been the first to welcome our modern discoveries\nin the matter. The passage in question is in every way one of the most\ninteresting in his whole work, not, of course, as signifying any\ninclination on his part to acquiesce in the supernatural, but because it\nshows how essentially logical and rational his method of argument was,\nand how candid and fair his mind.\n\nHaving now examined Polybius\'s attitude towards the supernatural and the\ngeneral ideas which guided his research, I will proceed to examine the\nmethod he pursued in his scientific investigation of the complex\nphenomena of life. For, as I have said before in the course of this\nessay, what is important in all great writers is not so much the results\nthey arrive at as the methods they pursue. The increased knowledge of\nfacts may alter any conclusion in history as in physical science, and the\ncanons of speculative historical credibility must be acknowledged to\nappeal rather to that subjective attitude of mind which we call the\nhistoric sense than to any formulated objective rules. But a scientific\nmethod is a gain for all time, and the true if not the only progress of\nhistorical criticism consists in the improvement of the instruments of\nresearch.\n\nNow first, as regards his conception of history, I have already pointed\nout that it was to him essentially a search for causes, a problem to be\nsolved, not a picture to be painted, a scientific investigation into laws\nand tendencies, not a mere romantic account of startling incident and\nwondrous adventure. Thucydides, in the opening of his great work, had\nsounded the first note of the scientific conception of history. \'The\nabsence of romance in my pages,\' he says, \'will, I fear, detract somewhat\nfrom its value, but I have written my work not to be the exploit of a\npassing hour but as the possession of all time.\' {203} Polybius follows\nwith words almost entirely similar. If, he says, we banish from history\nthe consideration of causes, methods and motives ([Greek]), and refuse to\nconsider how far the result of anything is its rational consequent, what\nis left is a mere [Greek], not a [Greek], an oratorical essay which may\ngive pleasure for the moment, but which is entirely without any\nscientific value for the explanation of the future. Elsewhere he says\nthat \'history robbed of the exposition of its causes and laws is a\nprofitless thing, though it may allure a fool.\' And all through his\nhistory the same point is put forward and exemplified in every fashion.\n\nSo far for the conception of history. Now for the groundwork. As\nregards the character of the phenomena to be selected by the scientific\ninvestigator, Aristotle had laid down the general formula that nature\nshould be studied in her normal manifestations. Polybius, true to his\ncharacter of applying explicitly the principles implicit in the work of\nothers, follows out the doctrine of Aristotle, and lays particular stress\non the rational and undisturbed character of the development of the Roman\nconstitution as affording special facilities for the discovery of the\nlaws of its progress. Political revolutions result from causes either\nexternal or internal. The former are mere disturbing forces which lie\noutside the sphere of scientific calculation. It is the latter which are\nimportant for the establishing of principles and the elucidation of the\nsequences of rational evolution.\n\nHe thus may be said to have anticipated one of the most important truths\nof the modern methods of investigation: I mean that principle which lays\ndown that just as the study of physiology should precede the study of\npathology, just as the laws of disease are best discovered by the\nphenomena presented in health, so the method of arriving at all great\nsocial and political truths is by the investigation of those cases where\ndevelopment has been normal, rational and undisturbed.\n\nThe critical canon that the more a people has been interfered with, the\nmore difficult it becomes to generalise the laws of its progress and to\nanalyse the separate forces of its civilisation, is one the validity of\nwhich is now generally recognised by those who pretend to a scientific\ntreatment of all history: and while we have seen that Aristotle\nanticipated it in a general formula, to Polybius belongs the honour of\nbeing the first to apply it explicitly in the sphere of history.\n\nI have shown how to this great scientific historian the motive of his\nwork was essentially the search for causes; and true to his analytical\nspirit he is careful to examine what a cause really is and in what part\nof the antecedents of any consequent it is to be looked for. To give an\nillustration: As regards the origin of the war with Perseus, some\nassigned as causes the expulsion of Abrupolis by Perseus, the expedition\nof the latter to Delphi, the plot against Eumenes and the seizure of the\nambassadors in Boeotia; of these incidents the two former, Polybius\npoints out, were merely the pretexts, the two latter merely the occasions\nof the war. The war was really a legacy left to Perseus by his father,\nwho was determined to fight it out with Rome. {205}\n\nHere as elsewhere he is not originating any new idea. Thucydides had\npointed out the difference between the real and the alleged cause, and\nthe Aristotelian dictum about revolutions, [Greek], draws the distinction\nbetween cause and occasion with the brilliancy of an epigram. But the\nexplicit and rational investigation of the difference between [Greek] and\n[Greek] was reserved for Polybius. No canon of historical criticism can\nbe said to be of more real value than that involved in this distinction,\nand the overlooking of it has filled our histories with the contemptible\naccounts of the intrigues of courtiers and of kings and the petty\nplottings of backstairs influence--particulars interesting, no doubt, to\nthose who would ascribe the Reformation to Anne Boleyn\'s pretty face, the\nPersian war to the influence of a doctor or a curtain-lecture from\nAtossa, or the French Revolution to Madame de Maintenon, but without any\nvalue for those who aim at any scientific treatment of history.\n\nBut the question of method, to which I am compelled always to return, is\nnot yet exhausted. There is another aspect in which it may be regarded,\nand I shall now proceed to treat of it.\n\nOne of the greatest difficulties with which the modern historian has to\ncontend is the enormous complexity of the facts which come under his\nnotice: D\'Alembert\'s suggestion that at the end of every century a\nselection of facts should be made and the rest burned (if it was really\nintended seriously) could not, of course, be entertained for a moment. A\nproblem loses all its value when it becomes simplified, and the world\nwould be all the poorer if the Sybil of History burned her volumes.\nBesides, as Gibbon pointed out, \'a Montesquieu will detect in the most\ninsignificant fact relations which the vulgar overlook.\'\n\nNor can the scientific investigator of history isolate the particular\nelements, which he desires to examine, from disturbing and extraneous\ncauses, as the experimental chemist can do (though sometimes, as in the\ncase of lunatic asylums and prisons, he is enabled to observe phenomena\nin a certain degree of isolation). So he is compelled either to use the\ndeductive mode of arguing from general laws or to employ the method of\nabstraction which gives a fictitious isolation to phenomena never so\nisolated in actual existence. And this is exactly what Polybius has done\nas well as Thucydides. For, as has been well remarked, there is in the\nworks of these two writers a certain plastic unity of type and motive;\nwhatever they write is penetrated through and through with a specific\nquality, a singleness and concentration of purpose, which we may contrast\nwith the more comprehensive width as manifested not merely in the modern\nmind, but also in Herodotus. Thucydides, regarding society as influenced\nentirely by political motives, took no account of forces of a different\nnature, and consequently his results, like those of most modern political\neconomists, have to be modified largely {207} before they come to\ncorrespond with what we know was the actual state of fact. Similarly,\nPolybius will deal only with those forces which tended to bring the\ncivilised world under the dominion of Rome (ix. 1), and in the\nThucydidean spirit points out the want of picturesqueness and romance in\nhis pages which is the result of the abstract method ([Greek]), being\ncareful also to tell us that his rejection of all other forces is\nessentially deliberate and the result of a preconceived theory and by no\nmeans due to carelessness of any kind.\n\nNow, of the general value of the abstract method and the legality of its\nemployment in the sphere of history, this is perhaps not the suitable\noccasion for any discussion. It is, however, in all ways worthy of note\nthat Polybius is not merely conscious of, but dwells with particular\nweight on, the fact which is usually urged as the strongest objection to\nthe employment of the abstract method--I mean the conception of a society\nas a sort of human organism whose parts are indissolubly connected with\none another and all affected when one member is in any way agitated. This\nconception of the organic nature of society appears first in Plato and\nAristotle, who apply it to cities. Polybius, as his wont is, expands it\nto be a general characteristic of all history. It is an idea of the very\nhighest importance, especially to a man like Polybius whose thoughts are\ncontinually turned towards the essential unity of history and the\nimpossibility of isolation.\n\nFarther, as regards the particular method of investigating that group of\nphenomena obtained for him by the abstract method, he will adopt, he\ntells us, neither the purely deductive nor the purely inductive mode but\nthe union of both. In other words, he formally adopts that method of\nanalysis upon the importance of which I have dwelt before.\n\nAnd lastly, while, without doubt, enormous simplicity in the elements\nunder consideration is the result of the employment of the abstract\nmethod, even within the limit thus obtained a certain selection must be\nmade, and a selection involves a theory. For the facts of life cannot be\ntabulated with as great an ease as the colours of birds and insects can\nbe tabulated. Now, Polybius points out that those phenomena particularly\nare to be dwelt on which may serve as a [Greek] or sample, and show the\ncharacter of the tendencies of the age as clearly as \'a single drop from\na full cask will be enough to disclose the nature of the whole contents.\'\nThis recognition of the importance of single facts, not in themselves but\nbecause of the spirit they represent, is extremely scientific; for we\nknow that from the single bone, or tooth even, the anatomist can recreate\nentirely the skeleton of the primeval horse, and the botanist tell the\ncharacter of the flora and fauna of a district from a single specimen.\n\nRegarding truth as \'the most divine thing in Nature,\' the very \'eye and\nlight of history without which it moves a blind thing,\' Polybius spared\nno pains in the acquisition of historical materials or in the study of\nthe sciences of politics and war, which he considered were so essential\nto the training of the scientific historian, and the labour he took is\nmirrored in the many ways in which he criticises other authorities.\n\nThere is something, as a rule, slightly contemptible about ancient\ncriticism. The modern idea of the critic as the interpreter, the\nexpounder of the beauty and excellence of the work he selects, seems\nquite unknown. Nothing can be more captious or unfair, for instance,\nthan the method by which Aristotle criticised the ideal state of Plato in\nhis ethical works, and the passages quoted by Polybius from Timaeus show\nthat the latter historian fully deserved the punning name given to him.\nBut in Polybius there is, I think, little of that bitterness and\npettiness of spirit which characterises most other writers, and an\nincidental story he tells of his relations with one of the historians\nwhom he criticised shows that he was a man of great courtesy and\nrefinement of taste--as, indeed, befitted one who had lived always in the\nsociety of those who were of great and noble birth.\n\nNow, as regards the character of the canons by which he criticises the\nworks of other authors, in the majority of cases he employs simply his\nown geographical and military knowledge, showing, for instance, the\nimpossibility in the accounts given of Nabis\'s march from Sparta simply\nby his acquaintance with the spots in question; or the inconsistency of\nthose of the battle of Issus; or of the accounts given by Ephorus of the\nbattles of Leuctra and Mantinea. In the latter case he says, if any one\nwill take the trouble to measure out the ground of the site of the battle\nand then test the manoeuvres given, he will find how inaccurate the\naccounts are.\n\nIn other cases he appeals to public documents, the importance of which he\nwas always foremost in recognising; showing, for instance, by a document\nin the public archives of Rhodes how inaccurate were the accounts given\nof the battle of Lade by Zeno and Antisthenes. Or he appeals to\npsychological probability, rejecting, for instance, the scandalous\nstories told of Philip of Macedon, simply from the king\'s general\ngreatness of character, and arguing that a boy so well educated and so\nrespectably connected as Demochares (xii. 14) could never have been\nguilty of that of which evil rumour accused him.\n\nBut the chief object of his literary censure is Timaeus, who had been so\nunsparing of his strictures on others. The general point which he makes\nagainst him, impugning his accuracy as a historian, is that he derived\nhis knowledge of history not from the dangerous perils of a life of\naction but in the secure indolence of a narrow scholastic life. There\nis, indeed, no point on which he is so vehement as this. \'A history,\' he\nsays, \'written in a library gives as lifeless and as inaccurate a picture\nof history as a painting which is copied not from a living animal but\nfrom a stuffed one.\'\n\nThere is more difference, he says in another place, between the history\nof an eye-witness and that of one whose knowledge comes from books, than\nthere is between the scenes of real life and the fictitious landscapes of\ntheatrical scenery. Besides this, he enters into somewhat elaborate\ndetailed criticism of passages where he thought Timaeus was following a\nwrong method and perverting truth, passages which it will be worth while\nto examine in detail.\n\nTimaeus, from the fact of there being a Roman custom to shoot a war-horse\non a stated day, argued back to the Trojan origin of that people.\nPolybius, on the other hand, points out that the inference is quite\nunwarrantable, because horse-sacrifices are ordinary institutions common\nto all barbarous tribes. Timaeus here, as was so common with Greek\nwriters, is arguing back from some custom of the present to an historical\nevent in the past. Polybius really is employing the comparative method,\nshowing how the custom was an ordinary step in the civilisation of every\nearly people.\n\nIn another place, {211} he shows how illogical is the scepticism of\nTimaeus as regards the existence of the Bull of Phalaris simply by\nappealing to the statue of the Bull, which was still to be seen in\nCarthage; pointing out how impossible it was, on any other theory except\nthat it belonged to Phalaris, to account for the presence in Carthage of\na bull of this peculiar character with a door between his shoulders. But\none of the great points which he uses against this Sicilian historian is\nin reference to the question of the origin of the Locrian colony. In\naccordance with the received tradition on the subject, Aristotle had\nrepresented the Locrian colony as founded by some Parthenidae or slaves\'\nchildren, as they were called, a statement which seems to have roused the\nindignation of Timaeus, who went to a good deal of trouble to confute\nthis theory. He does so on the following grounds:--\n\nFirst of all, he points out that in the ancient days the Greeks had no\nslaves at all, so the mention of them in the matter is an anachronism;\nand next he declares that he was shown in the Greek city of Locris\ncertain ancient inscriptions in which their relation to the Italian city\nwas expressed in terms of the position between parent and child, which\nshowed also that mutual rights of citizenship were accorded to each city.\nBesides this, he appeals to various questions of improbability as regards\ntheir international relationship, on which Polybius takes diametrically\nopposite grounds which hardly call for discussion. And in favour of his\nown view he urges two points more: first, that the Lacedaemonians being\nallowed furlough for the purpose of seeing their wives at home, it was\nunlikely that the Locrians should not have had the same privilege; and\nnext, that the Italian Locrians knew nothing of the Aristotelian version\nand had, on the contrary, very severe laws against adulterers, runaway\nslaves and the like. Now, most of these questions rest on mere\nprobability, which is always such a subjective canon that an appeal to it\nis rarely conclusive. I would note, however, as regards the inscriptions\nwhich, if genuine, would of course have settled the matter, that Polybius\nlooks on them as a mere invention on the part of Timaeus, who, he\nremarks, gives no details about them, though, as a rule, he is so over-\nanxious to give chapter and verse for everything. A somewhat more\ninteresting point is that where he attacks Timaeus for the introduction\nof fictitious speeches into his narrative; for on this point Polybius\nseems to be far in advance of the opinions held by literary men on the\nsubject not merely in his own day, but for centuries after. Herodotus\nhad introduced speeches avowedly dramatic and fictitious. Thucydides\nstates clearly that, where he was unable to find out what people really\nsaid, he put down what they ought to have said. Sallust alludes, it is\ntrue, to the fact of the speech he puts into the mouth of the tribune\nMemmius being essentially genuine, but the speeches given in the senate\non the occasion of the Catilinarian conspiracy are very different from\nthe same orations as they appear in Cicero. Livy makes his ancient\nRomans wrangle and chop logic with all the subtlety of a Hortensius or a\nScaevola. And even in later days, when shorthand reporters attended the\ndebates of the senate and a Daily News was published in Rome, we find\nthat one of the most celebrated speeches in Tacitus (that in which the\nEmperor Claudius gives the Gauls their freedom) is shown, by an\ninscription discovered recently at Lugdunum, to be entirely fabulous.\n\nUpon the other hand, it must be borne in mind that these speeches were\nnot intended to deceive; they were regarded merely as a certain dramatic\nelement which it was allowable to introduce into history for the purpose\nof giving more life and reality to the narration, and were to be\ncriticised, not as we should, by arguing how in an age before shorthand\nwas known such a report was possible or how, in the failure of written\ndocuments, tradition could bring down such an accurate verbal account,\nbut by the higher test of their psychological probability as regards the\npersons in whose mouths they are placed. An ancient historian in answer\nto modern criticism would say, probably, that these fictitious speeches\nwere in reality more truthful than the actual ones, just as Aristotle\nclaimed for poetry a higher degree of truth in comparison to history. The\nwhole point is interesting as showing how far in advance of his age\nPolybius may be said to have been.\n\nThe last scientific historian, it is possible to gather from his writings\nwhat he considered were the characteristics of the ideal writer of\nhistory; and no small light will be thrown on the progress of historical\ncriticism if we strive to collect and analyse what in Polybius are more\nor less scattered expressions. The ideal historian must be contemporary\nwith the events he describes, or removed from them by one generation\nonly. Where it is possible, he is to be an eye-witness of what he writes\nof; where that is out of his power he is to test all traditions and\nstories carefully and not to be ready to accept what is plausible in\nplace of what is true. He is to be no bookworm living aloof from the\nexperiences of the world in the artificial isolation of a university\ntown, but a politician, a soldier, and a traveller, a man not merely of\nthought but of action, one who can do great things as well as write of\nthem, who in the sphere of history could be what Byron and AEschylus were\nin the sphere of poetry, at once le chantre et le heros.\n\nHe is to keep before his eyes the fact that chance is merely a synonym\nfor our ignorance; that the reign of law pervades the domain of history\nas much as it does that of political science. He is to accustom himself\nto look on all occasions for rational and natural causes. And while he\nis to recognise the practical utility of the supernatural, in an\neducational point of view, he is not himself to indulge in such\nintellectual beating of the air as to admit the possibility of the\nviolation of inviolable laws, or to argue in a sphere wherein argument is\na priori annihilated. He is to be free from all bias towards friend and\ncountry; he is to be courteous and gentle in criticism; he is not to\nregard history as a mere opportunity for splendid and tragic writing; nor\nis he to falsify truth for the sake of a paradox or an epigram.\n\nWhile acknowledging the importance of particular facts as samples of\nhigher truths, he is to take a broad and general view of humanity. He is\nto deal with the whole race and with the world, not with particular\ntribes or separate countries. He is to bear in mind that the world is\nreally an organism wherein no one part can be moved without the others\nbeing affected also. He is to distinguish between cause and occasion,\nbetween the influence of general laws and particular fancies, and he is\nto remember that the greatest lessons of the world are contained in\nhistory and that it is the historian\'s duty to manifest them so as to\nsave nations from following those unwise policies which always lead to\ndishonour and ruin, and to teach individuals to apprehend by the\nintellectual culture of history those truths which else they would have\nto learn in the bitter school of experience.\n\nNow, as regards his theory of the necessity of the historian\'s being\ncontemporary with the events he describes, so far as the historian is a\nmere narrator the remark is undoubtedly true. But to appreciate the\nharmony and rational position of the facts of a great epoch, to discover\nits laws, the causes which produced it and the effects which it\ngenerates, the scene must be viewed from a certain height and distance to\nbe completely apprehended. A thoroughly contemporary historian such as\nLord Clarendon or Thucydides is in reality part of the history he\ncriticises; and, in the case of such contemporary historians as Fabius\nand Philistus, Polybius is compelled to acknowledge that they are misled\nby patriotic and other considerations. Against Polybius himself no such\naccusation can be made. He indeed of all men is able, as from some lofty\ntower, to discern the whole tendency of the ancient world, the triumph of\nRoman institutions and of Greek thought which is the last message of the\nold world and, in a more spiritual sense, has become the Gospel of the\nnew.\n\nOne thing indeed he did not see, or if he saw it, he thought but little\nof it--how from the East there was spreading over the world, as a wave\nspreads, a spiritual inroad of new religions from the time when the\nPessinuntine mother of the gods, a shapeless mass of stone, was brought\nto the eternal city by her holiest citizen, to the day when the ship\nCastor and Pollux stood in at Puteoli, and St. Paul turned his face\ntowards martyrdom and victory at Rome. Polybius was able to predict,\nfrom his knowledge of the causes of revolutions and the tendencies of the\nvarious forms of governments, the uprising of that democratic tone of\nthought which, as soon as a seed is sown in the murder of the Gracchi and\nthe exile of Marius, culminated as all democratic movements do culminate,\nin the supreme authority of one man, the lordship of the world under the\nworld\'s rightful lord, Caius Julius Caesar. This, indeed, he saw in no\nuncertain way. But the turning of all men\'s hearts to the East, the\nfirst glimmering of that splendid dawn which broke over the hills of\nGalilee and flooded the earth like wine, was hidden from his eyes.\n\nThere are many points in the description of the ideal historian which one\nmay compare to the picture which Plato has given us of the ideal\nphilosopher. They are both \'spectators of all time and all existence.\'\nNothing is contemptible in their eyes, for all things have a meaning, and\nthey both walk in august reasonableness before all men, conscious of the\nworkings of God yet free from all terror of mendicant priest or vagrant\nmiracle-worker. But the parallel ends here. For the one stands aloof\nfrom the world-storm of sleet and hail, his eyes fixed on distant and\nsunlit heights, loving knowledge for the sake of knowledge and wisdom for\nthe joy of wisdom, while the other is an eager actor in the world ever\nseeking to apply his knowledge to useful things. Both equally desire\ntruth, but the one because of its utility, the other for its beauty. The\nhistorian regards it as the rational principle of all true history, and\nno more. To the other it comes as an all-pervading and mystic\nenthusiasm, \'like the desire of strong wine, the craving of ambition, the\npassionate love of what is beautiful.\'\n\nStill, though we miss in the historian those higher and more spiritual\nqualities which the philosopher of the Academe alone of all men\npossessed, we must not blind ourselves to the merits of that great\nrationalist who seems to have anticipated the very latest words of modern\nscience. Nor yet is he to be regarded merely in the narrow light in\nwhich he is estimated by most modern critics, as the explicit champion of\nrationalism and nothing more. For he is connected with another idea, the\ncourse of which is as the course of that great river of his native\nArcadia which, springing from some arid and sun-bleached rock, gathers\nstrength and beauty as it flows till it reaches the asphodel meadows of\nOlympia and the light and laughter of Ionian waters.\n\nFor in him we can discern the first notes of that great cult of the seven-\nhilled city which made Virgil write his epic and Livy his history, which\nfound in Dante its highest exponent, which dreamed of an Empire where the\nEmperor would care for the bodies and the Pope for the souls of men, and\nso has passed into the conception of God\'s spiritual empire and the\nuniversal brotherhood of man and widened into the huge ocean of universal\nthought as the Peneus loses itself in the sea.\n\nPolybius is the last scientific historian of Greece. The writer who\nseems fittingly to complete the progress of thought is a writer of\nbiographies only. I will not here touch on Plutarch\'s employment of the\ninductive method as shown in his constant use of inscription and statue,\nof public document and building and the like, because they involve no new\nmethod. It is his attitude towards miracles of which I desire to treat.\n\nPlutarch is philosophic enough to see that in the sense of a violation of\nthe laws of nature a miracle is impossible. It is absurd, he says, to\nimagine that the statue of a saint can speak, and that an inanimate\nobject not possessing the vocal organs should be able to utter an\narticulate sound. Upon the other hand, he protests against science\nimagining that, by explaining the natural causes of things, it has\nexplained away their transcendental meaning. \'When the tears on the\ncheek of some holy statue have been analysed into the moisture which\ncertain temperatures produce on wood and marble, it yet by no means\nfollows that they were not a sign of grief and mourning set there by God\nHimself.\' When Lampon saw in the prodigy of the one-horned ram the omen\nof the supreme rule of Pericles, and when Anaxagoras showed that the\nabnormal development was the rational resultant of the peculiar formation\nof the skull, the dreamer and the man of science were both right; it was\nthe business of the latter to consider how the prodigy came about, of the\nformer to show why it was so formed and what it so portended. The\nprogression of thought is exemplified in all particulars. Herodotus had\na glimmering sense of the impossibility of a violation of nature.\nThucydides ignored the supernatural. Polybius rationalised it. Plutarch\nraises it to its mystical heights again, though he bases it on law. In a\nword, Plutarch felt that while science brings the supernatural down to\nthe natural, yet ultimately all that is natural is really supernatural.\nTo him, as to many of our own day, religion was that transcendental\nattitude of the mind which, contemplating a world resting on inviolable\nlaw, is yet comforted and seeks to worship God not in the violation but\nin the fulfilment of nature.\n\nIt may seem paradoxical to quote in connection with the priest of\nChaeronea such a pure rationalist as Mr. Herbert Spencer; yet when we\nread as the last message of modern science that \'when the equation of\nlife has been reduced to its lowest terms the symbols are symbols still,\'\nmere signs, that is, of that unknown reality which underlies all matter\nand all spirit, we may feel how over the wide strait of centuries thought\ncalls to thought and how Plutarch has a higher position than is usually\nclaimed for him in the progress of the Greek intellect.\n\nAnd, indeed, it seems that not merely the importance of Plutarch himself\nbut also that of the land of his birth in the evolution of Greek\ncivilisation has been passed over by modern critics. To us, indeed, the\nbare rock to which the Parthenon serves as a crown, and which lies\nbetween Colonus and Attica\'s violet hills, will always be the holiest\nspot in the land of Greece: and Delphi will come next, and then the\nmeadows of Eurotas where that noble people lived who represented in\nHellenic thought the reaction of the law of duty against the law of\nbeauty, the opposition of conduct to culture. Yet, as one stands on the\n[Greek] of Cithaeron and looks out on the great double plain of Boeotia,\nthe enormous importance of the division of Hellas comes to one\'s mind\nwith great force. To the north is Orchomenus and the Minyan treasure\nhouse, seat of those merchant princes of Phoenicia who brought to Greece\nthe knowledge of letters and the art of working in gold. Thebes is at\nour feet with the gloom of the terrible legends of Greek tragedy still\nlingering about it, the birthplace of Pindar, the nurse of Epaminondas\nand the Sacred Band.\n\nAnd from out of the plain where \'Mars loved to dance,\' rises the Muses\'\nhaunt, Helicon, by whose silver streams Corinna and Hesiod sang. While\nfar away under the white aegis of those snow-capped mountains lies\nChaeronea and the Lion plain where with vain chivalry the Greeks strove\nto check Macedon first and afterwards Rome; Chaeronea, where in the\nMartinmas summer of Greek civilisation Plutarch rose from the drear waste\nof a dying religion as the aftermath rises when the mowers think they\nhave left the field bare.\n\nGreek philosophy began and ended in scepticism: the first and the last\nword of Greek history was Faith.\n\nSplendid thus in its death, like winter sunsets, the Greek religion\npassed away into the horror of night. For the Cimmerian darkness was at\nhand, and when the schools of Athens were closed and the statue of Athena\nbroken, the Greek spirit passed from the gods and the history of its own\nland to the subtleties of defining the doctrine of the Trinity and the\nmystical attempts to bring Plato into harmony with Christ and to\nreconcile Gethsemane and the Sermon on the Mount with the Athenian prison\nand the discussion in the woods of Colonus. The Greek spirit slept for\nwellnigh a thousand years. When it woke again, like Antaeus it had\ngathered strength from the earth where it lay, like Apollo it had lost\nnone of its divinity through its long servitude.\n\nIn the history of Roman thought we nowhere find any of those\ncharacteristics of the Greek Illumination which I have pointed out are\nthe necessary concomitants of the rise of historical criticism. The\nconservative respect for tradition which made the Roman people delight in\nthe ritual and formulas of law, and is as apparent in their politics as\nin their religion, was fatal to any rise of that spirit of revolt against\nauthority the importance of which, as a factor in intellectual progress,\nwe have already seen.\n\nThe whitened tables of the Pontifices preserved carefully the records of\nthe eclipses and other atmospherical phenomena, and what we call the art\nof verifying dates was known to them at an early time; but there was no\nspontaneous rise of physical science to suggest by its analogies of law\nand order a new method of research, nor any natural springing up of the\nquestioning spirit of philosophy with its unification of all phenomena\nand all knowledge. At the very time when the whole tide of Eastern\nsuperstition was sweeping into the heart of the Capitol the Senate\nbanished the Greek philosophers from Rome. And of the three systems\nwhich did at length take some root in the city those of Zeno and Epicurus\nwere merely used as the rule for the ordering of life, while the dogmatic\nscepticism of Carneades, by its very principles, annihilated the\npossibility of argument and encouraged a perfect indifference to\nresearch.\n\nNor were the Romans ever fortunate enough like the Greeks to have to face\nthe incubus of any dogmatic system of legends and myths, the immoralities\nand absurdities of which might excite a revolutionary outbreak of\nsceptical criticism. For the Roman religion became as it were\ncrystallised and isolated from progress at an early period of its\nevolution. Their gods remained mere abstractions of commonplace virtues\nor uninteresting personifications of the useful things of life. The old\nprimitive creed was indeed always upheld as a state institution on\naccount of the enormous facilities it offered for cheating in politics,\nbut as a spiritual system of belief it was unanimously rejected at a very\nearly period both by the common people and the educated classes, for the\nsensible reason that it was so extremely dull. The former took refuge in\nthe mystic sensualities of the worship of Isis, the latter in the Stoical\nrules of life. The Romans classified their gods carefully in their order\nof precedence, analysed their genealogies in the laborious spirit of\nmodern heraldry, fenced them round with a ritual as intricate as their\nlaw, but never quite cared enough about them to believe in them. So it\nwas of no account with them when the philosophers announced that Minerva\nwas merely memory. She had never been much else. Nor did they protest\nwhen Lucretius dared to say of Ceres and of Liber that they were only the\ncorn of the field and the fruit of the vine. For they had never mourned\nfor the daughter of Demeter in the asphodel meadows of Sicily, nor\ntraversed the glades of Cithaeron with fawn-skin and with spear.\n\nThis brief sketch of the condition of Roman thought will serve to prepare\nus for the almost total want of scientific historical criticism which we\nshall discern in their literature, and has, besides, afforded fresh\ncorroborations of the conditions essential to the rise of this spirit,\nand of the modes of thought which it reflects and in which it is always\nto be found. Roman historical composition had its origin in the\npontifical college of ecclesiastical lawyers, and preserved to its close\nthe uncritical spirit which characterised its fountain-head. It\npossessed from the outset a most voluminous collection of the materials\nof history, which, however, produced merely antiquarians, not historians.\nIt is so hard to use facts, so easy to accumulate them.\n\nWearied of the dull monotony of the pontifical annals, which dwelt on\nlittle else but the rise and fall in provisions and the eclipses of the\nsun, Cato wrote out a history with his own hand for the instruction of\nhis child, to which he gave the name of Origines, and before his time\nsome aristocratic families had written histories in Greek much in the\nsame spirit in which the Germans of the eighteenth century used French as\nthe literary language. But the first regular Roman historian is Sallust.\nBetween the extravagant eulogies passed on this author by the French\n(such as De Closset), and Dr. Mommsen\'s view of him as merely a political\npamphleteer, it is perhaps difficult to reach the via media of unbiassed\nappreciation. He has, at any rate, the credit of being a purely\nrationalistic historian, perhaps the only one in Roman literature. Cicero\nhad a good many qualifications for a scientific historian, and (as he\nusually did) thought very highly of his own powers. On passages of\nancient legend, however, he is rather unsatisfactory, for while he is too\nsensible to believe them he is too patriotic to reject them. And this is\nreally the attitude of Livy, who claims for early Roman legend a certain\nuncritical homage from the rest of the subject world. His view in his\nhistory is that it is not worth while to examine the truth of these\nstories.\n\nIn his hands the history of Rome unrolls before our eyes like some\ngorgeous tapestry, where victory succeeds victory, where triumph treads\non the heels of triumph, and the line of heroes seems never to end. It\nis not till we pass behind the canvas and see the slight means by which\nthe effect is produced that we apprehend the fact that like most\npicturesque writers Livy is an indifferent critic. As regards his\nattitude towards the credibility of early Roman history he is quite as\nconscious as we are of its mythical and unsound nature. He will not, for\ninstance, decide whether the Horatii were Albans or Romans; who was the\nfirst dictator; how many tribunes there were, and the like. His method,\nas a rule, is merely to mention all the accounts and sometimes to decide\nin favour of the most probable, but usually not to decide at all. No\ncanons of historical criticism will ever discover whether the Roman women\ninterviewed the mother of Coriolanus of their own accord or at the\nsuggestion of the senate; whether Remus was killed for jumping over his\nbrother\'s wall or because they quarrelled about birds; whether the\nambassadors found Cincinnatus ploughing or only mending a hedge. Livy\nsuspends his judgment over these important facts and history when\nquestioned on their truth is dumb. If he does select between two\nhistorians he chooses the one who is nearer to the facts he describes.\nBut he is no critic, only a conscientious writer. It is mere vain waste\nto dwell on his critical powers, for they do not exist.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIn the case of Tacitus imagination has taken the place of history. The\npast lives again in his pages, but through no laborious criticism; rather\nthrough a dramatic and psychological faculty which he specially\npossessed.\n\nIn the philosophy of history he has no belief. He can never make up his\nmind what to believe as regards God\'s government of the world. There is\nno method in him and none elsewhere in Roman literature.\n\nNations may not have missions but they certainly have functions. And the\nfunction of ancient Italy was not merely to give us what is statical in\nour institutions and rational in our law, but to blend into one elemental\ncreed the spiritual aspirations of Aryan and of Semite. Italy was not a\npioneer in intellectual progress, nor a motive power in the evolution of\nthought. The owl of the goddess of Wisdom traversed over the whole land\nand found nowhere a resting-place. The dove, which is the bird of\nChrist, flew straight to the city of Rome and the new reign began. It\nwas the fashion of early Italian painters to represent in mediaeval\ncostume the soldiers who watched over the tomb of Christ, and this, which\nwas the result of the frank anachronism of all true art, may serve to us\nas an allegory. For it was in vain that the middle ages strove to guard\nthe buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose,\nthe sepulchre was empty, the grave-clothes laid aside. Humanity had\nrisen from the dead.\n\nThe study of Greek, it has been well said, implies the birth of\ncriticism, comparison and research. At the opening of that education of\nmodern by ancient thought which we call the Renaissance, it was the words\nof Aristotle which sent Columbus sailing to the New World, while a\nfragment of Pythagorean astronomy set Copernicus thinking on that train\nof reasoning which has revolutionised the whole position of our planet in\nthe universe. Then it was seen that the only meaning of progress is a\nreturn to Greek modes of thought. The monkish hymns which obscured the\npages of Greek manuscripts were blotted out, the splendours of a new\nmethod were unfolded to the world, and out of the melancholy sea of\nmediaevalism rose the free spirit of man in all that splendour of glad\nadolescence, when the bodily powers seem quickened by a new vitality,\nwhen the eye sees more clearly than its wont and the mind apprehends what\nwas beforetime hidden from it. To herald the opening of the sixteenth\ncentury, from the little Venetian printing press came forth all the great\nauthors of antiquity, each bearing on the title-page the words [Greek]\nwords which may serve to remind us with what wondrous prescience Polybius\nsaw the world\'s fate when he foretold the material sovereignty of Roman\ninstitutions and exemplified in himself the intellectual empire of\nGreece.\n\nThe course of the study of the spirit of historical criticism has not\nbeen a profitless investigation into modes and forms of thought now\nantiquated and of no account. The only spirit which is entirely removed\nfrom us is the mediaeval; the Greek spirit is essentially modern. The\nintroduction of the comparative method of research which has forced\nhistory to disclose its secrets belongs in a measure to us. Ours, too,\nis a more scientific knowledge of philology and the method of survival.\nNor did the ancients know anything of the doctrine of averages or of\ncrucial instances, both of which methods have proved of such importance\nin modern criticism, the one adding a most important proof of the\nstatical elements of history, and exemplifying the influences of all\nphysical surroundings on the life of man; the other, as in the single\ninstance of the Moulin Quignon skull, serving to create a whole new\nscience of prehistoric archaeology and to bring us back to a time when\nman was coeval with the stone age, the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros.\nBut, except these, we have added no new canon or method to the science of\nhistorical criticism. Across the drear waste of a thousand years the\nGreek and the modern spirit join hands.\n\nIn the torch race which the Greek boys ran from the Cerameician field of\ndeath to the home of the goddess of Wisdom, not merely he who first\nreached the goal but he also who first started with the torch aflame\nreceived a prize. In the Lampadephoria of civilisation and free thought\nlet us not forget to render due meed of honour to those who first lit\nthat sacred flame, the increasing splendour of which lights our footsteps\nto the far-off divine event of the attainment of perfect truth.\n\n\n\n\nLA SAINTE COURTISANE; OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS\n\n\nThe scene represents a corner of a valley in the Thebaid. On the right\nhand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands a great\ncrucifix.\n\nOn the left [sand dunes].\n\nThe sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli. The hills are\nof red sand. Here and there on the hills there are clumps of thorns.\n\nFIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple cloak and\nher hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the daughter of\nthe Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the Emperor has a\ndaughter who wears a cloak of purple.\n\nSECOND MAN. She has birds\' wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is of\nthe colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she stands\nstill. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of hawks when she\nmoves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons.\n\nFIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the wind\nblows from the hills.\n\nSECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes from\nNubia.\n\nFIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails are\nstained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She has come\nhere to weep for Adonis.\n\nSECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left her\ntemple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks to us\nlet us not answer and she will pass by.\n\nFIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of the\nEmperor.\n\nMYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who will\nnot look on the face of woman?\n\nFIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman?\n\nSECOND MAN. We do not know.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me?\n\nFIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our eyes.\n\nSECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too bright\nto look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very bright. Many\nof the priests in the temples are blind, and have slaves to lead them.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will not\nlook on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house of burnt\nclay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his bed in the\nrushes?\n\nFIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder.\n\nMYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in.\n\nFIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came the\ncentaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away.\n\nSECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. When it\nsaw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped him. Many\npeople saw it worshipping him.\n\nFIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it.\n\n. . . . .\n\nSECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. But\nthat may not be true.\n\n. . . . .\n\nMYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods?\nThere are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who wear\nlong beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They wrangle with\neach other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them.\n\nFIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It is a\nvery dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one should ever\ntell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise the gods all day\nlong, and eat of their food with them, do not call them by their right\nnames.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship?\n\nFIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show them\nto any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us.\n\nMYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them?\n\nFIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who had\nfound them in a tomb. We served him for seven years.\n\nMYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death.\n\nFIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods.\n\nMYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of the\ngods?\n\nFIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at night\ntime. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the gods at\ndaybreak. They were walking across a plain.\n\nMYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard a\nsophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it before\nmany people.\n\nFIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, though we\nare but common men and of no account. When I saw them I hid myself in a\nbush. They did me no harm.\n\nMYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to me\nabout the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of woman.\nWhat is the story of his days? What mode of life has he?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not understand you.\n\nMYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow or\nreap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he weave\nlinen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough and walk\nbehind the oxen?\n\nSECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common men\nand of no account. We toil all day long in the sun. Sometimes the\nground is very hard.\n\nMYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share their\nbooty with him?\n\nFIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that the\nbirds of the air feed him.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing?\n\nSECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has offended\nhas made him mad. We think he has offended the moon.\n\nMYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria desires\nto speak with him.\n\nFIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his God. We\npray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding.\n\nMYRRHINA. Are ye afraid of him?\n\nFIRST MAN. We are afraid of him.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not know.\n\nMYRRHINA. What is his name?\n\nFIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the cavern\ncalls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name of\nHonorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We\nthink that his name is Honorius.\n\nMYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him?\n\nFIRST MAN. That he might heal them.\n\nMYRRHINA. Did he heal them?\n\nSECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that reason\nthey were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One of them\nwore a mask of linen. He was a king\'s son.\n\nMYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in his\ncave?\n\nFIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the voice\nof his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any come forth\nfrom it.\n\nMYRRHINA. Honorius.\n\nHONORIUS (from within). Who calls Honorius?\n\n. . . . .\n\nMYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius.\n\n. . . . .\n\nMy chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars of\nmy bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is strewn\nwith purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are sewn with\nsilver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are strewn with\nsaffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round the pillars of my\nhouse. At night time they come with the flute players and the players of\nthe harp. They woo me with apples and on the pavement of my courtyard\nthey write my name in wine.\n\nFrom the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The kings of\nthe earth come to me and bring me presents.\n\nWhen the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry chamber\nand set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches that none might\nknow of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard of me he sent me\nambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are brothers brought me gifts of\namber.\n\nI took the minion of Caesar from Caesar and made him my playfellow. He\ncame to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and his\nbody was like honey.\n\nThe son of the Praefect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch of\nCilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves.\n\nThe King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for me to\nwalk on.\n\nSometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. Once\na Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the signal for\nhim to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I pass through the\ngymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in the race. Their bodies\nare bright with oil and their brows are wreathed with willow sprays and\nwith myrtle. They stamp their feet on the sand when they wrestle and\nwhen they run the sand follows them like a little cloud. He at whom I\nsmile leaves his companions and follows me to my home. At other times I\ngo down to the harbour and watch the merchants unloading their vessels.\nThose that come from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald.\nThose that come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings of\nbrass. When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their ships\nand call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little taverns\nwhere the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing with\ndice and I sit down with them.\n\nI made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my Lord\nfor the space of a moon.\n\nI put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I have\nwonderful things in my house.\n\nThe dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched with\nthorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, Honorius, and\nI will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear your body with myrrh\nand pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe you in hyacinth and put\nhoney in your mouth. Love--\n\nHONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God.\n\nMYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men?\n\nHONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is the\nSon of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were kings\nbrought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the hills were\nwakened by a great light.\n\nThe Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of Him.\nDavid and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like the love of\nGod nor any love that can be compared to it.\n\nThe body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body which\nwill not know corruption, and thou wilt dwell in the Courts of the Lord\nand see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet are of brass.\n\nMYRRHINA. The beauty . . .\n\nHONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases till it can see God.\nTherefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was crucified\nbeside Him He brought into Paradise. [Exit.\n\nMYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did he\nregard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely.\n\n. . . . .\n\nHONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now\nclearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let me\ntaste of the seven sins.\n\nMYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitter\nwords. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in this\ndesert where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to see\nGod.\n\nHONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria.\n\nMYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria.\n\nHONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina.\n\nMYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go.\n\n. . . . .\n\nI have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder of my\nbody for the evil that it has brought upon you.\n\nLord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming upon\nearth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of Thy death\nalso. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me.\n\nHONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosen\nyour hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy beauty?\n\nMYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might repent\nof my iniquities and know Him as the Lord.\n\nHONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words?\n\nMYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look on\nDeath in its robe of Shame.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE OF ART\n\n\n\'The English Renaissance of Art\' was delivered as a lecture for the first\ntime in the Chickering Hall, New York, on January 9, 1882. A portion of\nit was reported in the New York Tribune on the following day and in other\nAmerican papers subsequently. Since then this portion has been\nreprinted, more or less accurately, from time to time, in unauthorised\neditions, but not more than one quarter of the lecture has ever been\npublished.\n\nThere are in existence no less than four copies of the lecture, the\nearliest of which is entirely in the author\'s handwriting. The others\nare type-written and contain many corrections and additions made by the\nauthor in manuscript. These have all been collated and the text here\ngiven contains, as nearly as possible, the lecture in its original form\nas delivered by the author during his tour in the United States.\n\nAmong the many debts which we owe to the supreme aesthetic faculty of\nGoethe is that he was the first to teach us to define beauty in terms the\nmost concrete possible, to realise it, I mean, always in its special\nmanifestations. So, in the lecture which I have the honour to deliver\nbefore you, I will not try to give you any abstract definition of\nbeauty--any such universal formula for it as was sought for by the\nphilosophy of the eighteenth century--still less to communicate to you\nthat which in its essence is incommunicable, the virtue by which a\nparticular picture or poem affects us with a unique and special joy; but\nrather to point out to you the general ideas which characterise the great\nEnglish Renaissance of Art in this century, to discover their source, as\nfar as that is possible, and to estimate their future as far as that is\npossible.\n\nI call it our English Renaissance because it is indeed a sort of new\nbirth of the spirit of man, like the great Italian Renaissance of the\nfifteenth century, in its desire for a more gracious and comely way of\nlife, its passion for physical beauty, its exclusive attention to form,\nits seeking for new subjects for poetry, new forms of art, new\nintellectual and imaginative enjoyments: and I call it our romantic\nmovement because it is our most recent expression of beauty.\n\nIt has been described as a mere revival of Greek modes of thought, and\nagain as a mere revival of mediaeval feeling. Rather I would say that to\nthese forms of the human spirit it has added whatever of artistic value\nthe intricacy and complexity and experience of modern life can give:\ntaking from the one its clearness of vision and its sustained calm, from\nthe other its variety of expression and the mystery of its vision. For\nwhat, as Goethe said, is the study of the ancients but a return to the\nreal world (for that is what they did); and what, said Mazzini, is\nmediaevalism but individuality?\n\nIt is really from the union of Hellenism, in its breadth, its sanity of\npurpose, its calm possession of beauty, with the adventive, the\nintensified individualism, the passionate colour of the romantic spirit,\nthat springs the art of the nineteenth century in England, as from the\nmarriage of Faust and Helen of Troy sprang the beautiful boy Euphorion.\n\nSuch expressions as \'classical\' and \'romantic\' are, it is true, often apt\nto become the mere catchwords of schools. We must always remember that\nart has only one sentence to utter: there is for her only one high law,\nthe law of form or harmony--yet between the classical and romantic spirit\nwe may say that there lies this difference at least, that the one deals\nwith the type and the other with the exception. In the work produced\nunder the modern romantic spirit it is no longer the permanent, the\nessential truths of life that are treated of; it is the momentary\nsituation of the one, the momentary aspect of the other that art seeks to\nrender. In sculpture, which is the type of one spirit, the subject\npredominates over the situation; in painting, which is the type of the\nother, the situation predominates over the subject.\n\nThere are two spirits, then: the Hellenic spirit and the spirit of\nromance may be taken as forming the essential elements of our conscious\nintellectual tradition, of our permanent standard of taste. As regards\ntheir origin, in art as in politics there is but one origin for all\nrevolutions, a desire on the part of man for a nobler form of life, for a\nfreer method and opportunity of expression. Yet, I think that in\nestimating the sensuous and intellectual spirit which presides over our\nEnglish Renaissance, any attempt to isolate it in any way from the\nprogress and movement and social life of the age that has produced it\nwould be to rob it of its true vitality, possibly to mistake its true\nmeaning. And in disengaging from the pursuits and passions of this\ncrowded modern world those passions and pursuits which have to do with\nart and the love of art, we must take into account many great events of\nhistory which seem to be the most opposed to any such artistic feeling.\n\nAlien then from any wild, political passion, or from the harsh voice of a\nrude people in revolt, as our English Renaissance must seem, in its\npassionate cult of pure beauty, its flawless devotion to form, its\nexclusive and sensitive nature, it is to the French Revolution that we\nmust look for the most primary factor of its production, the first\ncondition of its birth: that great Revolution of which we are all the\nchildren, though the voices of some of us be often loud against it; that\nRevolution to which at a time when even such spirits as Coleridge and\nWordsworth lost heart in England, noble messages of love blown across\nseas came from your young Republic.\n\nIt is true that our modern sense of the continuity of history has shown\nus that neither in politics nor in nature are there revolutions ever but\nevolutions only, and that the prelude to that wild storm which swept over\nFrance in \'89 and made every king in Europe tremble for his throne, was\nfirst sounded in literature years before the Bastille fell and the Palace\nwas taken. The way for those red scenes by Seine and Loire was paved by\nthat critical spirit of Germany and England which accustomed men to bring\nall things to the test of reason or utility or both, while the discontent\nof the people in the streets of Paris was the echo that followed the life\nof Emile and of Werther. For Rousseau, by silent lake and mountain, had\ncalled humanity back to the golden age that still lies before us and\npreached a return to nature, in passionate eloquence whose music still\nlingers about our keen northern air. And Goethe and Scott had brought\nromance back again from the prison she had lain in for so many\ncenturies--and what is romance but humanity?\n\nYet in the womb of the Revolution itself, and in the storm and terror of\nthat wild time, tendencies were hidden away that the artistic Renaissance\nbent to her own service when the time came--a scientific tendency first,\nwhich has borne in our own day a brood of somewhat noisy Titans, yet in\nthe sphere of poetry has not been unproductive of good. I do not mean\nmerely in its adding to enthusiasm that intellectual basis which is its\nstrength, or that more obvious influence about which Wordsworth was\nthinking when he said very nobly that poetry was merely the impassioned\nexpression in the face of science, and that when science would put on a\nform of flesh and blood the poet would lend his divine spirit to aid the\ntransfiguration. Nor do I dwell much on the great cosmical emotion and\ndeep pantheism of science to which Shelley has given its first and\nSwinburne its latest glory of song, but rather on its influence on the\nartistic spirit in preserving that close observation and the sense of\nlimitation as well as of clearness of vision which are the\ncharacteristics of the real artist.\n\nThe great and golden rule of art as well as of life, wrote William Blake,\nis that the more distinct, sharp and defined the boundary line, the more\nperfect is the work of art; and the less keen and sharp the greater is\nthe evidence of weak imitation, plagiarism and bungling. \'Great\ninventors in all ages knew this--Michael Angelo and Albert Durer are\nknown by this and by this alone\'; and another time he wrote, with all the\nsimple directness of nineteenth-century prose, \'to generalise is to be an\nidiot.\'\n\nAnd this love of definite conception, this clearness of vision, this\nartistic sense of limit, is the characteristic of all great work and\npoetry; of the vision of Homer as of the vision of Dante, of Keats and\nWilliam Morris as of Chaucer and Theocritus. It lies at the base of all\nnoble, realistic and romantic work as opposed to colourless and empty\nabstractions of our own eighteenth-century poets and of the classical\ndramatists of France, or of the vague spiritualities of the German\nsentimental school: opposed, too, to that spirit of transcendentalism\nwhich also was root and flower itself of the great Revolution, underlying\nthe impassioned contemplation of Wordsworth and giving wings and fire to\nthe eagle-like flight of Shelley, and which in the sphere of philosophy,\nthough displaced by the materialism and positiveness of our day,\nbequeathed two great schools of thought, the school of Newman to Oxford,\nthe school of Emerson to America. Yet is this spirit of\ntranscendentalism alien to the spirit of art. For the artist can accept\nno sphere of life in exchange for life itself. For him there is no\nescape from the bondage of the earth: there is not even the desire of\nescape.\n\nHe is indeed the only true realist: symbolism, which is the essence of\nthe transcendental spirit, is alien to him. The metaphysical mind of\nAsia will create for itself the monstrous, many-breasted idol of Ephesus,\nbut to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual\nlife which conforms most clearly to the perfect facts of physical life.\n\n\'The storm of revolution,\' as Andre Chenier said, \'blows out the torch of\npoetry.\' It is not for some little time that the real influence of such\na wild cataclysm of things is felt: at first the desire for equality\nseems to have produced personalities of more giant and Titan stature than\nthe world had ever known before. Men heard the lyre of Byron and the\nlegions of Napoleon; it was a period of measureless passions and of\nmeasureless despair; ambition, discontent, were the chords of life and\nart; the age was an age of revolt: a phase through which the human spirit\nmust pass but one in which it cannot rest. For the aim of culture is not\nrebellion but peace, the valley perilous where ignorant armies clash by\nnight being no dwelling-place meet for her to whom the gods have assigned\nthe fresh uplands and sunny heights and clear, untroubled air.\n\nAnd soon that desire for perfection, which lay at the base of the\nRevolution, found in a young English poet its most complete and flawless\nrealisation.\n\nPhidias and the achievements of Greek art are foreshadowed in Homer:\nDante prefigures for us the passion and colour and intensity of Italian\npainting: the modern love of landscape dates from Rousseau, and it is in\nKeats that one discerns the beginning of the artistic renaissance of\nEngland.\n\nByron was a rebel and Shelley a dreamer; but in the calmness and\nclearness of his vision, his perfect self-control, his unerring sense of\nbeauty and his recognition of a separate realm for the imagination, Keats\nwas the pure and serene artist, the forerunner of the pre-Raphaelite\nschool, and so of the great romantic movement of which I am to speak.\n\nBlake had indeed, before him, claimed for art a lofty, spiritual mission,\nand had striven to raise design to the ideal level of poetry and music,\nbut the remoteness of his vision both in painting and poetry and the\nincompleteness of his technical powers had been adverse to any real\ninfluence. It is in Keats that the artistic spirit of this century first\nfound its absolute incarnation.\n\nAnd these pre-Raphaelites, what were they? If you ask nine-tenths of the\nBritish public what is the meaning of the word aesthetics, they will tell\nyou it is the French for affectation or the German for a dado; and if you\ninquire about the pre-Raphaelites you will hear something about an\neccentric lot of young men to whom a sort of divine crookedness and holy\nawkwardness in drawing were the chief objects of art. To know nothing\nabout their great men is one of the necessary elements of English\neducation.\n\nAs regards the pre-Raphaelites the story is simple enough. In the year\n1847 a number of young men in London, poets and painters, passionate\nadmirers of Keats all of them, formed the habit of meeting together for\ndiscussions on art, the result of such discussions being that the English\nPhilistine public was roused suddenly from its ordinary apathy by hearing\nthat there was in its midst a body of young men who had determined to\nrevolutionise English painting and poetry. They called themselves the\npre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.\n\nIn England, then as now, it was enough for a man to try and produce any\nserious beautiful work to lose all his rights as a citizen; and besides\nthis, the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood--among whom the names of Dante\nRossetti, Holman Hunt and Millais will be familiar to you--had on their\nside three things that the English public never forgives: youth, power\nand enthusiasm.\n\nSatire, always as sterile as it is shameful and as impotent as it is\ninsolent, paid them that usual homage which mediocrity pays to\ngenius--doing, here as always, infinite harm to the public, blinding them\nto what is beautiful, teaching them that irreverence which is the source\nof all vileness and narrowness of life, but harming the artist not at\nall, rather confirming him in the perfect rightness of his work and\nambition. For to disagree with three-fourths of the British public on\nall points is one of the first elements of sanity, one of the deepest\nconsolations in all moments of spiritual doubt.\n\nAs regards the ideas these young men brought to the regeneration of\nEnglish art, we may see at the base of their artistic creations a desire\nfor a deeper spiritual value to be given to art as well as a more\ndecorative value.\n\nPre-Raphaelites they called themselves; not that they imitated the early\nItalian masters at all, but that in their work, as opposed to the facile\nabstractions of Raphael, they found a stronger realism of imagination, a\nmore careful realism of technique, a vision at once more fervent and more\nvivid, an individuality more intimate and more intense.\n\nFor it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the aesthetic\ndemands of its age: there must be also about it, if it is to affect us\nwith any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality, an\nindividuality remote from that of ordinary men, and coming near to us\nonly by virtue of a certain newness and wonder in the work, and through\nchannels whose very strangeness makes us more ready to give them welcome.\n\nLa personalite, said one of the greatest of modern French critics, voila\nce qui nous sauvera.\n\nBut above all things was it a return to Nature--that formula which seems\nto suit so many and such diverse movements: they would draw and paint\nnothing but what they saw, they would try and imagine things as they\nreally happened. Later there came to the old house by Blackfriars\nBridge, where this young brotherhood used to meet and work, two young men\nfrom Oxford, Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris--the latter\nsubstituting for the simpler realism of the early days a more exquisite\nspirit of choice, a more faultless devotion to beauty, a more intense\nseeking for perfection: a master of all exquisite design and of all\nspiritual vision. It is of the school of Florence rather than of that of\nVenice that he is kinsman, feeling that the close imitation of Nature is\na disturbing element in imaginative art. The visible aspect of modern\nlife disturbs him not; rather is it for him to render eternal all that is\nbeautiful in Greek, Italian, and Celtic legend. To Morris we owe poetry\nwhose perfect precision and clearness of word and vision has not been\nexcelled in the literature of our country, and by the revival of the\ndecorative arts he has given to our individualised romantic movement the\nsocial idea and the social factor also.\n\nBut the revolution accomplished by this clique of young men, with\nRuskin\'s faultless and fervent eloquence to help them, was not one of\nideas merely but of execution, not one of conceptions but of creations.\n\nFor the great eras in the history of the development of all the arts have\nbeen eras not of increased feeling or enthusiasm in feeling for art, but\nof new technical improvements primarily and specially. The discovery of\nmarble quarries in the purple ravines of Pentelicus and on the little low-\nlying hills of the island of Paros gave to the Greeks the opportunity for\nthat intensified vitality of action, that more sensuous and simple\nhumanism, to which the Egyptian sculptor working laboriously in the hard\nporphyry and rose-coloured granite of the desert could not attain. The\nsplendour of the Venetian school began with the introduction of the new\noil medium for painting. The progress in modern music has been due to\nthe invention of new instruments entirely, and in no way to an increased\nconsciousness on the part of the musician of any wider social aim. The\ncritic may try and trace the deferred resolutions of Beethoven {253} to\nsome sense of the incompleteness of the modern intellectual spirit, but\nthe artist would have answered, as one of them did afterwards, \'Let them\npick out the fifths and leave us at peace.\'\n\nAnd so it is in poetry also: all this love of curious French metres like\nthe Ballade, the Villanelle, the Rondel; all this increased value laid on\nelaborate alliterations, and on curious words and refrains, such as you\nwill find in Dante Rossetti and Swinburne, is merely the attempt to\nperfect flute and viol and trumpet through which the spirit of the age\nand the lips of the poet may blow the music of their many messages.\n\nAnd so it has been with this romantic movement of ours: it is a reaction\nagainst the empty conventional workmanship, the lax execution of previous\npoetry and painting, showing itself in the work of such men as Rossetti\nand Burne-Jones by a far greater splendour of colour, a far more\nintricate wonder of design than English imaginative art has shown before.\nIn Rossetti\'s poetry and the poetry of Morris, Swinburne and Tennyson a\nperfect precision and choice of language, a style flawless and fearless,\na seeking for all sweet and precious melodies and a sustaining\nconsciousness of the musical value of each word are opposed to that value\nwhich is merely intellectual. In this respect they are one with the\nromantic movement of France of which not the least characteristic note\nwas struck by Theophile Gautier\'s advice to the young poet to read his\ndictionary every day, as being the only book worth a poet\'s reading.\n\nWhile, then, the material of workmanship is being thus elaborated and\ndiscovered to have in itself incommunicable and eternal qualities of its\nown, qualities entirely satisfying to the poetic sense and not needing\nfor their aesthetic effect any lofty intellectual vision, any deep\ncriticism of life or even any passionate human emotion at all, the spirit\nand the method of the poet\'s working--what people call his\ninspiration--have not escaped the controlling influence of the artistic\nspirit. Not that the imagination has lost its wings, but we have\naccustomed ourselves to count their innumerable pulsations, to estimate\ntheir limitless strength, to govern their ungovernable freedom.\n\nTo the Greeks this problem of the conditions of poetic production, and\nthe places occupied by either spontaneity or self-consciousness in any\nartistic work, had a peculiar fascination. We find it in the mysticism\nof Plato and in the rationalism of Aristotle. We find it later in the\nItalian Renaissance agitating the minds of such men as Leonardo da Vinci.\nSchiller tried to adjust the balance between form and feeling, and Goethe\nto estimate the position of self-consciousness in art. Wordsworth\'s\ndefinition of poetry as \'emotion remembered in tranquillity\' may be taken\nas an analysis of one of the stages through which all imaginative work\nhas to pass; and in Keats\'s longing to be \'able to compose without this\nfever\' (I quote from one of his letters), his desire to substitute for\npoetic ardour \'a more thoughtful and quiet power,\' we may discern the\nmost important moment in the evolution of that artistic life. The\nquestion made an early and strange appearance in your literature too; and\nI need not remind you how deeply the young poets of the French romantic\nmovement were excited and stirred by Edgar Allan Poe\'s analysis of the\nworkings of his own imagination in the creating of that supreme\nimaginative work which we know by the name of The Raven.\n\nIn the last century, when the intellectual and didactic element had\nintruded to such an extent into the kingdom which belongs to poetry, it\nwas against the claims of the understanding that an artist like Goethe\nhad to protest. \'The more incomprehensible to the understanding a poem\nis the better for it,\' he said once, asserting the complete supremacy of\nthe imagination in poetry as of reason in prose. But in this century it\nis rather against the claims of the emotional faculties, the claims of\nmere sentiment and feeling, that the artist must react. The simple\nutterance of joy is not poetry any more than a mere personal cry of pain,\nand the real experiences of the artist are always those which do not find\ntheir direct expression but are gathered up and absorbed into some\nartistic form which seems, from such real experiences, to be the farthest\nremoved and the most alien.\n\n\'The heart contains passion but the imagination alone contains poetry,\'\nsays Charles Baudelaire. This too was the lesson that Theophile Gautier,\nmost subtle of all modern critics, most fascinating of all modern poets,\nwas never tired of teaching--\'Everybody is affected by a sunrise or a\nsunset.\' The absolute distinction of the artist is not his capacity to\nfeel nature so much as his power of rendering it. The entire\nsubordination of all intellectual and emotional faculties to the vital\nand informing poetic principle is the surest sign of the strength of our\nRenaissance.\n\nWe have seen the artistic spirit working, first in the delightful and\ntechnical sphere of language, the sphere of expression as opposed to\nsubject, then controlling the imagination of the poet in dealing with his\nsubject. And now I would point out to you its operation in the choice of\nsubject. The recognition of a separate realm for the artist, a\nconsciousness of the absolute difference between the world of art and the\nworld of real fact, between classic grace and absolute reality, forms not\nmerely the essential element of any aesthetic charm but is the\ncharacteristic of all great imaginative work and of all great eras of\nartistic creation--of the age of Phidias as of the age of Michael Angelo,\nof the age of Sophocles as of the age of Goethe.\n\nArt never harms itself by keeping aloof from the social problems of the\nday: rather, by so doing, it more completely realises for us that which\nwe desire. For to most of us the real life is the life we do not lead,\nand thus, remaining more true to the essence of its own perfection, more\njealous of its own unattainable beauty, is less likely to forget form in\nfeeling or to accept the passion of creation as any substitute for the\nbeauty of the created thing.\n\nThe artist is indeed the child of his own age, but the present will not\nbe to him a whit more real than the past; for, like the philosopher of\nthe Platonic vision, the poet is the spectator of all time and of all\nexistence. For him no form is obsolete, no subject out of date; rather,\nwhatever of life and passion the world has known, in desert of Judaea or\nin Arcadian valley, by the rivers of Troy or the rivers of Damascus, in\nthe crowded and hideous streets of a modern city or by the pleasant ways\nof Camelot--all lies before him like an open scroll, all is still\ninstinct with beautiful life. He will take of it what is salutary for\nhis own spirit, no more; choosing some facts and rejecting others with\nthe calm artistic control of one who is in possession of the secret of\nbeauty.\n\nThere is indeed a poetical attitude to be adopted towards all things, but\nall things are not fit subjects for poetry. Into the secure and sacred\nhouse of Beauty the true artist will admit nothing that is harsh or\ndisturbing, nothing that gives pain, nothing that is debatable, nothing\nabout which men argue. He can steep himself, if he wishes, in the\ndiscussion of all the social problems of his day, poor-laws and local\ntaxation, free trade and bimetallic currency, and the like; but when he\nwrites on these subjects it will be, as Milton nobly expressed it, with\nhis left hand, in prose and not in verse, in a pamphlet and not in a\nlyric. This exquisite spirit of artistic choice was not in Byron:\nWordsworth had it not. In the work of both these men there is much that\nwe have to reject, much that does not give us that sense of calm and\nperfect repose which should be the effect of all fine, imaginative work.\nBut in Keats it seemed to have been incarnate, and in his lovely Ode on a\nGrecian Urn it found its most secure and faultless expression; in the\npageant of The Earthly Paradise and the knights and ladies of Burne-Jones\nit is the one dominant note.\n\nIt is to no avail that the Muse of Poetry be called, even by such a\nclarion note as Whitman\'s, to migrate from Greece and Ionia and to\nplacard REMOVED and TO LET on the rocks of the snowy Parnassus.\nCalliope\'s call is not yet closed, nor are the epics of Asia ended; the\nSphinx is not yet silent, nor the fountain of Castaly dry. For art is\nvery life itself and knows nothing of death; she is absolute truth and\ntakes no care of fact; she sees (as I remember Mr. Swinburne insisting on\nat dinner) that Achilles is even now more actual and real than\nWellington, not merely more noble and interesting as a type and figure\nbut more positive and real.\n\nLiterature must rest always on a principle, and temporal considerations\nare no principle at all. For to the poet all times and places are one;\nthe stuff he deals with is eternal and eternally the same: no theme is\ninept, no past or present preferable. The steam whistle will not\naffright him nor the flutes of Arcadia weary him: for him there is but\none time, the artistic moment; but one law, the law of form; but one\nland, the land of Beauty--a land removed indeed from the real world and\nyet more sensuous because more enduring; calm, yet with that calm which\ndwells in the faces of the Greek statues, the calm which comes not from\nthe rejection but from the absorption of passion, the calm which despair\nand sorrow cannot disturb but intensify only. And so it comes that he\nwho seems to stand most remote from his age is he who mirrors it best,\nbecause he has stripped life of what is accidental and transitory,\nstripped it of that \'mist of familiarity which makes life obscure to us.\'\n\nThose strange, wild-eyed sibyls fixed eternally in the whirlwind of\necstasy, those mighty-limbed and Titan prophets, labouring with the\nsecret of the earth and the burden of mystery, that guard and glorify the\nchapel of Pope Sixtus at Rome--do they not tell us more of the real\nspirit of the Italian Renaissance, of the dream of Savonarola and of the\nsin of Borgia, than all the brawling boors and cooking women of Dutch art\ncan teach us of the real spirit of the history of Holland?\n\nAnd so in our own day, also, the two most vital tendencies of the\nnineteenth century--the democratic and pantheistic tendency and the\ntendency to value life for the sake of art--found their most complete and\nperfect utterance in the poetry of Shelley and Keats who, to the blind\neyes of their own time, seemed to be as wanderers in the wilderness,\npreachers of vague or unreal things. And I remember once, in talking to\nMr. Burne-Jones about modern science, his saying to me, \'the more\nmaterialistic science becomes, the more angels shall I paint: their wings\nare my protest in favour of the immortality of the soul.\'\n\nBut these are the intellectual speculations that underlie art. Where in\nthe arts themselves are we to find that breadth of human sympathy which\nis the condition of all noble work; where in the arts are we to look for\nwhat Mazzini would call the social ideas as opposed to the merely\npersonal ideas? By virtue of what claim do I demand for the artist the\nlove and loyalty of the men and women of the world? I think I can answer\nthat.\n\nWhatever spiritual message an artist brings to his aid is a matter for\nhis own soul. He may bring judgment like Michael Angelo or peace like\nAngelico; he may come with mourning like the great Athenian or with mirth\nlike the singer of Sicily; nor is it for us to do aught but accept his\nteaching, knowing that we cannot smite the bitter lips of Leopardi into\nlaughter or burden with our discontent Goethe\'s serene calm. But for\nwarrant of its truth such message must have the flame of eloquence in the\nlips that speak it, splendour and glory in the vision that is its\nwitness, being justified by one thing only--the flawless beauty and\nperfect form of its expression: this indeed being the social idea, being\nthe meaning of joy in art.\n\nNot laughter where none should laugh, nor the calling of peace where\nthere is no peace; not in painting the subject ever, but the pictorial\ncharm only, the wonder of its colour, the satisfying beauty of its\ndesign.\n\nYou have most of you seen, probably, that great masterpiece of Rubens\nwhich hangs in the gallery of Brussels, that swift and wonderful pageant\nof horse and rider arrested in its most exquisite and fiery moment when\nthe winds are caught in crimson banner and the air lit by the gleam of\narmour and the flash of plume. Well, that is joy in art, though that\ngolden hillside be trodden by the wounded feet of Christ and it is for\nthe death of the Son of Man that that gorgeous cavalcade is passing.\n\nBut this restless modern intellectual spirit of ours is not receptive\nenough of the sensuous element of art; and so the real influence of the\narts is hidden from many of us: only a few, escaping from the tyranny of\nthe soul, have learned the secret of those high hours when thought is\nnot.\n\nAnd this indeed is the reason of the influence which Eastern art is\nhaving on us in Europe, and of the fascination of all Japanese work.\nWhile the Western world has been laying on art the intolerable burden of\nits own intellectual doubts and the spiritual tragedy of its own sorrows,\nthe East has always kept true to art\'s primary and pictorial conditions.\n\nIn judging of a beautiful statue the aesthetic faculty is absolutely and\ncompletely gratified by the splendid curves of those marble lips that are\ndumb to our complaint, the noble modelling of those limbs that are\npowerless to help us. In its primary aspect a painting has no more\nspiritual message or meaning than an exquisite fragment of Venetian glass\nor a blue tile from the wall of Damascus: it is a beautifully coloured\nsurface, nothing more. The channels by which all noble imaginative work\nin painting should touch, and do touch the soul, are not those of the\ntruths of life, nor metaphysical truths. But that pictorial charm which\ndoes not depend on any literary reminiscence for its effect on the one\nhand, nor is yet a mere result of communicable technical skill on the\nother, comes of a certain inventive and creative handling of colour.\nNearly always in Dutch painting and often in the works of Giorgione or\nTitian, it is entirely independent of anything definitely poetical in the\nsubject, a kind of form and choice in workmanship which is itself\nentirely satisfying, and is (as the Greeks would say) an end in itself.\n\nAnd so in poetry too, the real poetical quality, the joy of poetry, comes\nnever from the subject but from an inventive handling of rhythmical\nlanguage, from what Keats called the \'sensuous life of verse.\' The\nelement of song in the singing accompanied by the profound joy of motion,\nis so sweet that, while the incomplete lives of ordinary men bring no\nhealing power with them, the thorn-crown of the poet will blossom into\nroses for our pleasure; for our delight his despair will gild its own\nthorns, and his pain, like Adonis, be beautiful in its agony; and when\nthe poet\'s heart breaks it will break in music.\n\nAnd health in art--what is that? It has nothing to do with a sane\ncriticism of life. There is more health in Baudelaire than there is in\n[Kingsley]. Health is the artist\'s recognition of the limitations of the\nform in which he works. It is the honour and the homage which he gives\nto the material he uses--whether it be language with its glories, or\nmarble or pigment with their glories--knowing that the true brotherhood\nof the arts consists not in their borrowing one another\'s method, but in\ntheir producing, each of them by its own individual means, each of them\nby keeping its objective limits, the same unique artistic delight. The\ndelight is like that given to us by music--for music is the art in which\nform and matter are always one, the art whose subject cannot be separated\nfrom the method of its expression, the art which most completely realises\nthe artistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts are\nconstantly aspiring.\n\nAnd criticism--what place is that to have in our culture? Well, I think\nthat the first duty of an art critic is to hold his tongue at all times,\nand upon all subjects: C\'est une grande avantage de n\'avoir rien fait,\nmais il ne faut pas en abuser.\n\nIt is only through the mystery of creation that one can gain any\nknowledge of the quality of created things. You have listened to\nPatience for a hundred nights and you have heard me only for one. It\nwill make, no doubt, that satire more piquant by knowing something about\nthe subject of it, but you must not judge of aestheticism by the satire\nof Mr. Gilbert. As little should you judge of the strength and splendour\nof sun or sea by the dust that dances in the beam, or the bubble that\nbreaks on the wave, as take your critic for any sane test of art. For\nthe artists, like the Greek gods, are revealed only to one another, as\nEmerson says somewhere; their real value and place time only can show. In\nthis respect also omnipotence is with the ages. The true critic\naddresses not the artist ever but the public only. His work lies with\nthem. Art can never have any other claim but her own perfection: it is\nfor the critic to create for art the social aim, too, by teaching the\npeople the spirit in which they are to approach all artistic work, the\nlove they are to give it, the lesson they are to draw from it.\n\nAll these appeals to art to set herself more in harmony with modern\nprogress and civilisation, and to make herself the mouthpiece for the\nvoice of humanity, these appeals to art \'to have a mission,\' are appeals\nwhich should be made to the public. The art which has fulfilled the\nconditions of beauty has fulfilled all conditions: it is for the critic\nto teach the people how to find in the calm of such art the highest\nexpression of their own most stormy passions. \'I have no reverence,\'\nsaid Keats, \'for the public, nor for anything in existence but the\nEternal Being, the memory of great men and the principle of Beauty.\'\n\nSuch then is the principle which I believe to be guiding and underlying\nour English Renaissance, a Renaissance many-sided and wonderful,\nproductive of strong ambitions and lofty personalities, yet for all its\nsplendid achievements in poetry and in the decorative arts and in\npainting, for all the increased comeliness and grace of dress, and the\nfurniture of houses and the like, not complete. For there can be no\ngreat sculpture without a beautiful national life, and the commercial\nspirit of England has killed that; no great drama without a noble\nnational life, and the commercial spirit of England has killed that too.\n\nIt is not that the flawless serenity of marble cannot bear the burden of\nthe modern intellectual spirit, or become instinct with the fire of\nromantic passion--the tomb of Duke Lorenzo and the chapel of the Medici\nshow us that--but it is that, as Theophile Gautier used to say, the\nvisible world is dead, le monde visible a disparu.\n\nNor is it again that the novel has killed the play, as some critics would\npersuade us--the romantic movement of France shows us that. The work of\nBalzac and of Hugo grew up side by side together; nay, more, were\ncomplementary to each other, though neither of them saw it. While all\nother forms of poetry may flourish in an ignoble age, the splendid\nindividualism of the lyrist, fed by its own passion, and lit by its own\npower, may pass as a pillar of fire as well across the desert as across\nplaces that are pleasant. It is none the less glorious though no man\nfollow it--nay, by the greater sublimity of its loneliness it may be\nquickened into loftier utterance and intensified into clearer song. From\nthe mean squalor of the sordid life that limits him, the dreamer or the\nidyllist may soar on poesy\'s viewless wings, may traverse with fawn-skin\nand spear the moonlit heights of Cithaeron though Faun and Bassarid dance\nthere no more. Like Keats he may wander through the old-world forests of\nLatmos, or stand like Morris on the galley\'s deck with the Viking when\nking and galley have long since passed away. But the drama is the\nmeeting-place of art and life; it deals, as Mazzini said, not merely with\nman, but with social man, with man in his relation to God and to\nHumanity. It is the product of a period of great national united energy;\nit is impossible without a noble public, and belongs to such ages as the\nage of Elizabeth in London and of Pericles at Athens; it is part of such\nlofty moral and spiritual ardour as came to Greek after the defeat of the\nPersian fleet, and to Englishman after the wreck of the Armada of Spain.\n\nShelley felt how incomplete our movement was in this respect, and has\nshown in one great tragedy by what terror and pity he would have purified\nour age; but in spite of The Cenci the drama is one of the artistic forms\nthrough which the genius of the England of this century seeks in vain to\nfind outlet and expression. He has had no worthy imitators.\n\nIt is rather, perhaps, to you that we should turn to complete and perfect\nthis great movement of ours, for there is something Hellenic in your air\nand world, something that has a quicker breath of the joy and power of\nElizabeth\'s England about it than our ancient civilisation can give us.\nFor you, at least, are young; \'no hungry generations tread you down,\' and\nthe past does not weary you with the intolerable burden of its memories\nnor mock you with the ruins of a beauty, the secret of whose creation you\nhave lost. That very absence of tradition, which Mr. Ruskin thought\nwould rob your rivers of their laughter and your flowers of their light,\nmay be rather the source of your freedom and your strength.\n\nTo speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the\nmovements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees\nin the woods and grass by the roadside, has been defined by one of your\npoets as a flawless triumph of art. It is a triumph which you above all\nnations may be destined to achieve. For the voices that have their\ndwelling in sea and mountain are not the chosen music of Liberty only;\nother messages are there in the wonder of wind-swept height and the\nmajesty of silent deep--messages that, if you will but listen to them,\nmay yield you the splendour of some new imagination, the marvel of some\nnew beauty.\n\n\'I foresee,\' said Goethe, \'the dawn of a new literature which all people\nmay claim as their own, for all have contributed to its foundation.\' If,\nthen, this is so, and if the materials for a civilisation as great as\nthat of Europe lie all around you, what profit, you will ask me, will all\nthis study of our poets and painters be to you? I might answer that the\nintellect can be engaged without direct didactic object on an artistic\nand historical problem; that the demand of the intellect is merely to\nfeel itself alive; that nothing which has ever interested men or women\ncan cease to be a fit subject for culture.\n\nI might remind you of what all Europe owes to the sorrow of a single\nFlorentine in exile at Verona, or to the love of Petrarch by that little\nwell in Southern France; nay, more, how even in this dull, materialistic\nage the simple expression of an old man\'s simple life, passed away from\nthe clamour of great cities amid the lakes and misty hills of Cumberland,\nhas opened out for England treasures of new joy compared with which the\ntreasures of her luxury are as barren as the sea which she has made her\nhighway, and as bitter as the fire which she would make her slave.\n\nBut I think it will bring you something besides this, something that is\nthe knowledge of real strength in art: not that you should imitate the\nworks of these men; but their artistic spirit, their artistic attitude, I\nthink you should absorb that.\n\nFor in nations, as in individuals, if the passion for creation be not\naccompanied by the critical, the aesthetic faculty also, it will be sure\nto waste its strength aimlessly, failing perhaps in the artistic spirit\nof choice, or in the mistaking of feeling for form, or in the following\nof false ideals.\n\nFor the various spiritual forms of the imagination have a natural\naffinity with certain sensuous forms of art--and to discern the qualities\nof each art, to intensify as well its limitations as its powers of\nexpression, is one of the aims that culture sets before us. It is not an\nincreased moral sense, an increased moral supervision that your\nliterature needs. Indeed, one should never talk of a moral or an immoral\npoem--poems are either well written or badly written, that is all. And,\nindeed, any element of morals or implied reference to a standard of good\nor evil in art is often a sign of a certain incompleteness of vision,\noften a note of discord in the harmony of an imaginative creation; for\nall good work aims at a purely artistic effect. \'We must be careful,\'\nsaid Goethe, \'not to be always looking for culture merely in what is\nobviously moral. Everything that is great promotes civilisation as soon\nas we are aware of it.\'\n\nBut, as in your cities so in your literature, it is a permanent canon and\nstandard of taste, an increased sensibility to beauty (if I may say so)\nthat is lacking. All noble work is not national merely, but universal.\nThe political independence of a nation must not be confused with any\nintellectual isolation. The spiritual freedom, indeed, your own generous\nlives and liberal air will give you. From us you will learn the\nclassical restraint of form.\n\nFor all great art is delicate art, roughness having very little to do\nwith strength, and harshness very little to do with power. \'The artist,\'\nas Mr. Swinburne says, \'must be perfectly articulate.\'\n\nThis limitation is for the artist perfect freedom: it is at once the\norigin and the sign of his strength. So that all the supreme masters of\nstyle--Dante, Sophocles, Shakespeare--are the supreme masters of\nspiritual and intellectual vision also.\n\nLove art for its own sake, and then all things that you need will be\nadded to you.\n\nThis devotion to beauty and to the creation of beautiful things is the\ntest of all great civilised nations. Philosophy may teach us to bear\nwith equanimity the misfortunes of our neighbours, and science resolve\nthe moral sense into a secretion of sugar, but art is what makes the life\nof each citizen a sacrament and not a speculation, art is what makes the\nlife of the whole race immortal.\n\nFor beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fall\naway like sand, and creeds follow one another like the withered leaves of\nautumn; but what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons and a possession\nfor all eternity.\n\nWars and the clash of armies and the meeting of men in battle by trampled\nfield or leagured city, and the rising of nations there must always be.\nBut I think that art, by creating a common intellectual atmosphere\nbetween all countries, might--if it could not overshadow the world with\nthe silver wings of peace--at least make men such brothers that they\nwould not go out to slay one another for the whim or folly of some king\nor minister, as they do in Europe. Fraternity would come no more with\nthe hands of Cain, nor Liberty betray freedom with the kiss of Anarchy;\nfor national hatreds are always strongest where culture is lowest.\n\n\'How could I?\' said Goethe, when reproached for not writing like Korner\nagainst the French. \'How could I, to whom barbarism and culture alone\nare of importance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated of\nthe earth, a nation to which I owe a great part of my own cultivation?\'\n\nMighty empires, too, there must always be as long as personal ambition\nand the spirit of the age are one, but art at least is the only empire\nwhich a nation\'s enemies cannot take from her by conquest, but which is\ntaken by submission only. The sovereignty of Greece and Rome is not yet\npassed away, though the gods of the one be dead and the eagles of the\nother tired.\n\nAnd we in our Renaissance are seeking to create a sovereignty that will\nstill be England\'s when her yellow leopards have grown weary of wars and\nthe rose of her shield is crimsoned no more with the blood of battle; and\nyou, too, absorbing into the generous heart of a great people this\npervading artistic spirit, will create for yourselves such riches as you\nhave never yet created, though your land be a network of railways and\nyour cities the harbours for the galleys of the world.\n\nI know, indeed, that the divine natural prescience of beauty which is the\ninalienable inheritance of Greek and Italian is not our inheritance. For\nsuch an informing and presiding spirit of art to shield us from all harsh\nand alien influences, we of the Northern races must turn rather to that\nstrained self-consciousness of our age which, as it is the key-note of\nall our romantic art, must be the source of all or nearly all our\nculture. I mean that intellectual curiosity of the nineteenth century\nwhich is always looking for the secret of the life that still lingers\nround old and bygone forms of culture. It takes from each what is\nserviceable for the modern spirit--from Athens its wonder without its\nworship, from Venice its splendour without its sin. The same spirit is\nalways analysing its own strength and its own weakness, counting what it\nowes to East and to West, to the olive-trees of Colonus and to the palm-\ntrees of Lebanon, to Gethsemane and to the garden of Proserpine.\n\nAnd yet the truths of art cannot be taught: they are revealed only,\nrevealed to natures which have made themselves receptive of all beautiful\nimpressions by the study and worship of all beautiful things. And hence\nthe enormous importance given to the decorative arts in our English\nRenaissance; hence all that marvel of design that comes from the hand of\nEdward Burne-Jones, all that weaving of tapestry and staining of glass,\nthat beautiful working in clay and metal and wood which we owe to William\nMorris, the greatest handicraftsman we have had in England since the\nfourteenth century.\n\nSo, in years to come there will be nothing in any man\'s house which has\nnot given delight to its maker and does not give delight to its user. The\nchildren, like the children of Plato\'s perfect city, will grow up \'in a\nsimple atmosphere of all fair things\'--I quote from the passage in the\nRepublic--\'a simple atmosphere of all fair things, where beauty, which is\nthe spirit of art, will come on eye and ear like a fresh breath of wind\nthat brings health from a clear upland, and insensibly and gradually draw\nthe child\'s soul into harmony with all knowledge and all wisdom, so that\nhe will love what is beautiful and good, and hate what is evil and ugly\n(for they always go together) long before he knows the reason why; and\nthen when reason comes will kiss her on the cheek as a friend.\'\n\nThat is what Plato thought decorative art could do for a nation, feeling\nthat the secret not of philosophy merely but of all gracious existence\nmight be externally hidden from any one whose youth had been passed in\nuncomely and vulgar surroundings, and that the beauty of form and colour\neven, as he says, in the meanest vessels of the house, will find its way\ninto the inmost places of the soul and lead the boy naturally to look for\nthat divine harmony of spiritual life of which art was to him the\nmaterial symbol and warrant.\n\nPrelude indeed to all knowledge and all wisdom will this love of\nbeautiful things be for us; yet there are times when wisdom becomes a\nburden and knowledge is one with sorrow: for as every body has its shadow\nso every soul has its scepticism. In such dread moments of discord and\ndespair where should we, of this torn and troubled age, turn our steps if\nnot to that secure house of beauty where there is always a little\nforgetfulness, always a great joy; to that citta divina, as the old\nItalian heresy called it, the divine city where one can stand, though\nonly for a brief moment, apart from the division and terror of the world\nand the choice of the world too?\n\nThis is that consolation des arts which is the keynote of Gautier\'s\npoetry, the secret of modern life foreshadowed--as indeed what in our\ncentury is not?--by Goethe. You remember what he said to the German\npeople: \'Only have the courage,\' he said, \'to give yourselves up to your\nimpressions, allow yourselves to be delighted, moved, elevated, nay\ninstructed, inspired for something great.\' The courage to give\nyourselves up to your impressions: yes, that is the secret of the\nartistic life--for while art has been defined as an escape from the\ntyranny of the senses, it is an escape rather from the tyranny of the\nsoul. But only to those who worship her above all things does she ever\nreveal her true treasure: else will she be as powerless to aid you as the\nmutilated Venus of the Louvre was before the romantic but sceptical\nnature of Heine.\n\nAnd indeed I think it would be impossible to overrate the gain that might\nfollow if we had about us only what gave pleasure to the maker of it and\ngives pleasure to its user, that being the simplest of all rules about\ndecoration. One thing, at least, I think it would do for us: there is no\nsurer test of a great country than how near it stands to its own poets;\nbut between the singers of our day and the workers to whom they would\nsing there seems to be an ever-widening and dividing chasm, a chasm which\nslander and mockery cannot traverse, but which is spanned by the luminous\nwings of love.\n\nAnd of such love I think that the abiding presence in our houses of noble\nimaginative work would be the surest seed and preparation. I do not mean\nmerely as regards that direct literary expression of art by which, from\nthe little red-and-black cruse of oil or wine, a Greek boy could learn of\nthe lionlike splendour of Achilles, of the strength of Hector and the\nbeauty of Paris and the wonder of Helen, long before he stood and\nlistened in crowded market-place or in theatre of marble; or by which an\nItalian child of the fifteenth century could know of the chastity of\nLucrece and the death of Camilla from carven doorway and from painted\nchest. For the good we get from art is not what we learn from it; it is\nwhat we become through it. Its real influence will be in giving the mind\nthat enthusiasm which is the secret of Hellenism, accustoming it to\ndemand from art all that art can do in rearranging the facts of common\nlife for us--whether it be by giving the most spiritual interpretation of\none\'s own moments of highest passion or the most sensuous expression of\nthose thoughts that are the farthest removed from sense; in accustoming\nit to love the things of the imagination for their own sake, and to\ndesire beauty and grace in all things. For he who does not love art in\nall things does not love it at all, and he who does not need art in all\nthings does not need it at all.\n\nI will not dwell here on what I am sure has delighted you all in our\ngreat Gothic cathedrals. I mean how the artist of that time,\nhandicraftsman himself in stone or glass, found the best motives for his\nart, always ready for his hand and always beautiful, in the daily work of\nthe artificers he saw around him--as in those lovely windows of\nChartres--where the dyer dips in the vat and the potter sits at the\nwheel, and the weaver stands at the loom: real manufacturers these,\nworkers with the hand, and entirely delightful to look at, not like the\nsmug and vapid shopman of our time, who knows nothing of the web or vase\nhe sells, except that he is charging you double its value and thinking\nyou a fool for buying it. Nor can I but just note, in passing, the\nimmense influence the decorative work of Greece and Italy had on its\nartists, the one teaching the sculptor that restraining influence of\ndesign which is the glory of the Parthenon, the other keeping painting\nalways true to its primary, pictorial condition of noble colour which is\nthe secret of the school of Venice; for I wish rather, in this lecture at\nleast, to dwell on the effect that decorative art has on human life--on\nits social not its purely artistic effect.\n\nThere are two kinds of men in the world, two great creeds, two different\nforms of natures: men to whom the end of life is action, and men to whom\nthe end of life is thought. As regards the latter, who seek for\nexperience itself and not for the fruits of experience, who must burn\nalways with one of the passions of this fiery-coloured world, who find\nlife interesting not for its secret but for its situations, for its\npulsations and not for its purpose; the passion for beauty engendered by\nthe decorative arts will be to them more satisfying than any political or\nreligious enthusiasm, any enthusiasm for humanity, any ecstasy or sorrow\nfor love. For art comes to one professing primarily to give nothing but\nthe highest quality to one\'s moments, and for those moments\' sake. So\nfar for those to whom the end of life is thought. As regards the others,\nwho hold that life is inseparable from labour, to them should this\nmovement be specially dear: for, if our days are barren without industry,\nindustry without art is barbarism.\n\nHewers of wood and drawers of water there must be always indeed among us.\nOur modern machinery has not much lightened the labour of man after all:\nbut at least let the pitcher that stands by the well be beautiful and\nsurely the labour of the day will be lightened: let the wood be made\nreceptive of some lovely form, some gracious design, and there will come\nno longer discontent but joy to the toiler. For what is decoration but\nthe worker\'s expression of joy in his work? And not joy merely--that is\na great thing yet not enough--but that opportunity of expressing his own\nindividuality which, as it is the essence of all life, is the source of\nall art. \'I have tried,\' I remember William Morris saying to me once, \'I\nhave tried to make each of my workers an artist, and when I say an artist\nI mean a man.\' For the worker then, handicraftsman of whatever kind he\nis, art is no longer to be a purple robe woven by a slave and thrown over\nthe whitened body of a leprous king to hide and to adorn the sin of his\nluxury, but rather the beautiful and noble expression of a life that has\nin it something beautiful and noble.\n\nAnd so you must seek out your workman and give him, as far as possible,\nthe right surroundings, for remember that the real test and virtue of a\nworkman is not his earnestness nor his industry even, but his power of\ndesign merely; and that \'design is not the offspring of idle fancy: it is\nthe studied result of accumulative observation and delightful habit.\' All\nthe teaching in the world is of no avail if you do not surround your\nworkman with happy influences and with beautiful things. It is\nimpossible for him to have right ideas about colour unless he sees the\nlovely colours of Nature unspoiled; impossible for him to supply\nbeautiful incident and action unless he sees beautiful incident and\naction in the world about him.\n\nFor to cultivate sympathy you must be among living things and thinking\nabout them, and to cultivate admiration you must be among beautiful\nthings and looking at them. \'The steel of Toledo and the silk of Genoa\ndid but give strength to oppression and lustre to pride,\' as Mr. Ruskin\nsays; let it be for you to create an art that is made by the hands of the\npeople for the joy of the people, to please the hearts of the people,\ntoo; an art that will be your expression of your delight in life. There\nis nothing \'in common life too mean, in common things too trivial to be\nennobled by your touch\'; nothing in life that art cannot sanctify.\n\nYou have heard, I think, a few of you, of two flowers connected with the\naesthetic movement in England, and said (I assure you, erroneously) to be\nthe food of some aesthetic young men. Well, let me tell you that the\nreason we love the lily and the sunflower, in spite of what Mr. Gilbert\nmay tell you, is not for any vegetable fashion at all. It is because\nthese two lovely flowers are in England the two most perfect models of\ndesign, the most naturally adapted for decorative art--the gaudy leonine\nbeauty of the one and the precious loveliness of the other giving to the\nartist the most entire and perfect joy. And so with you: let there be no\nflower in your meadows that does not wreathe its tendrils around your\npillows, no little leaf in your Titan forests that does not lend its form\nto design, no curving spray of wild rose or brier that does not live for\never in carven arch or window or marble, no bird in your air that is not\ngiving the iridescent wonder of its colour, the exquisite curves of its\nwings in flight, to make more precious the preciousness of simple\nadornment. For the voices that have their dwelling in sea and mountain\nare not the chosen music of liberty only. Other messages are there in\nthe wonder of wind-swept heights and the majesty of silent deep--messages\nthat, if you will listen to them, will give you the wonder of all new\nimagination, the treasure of all new beauty.\n\nWe spend our days, each one of us, in looking for the secret of life.\nWell, the secret of life is in art.\n\n\n\n\nHOUSE DECORATION\n\n\nA lecture delivered in America during Wilde\'s tour in 1882. It was\nannounced as a lecture on \'The Practical Application of the Principles of\nthe AEsthetic Theory to Exterior and Interior House Decoration, With\nObservations upon Dress and Personal Ornaments.\' The earliest date on\nwhich it is known to have been given is May 11, 1882.\n\nIn my last lecture I gave you something of the history of Art in England.\nI sought to trace the influence of the French Revolution upon its\ndevelopment. I said something of the song of Keats and the school of the\npre-Raphaelites. But I do not want to shelter the movement, which I have\ncalled the English Renaissance, under any palladium however noble, or any\nname however revered. The roots of it have, indeed, to be sought for in\nthings that have long passed away, and not, as some suppose, in the fancy\nof a few young men--although I am not altogether sure that there is\nanything much better than the fancy of a few young men.\n\nWhen I appeared before you on a previous occasion, I had seen nothing of\nAmerican art save the Doric columns and Corinthian chimney-pots visible\non your Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Since then, I have been through your\ncountry to some fifty or sixty different cities, I think. I find that\nwhat your people need is not so much high imaginative art but that which\nhallows the vessels of everyday use. I suppose that the poet will sing\nand the artist will paint regardless whether the world praises or blames.\nHe has his own world and is independent of his fellow-men. But the\nhandicraftsman is dependent on your pleasure and opinion. He needs your\nencouragement and he must have beautiful surroundings. Your people love\nart but do not sufficiently honour the handicraftsman. Of course, those\nmillionaires who can pillage Europe for their pleasure need have no care\nto encourage such; but I speak for those whose desire for beautiful\nthings is larger than their means. I find that one great trouble all\nover is that your workmen are not given to noble designs. You cannot be\nindifferent to this, because Art is not something which you can take or\nleave. It is a necessity of human life.\n\nAnd what is the meaning of this beautiful decoration which we call art?\nIn the first place, it means value to the workman and it means the\npleasure which he must necessarily take in making a beautiful thing. The\nmark of all good art is not that the thing done is done exactly or\nfinely, for machinery may do as much, but that it is worked out with the\nhead and the workman\'s heart. I cannot impress the point too frequently\nthat beautiful and rational designs are necessary in all work. I did not\nimagine, until I went into some of your simpler cities, that there was so\nmuch bad work done. I found, where I went, bad wall-papers horribly\ndesigned, and coloured carpets, and that old offender the horse-hair\nsofa, whose stolid look of indifference is always so depressing. I found\nmeaningless chandeliers and machine-made furniture, generally of\nrosewood, which creaked dismally under the weight of the ubiquitous\ninterviewer. I came across the small iron stove which they always\npersist in decorating with machine-made ornaments, and which is as great\na bore as a wet day or any other particularly dreadful institution. When\nunusual extravagance was indulged in, it was garnished with two funeral\nurns.\n\nIt must always be remembered that what is well and carefully made by an\nhonest workman, after a rational design, increases in beauty and value as\nthe years go on. The old furniture brought over by the Pilgrims, two\nhundred years ago, which I saw in New England, is just as good and as\nbeautiful today as it was when it first came here. Now, what you must do\nis to bring artists and handicraftsmen together. Handicraftsmen cannot\nlive, certainly cannot thrive, without such companionship. Separate\nthese two and you rob art of all spiritual motive.\n\nHaving done this, you must place your workman in the midst of beautiful\nsurroundings. The artist is not dependent on the visible and the\ntangible. He has his visions and his dreams to feed on. But the workman\nmust see lovely forms as he goes to his work in the morning and returns\nat eventide. And, in connection with this, I want to assure you that\nnoble and beautiful designs are never the result of idle fancy or\npurposeless day-dreaming. They come only as the accumulation of habits\nof long and delightful observation. And yet such things may not be\ntaught. Right ideas concerning them can certainly be obtained only by\nthose who have been accustomed to rooms that are beautiful and colours\nthat are satisfying.\n\nPerhaps one of the most difficult things for us to do is to choose a\nnotable and joyous dress for men. There would be more joy in life if we\nwere to accustom ourselves to use all the beautiful colours we can in\nfashioning our own clothes. The dress of the future, I think, will use\ndrapery to a great extent and will abound with joyous colour. At present\nwe have lost all nobility of dress and, in doing so, have almost\nannihilated the modern sculptor. And, in looking around at the figures\nwhich adorn our parks, one could almost wish that we had completely\nkilled the noble art. To see the frockcoat of the drawing-room done in\nbronze, or the double waistcoat perpetuated in marble, adds a new horror\nto death. But indeed, in looking through the history of costume, seeking\nan answer to the questions we have propounded, there is little that is\neither beautiful or appropriate. One of the earliest forms is the Greek\ndrapery which is so exquisite for young girls. And then, I think we may\nbe pardoned a little enthusiasm over the dress of the time of Charles I.,\nso beautiful indeed, that in spite of its invention being with the\nCavaliers it was copied by the Puritans. And the dress for the children\nof that time must not be passed over. It was a very golden age of the\nlittle ones. I do not think that they have ever looked so lovely as they\ndo in the pictures of that time. The dress of the last century in\nEngland is also peculiarly gracious and graceful. There is nothing\nbizarre or strange about it, but it is full of harmony and beauty. In\nthese days, when we have suffered so dreadfully from the incursions of\nthe modern milliner, we hear ladies boast that they do not wear a dress\nmore than once. In the old days, when the dresses were decorated with\nbeautiful designs and worked with exquisite embroidery, ladies rather\ntook a pride in bringing out the garment and wearing it many times and\nhanding it down to their daughters--a process that would, I think, be\nquite appreciated by a modern husband when called upon to settle his\nwife\'s bills.\n\nAnd how shall men dress? Men say that they do not particularly care how\nthey dress, and that it is little matter. I am bound to reply that I do\nnot think that you do. In all my journeys through the country, the only\nwell-dressed men that I saw--and in saying this I earnestly deprecate the\npolished indignation of your Fifth Avenue dandies--were the Western\nminers. Their wide-brimmed hats, which shaded their faces from the sun\nand protected them from the rain, and the cloak, which is by far the most\nbeautiful piece of drapery ever invented, may well be dwelt on with\nadmiration. Their high boots, too, were sensible and practical. They\nwore only what was comfortable, and therefore beautiful. As I looked at\nthem I could not help thinking with regret of the time when these\npicturesque miners would have made their fortunes and would go East to\nassume again all the abominations of modern fashionable attire. Indeed,\nso concerned was I that I made some of them promise that when they again\nappeared in the more crowded scenes of Eastern civilisation they would\nstill continue to wear their lovely costume. But I do not believe they\nwill.\n\nNow, what America wants today is a school of rational art. Bad art is a\ngreat deal worse than no art at all. You must show your workmen\nspecimens of good work so that they come to know what is simple and true\nand beautiful. To that end I would have you have a museum attached to\nthese schools--not one of those dreadful modern institutions where there\nis a stuffed and very dusty giraffe, and a case or two of fossils, but a\nplace where there are gathered examples of art decoration from various\nperiods and countries. Such a place is the South Kensington Museum in\nLondon whereon we build greater hopes for the future than on any other\none thing. There I go every Saturday night, when the museum is open\nlater than usual, to see the handicraftsman, the wood-worker, the glass-\nblower and the worker in metals. And it is here that the man of\nrefinement and culture comes face to face with the workman who ministers\nto his joy. He comes to know more of the nobility of the workman, and\nthe workman, feeling the appreciation, comes to know more of the nobility\nof his work.\n\nYou have too many white walls. More colour is wanted. You should have\nsuch men as Whistler among you to teach you the beauty and joy of colour.\nTake Mr. Whistler\'s \'Symphony in White,\' which you no doubt have imagined\nto be something quite bizarre. It is nothing of the sort. Think of a\ncool grey sky flecked here and there with white clouds, a grey ocean and\nthree wonderfully beautiful figures robed in white, leaning over the\nwater and dropping white flowers from their fingers. Here is no\nextensive intellectual scheme to trouble you, and no metaphysics of which\nwe have had quite enough in art. But if the simple and unaided colour\nstrike the right keynote, the whole conception is made clear. I regard\nMr. Whistler\'s famous Peacock Room as the finest thing in colour and art\ndecoration which the world has known since Correggio painted that\nwonderful room in Italy where the little children are dancing on the\nwalls. Mr. Whistler finished another room just before I came away--a\nbreakfast room in blue and yellow. The ceiling was a light blue, the\ncabinet-work and the furniture were of a yellow wood, the curtains at the\nwindows were white and worked in yellow, and when the table was set for\nbreakfast with dainty blue china nothing can be conceived at once so\nsimple and so joyous.\n\nThe fault which I have observed in most of your rooms is that there is\napparent no definite scheme of colour. Everything is not attuned to a\nkey-note as it should be. The apartments are crowded with pretty things\nwhich have no relation to one another. Again, your artists must decorate\nwhat is more simply useful. In your art schools I found no attempt to\ndecorate such things as the vessels for water. I know of nothing uglier\nthan the ordinary jug or pitcher. A museum could be filled with the\ndifferent kinds of water vessels which are used in hot countries. Yet we\ncontinue to submit to the depressing jug with the handle all on one side.\nI do not see the wisdom of decorating dinner-plates with sunsets and soup-\nplates with moonlight scenes. I do not think it adds anything to the\npleasure of the canvas-back duck to take it out of such glories. Besides,\nwe do not want a soup-plate whose bottom seems to vanish in the distance.\nOne feels neither safe nor comfortable under such conditions. In fact, I\ndid not find in the art schools of the country that the difference was\nexplained between decorative and imaginative art.\n\nThe conditions of art should be simple. A great deal more depends upon\nthe heart than upon the head. Appreciation of art is not secured by any\nelaborate scheme of learning. Art requires a good healthy atmosphere.\nThe motives for art are still around about us as they were round about\nthe ancients. And the subjects are also easily found by the earnest\nsculptor and the painter. Nothing is more picturesque and graceful than\na man at work. The artist who goes to the children\'s playground, watches\nthem at their sport and sees the boy stop to tie his shoe, will find the\nsame themes that engaged the attention of the ancient Greeks, and such\nobservation and the illustrations which follow will do much to correct\nthat foolish impression that mental and physical beauty are always\ndivorced.\n\nTo you, more than perhaps to any other country, has Nature been generous\nin furnishing material for art workers to work in. You have marble\nquarries where the stone is more beautiful in colour than any the Greeks\never had for their beautiful work, and yet day after day I am confronted\nwith the great building of some stupid man who has used the beautiful\nmaterial as if it were not precious almost beyond speech. Marble should\nnot be used save by noble workmen. There is nothing which gave me a\ngreater sense of barrenness in travelling through the country than the\nentire absence of wood carving on your houses. Wood carving is the\nsimplest of the decorative arts. In Switzerland the little barefooted\nboy beautifies the porch of his father\'s house with examples of skill in\nthis direction. Why should not American boys do a great deal more and\nbetter than Swiss boys?\n\nThere is nothing to my mind more coarse in conception and more vulgar in\nexecution than modern jewellery. This is something that can easily be\ncorrected. Something better should be made out of the beautiful gold\nwhich is stored up in your mountain hollows and strewn along your river\nbeds. When I was at Leadville and reflected that all the shining silver\nthat I saw coming from the mines would be made into ugly dollars, it made\nme sad. It should be made into something more permanent. The golden\ngates at Florence are as beautiful today as when Michael Angelo saw them.\n\nWe should see more of the workman than we do. We should not be content\nto have the salesman stand between us--the salesman who knows nothing of\nwhat he is selling save that he is charging a great deal too much for it.\nAnd watching the workman will teach that most important lesson--the\nnobility of all rational workmanship.\n\nI said in my last lecture that art would create a new brotherhood among\nmen by furnishing a universal language. I said that under its beneficent\ninfluences war might pass away. Thinking this, what place can I ascribe\nto art in our education? If children grow up among all fair and lovely\nthings, they will grow to love beauty and detest ugliness before they\nknow the reason why. If you go into a house where everything is coarse,\nyou find things chipped and broken and unsightly. Nobody exercises any\ncare. If everything is dainty and delicate, gentleness and refinement of\nmanner are unconsciously acquired. When I was in San Francisco I used to\nvisit the Chinese Quarter frequently. There I used to watch a great\nhulking Chinese workman at his task of digging, and used to see him every\nday drink his tea from a little cup as delicate in texture as the petal\nof a flower, whereas in all the grand hotels of the land, where thousands\nof dollars have been lavished on great gilt mirrors and gaudy columns, I\nhave been given my coffee or my chocolate in cups an inch and a quarter\nthick. I think I have deserved something nicer.\n\nThe art systems of the past have been devised by philosophers who looked\nupon human beings as obstructions. They have tried to educate boys\'\nminds before they had any. How much better it would be in these early\nyears to teach children to use their hands in the rational service of\nmankind. I would have a workshop attached to every school, and one hour\na day given up to the teaching of simple decorative arts. It would be a\ngolden hour to the children. And you would soon raise up a race of\nhandicraftsmen who would transform the face of your country. I have seen\nonly one such school in the United States, and this was in Philadelphia\nand was founded by my friend Mr. Leyland. I stopped there yesterday and\nhave brought some of the work here this afternoon to show you. Here are\ntwo discs of beaten brass: the designs on them are beautiful, the\nworkmanship is simple, and the entire result is satisfactory. The work\nwas done by a little boy twelve years old. This is a wooden bowl\ndecorated by a little girl of thirteen. The design is lovely and the\ncolouring delicate and pretty. Here you see a piece of beautiful wood\ncarving accomplished by a little boy of nine. In such work as this,\nchildren learn sincerity in art. They learn to abhor the liar in art--the\nman who paints wood to look like iron, or iron to look like stone. It is\na practical school of morals. No better way is there to learn to love\nNature than to understand Art. It dignifies every flower of the field.\nAnd, the boy who sees the thing of beauty which a bird on the wing\nbecomes when transferred to wood or canvas will probably not throw the\ncustomary stone. What we want is something spiritual added to life.\nNothing is so ignoble that Art cannot sanctify it.\n\n\n\n\nART AND THE HANDICRAFTSMAN\n\n\nThe fragments of which this lecture is composed are taken entirely from\nthe original manuscripts which have but recently been discovered. It is\nnot certain that they all belong to the same lecture, nor that all were\nwritten at the same period. Some portions were written in Philadelphia\nin 1882.\n\nPeople often talk as if there was an opposition between what is beautiful\nand what is useful. There is no opposition to beauty except ugliness:\nall things are either beautiful or ugly, and utility will be always on\nthe side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration is always\non the side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration is\nalways an expression of the use you put a thing to and the value placed\non it. No workman will beautifully decorate bad work, nor can you\npossibly get good handicraftsmen or workmen without having beautiful\ndesigns. You should be quite sure of that. If you have poor and\nworthless designs in any craft or trade you will get poor and worthless\nworkmen only, but the minute you have noble and beautiful designs, then\nyou get men of power and intellect and feeling to work for you. By\nhaving good designs you have workmen who work not merely with their hands\nbut with their hearts and heads too; otherwise you will get merely the\nfool or the loafer to work for you.\n\nThat the beauty of life is a thing of no moment, I suppose few people\nwould venture to assert. And yet most civilised people act as if it were\nof none, and in so doing are wronging both themselves and those that are\nto come after them. For that beauty which is meant by art is no mere\naccident of human life which people can take or leave, but a positive\nnecessity of life if we are to live as nature meant us to, that is to say\nunless we are content to be less than men.\n\nDo not think that the commercial spirit which is the basis of your life\nand cities here is opposed to art. Who built the beautiful cities of the\nworld but commercial men and commercial men only? Genoa built by its\ntraders, Florence by its bankers, and Venice, most lovely of all, by its\nnoble and honest merchants.\n\nI do not wish you, remember, \'to build a new Pisa,\' nor to bring \'the\nlife or the decorations of the thirteenth century back again.\' \'The\ncircumstances with which you must surround your workmen are those\' of\nmodern American life, \'because the designs you have now to ask for from\nyour workmen are such as will make modern\' American \'life beautiful.\' The\nart we want is the art based on all the inventions of modern\ncivilisation, and to suit all the needs of nineteenth century life.\n\nDo you think, for instance, that we object to machinery? I tell you we\nreverence it; we reverence it when it does its proper work, when it\nrelieves man from ignoble and soulless labour, not when it seeks to do\nthat which is valuable only when wrought by the hands and hearts of men.\nLet us have no machine-made ornament at all; it is all bad and worthless\nand ugly. And let us not mistake the means of civilisation for the end\nof civilisation; steam-engine, telephone and the like, are all wonderful,\nbut remember that their value depends entirely on the noble uses we make\nof them, on the noble spirit in which we employ them, not on the things\nthemselves.\n\nIt is, no doubt, a great advantage to talk to a man at the Antipodes\nthrough a telephone; its advantage depends entirely on the value of what\nthe two men have to say to one another. If one merely shrieks slander\nthrough a tube and the other whispers folly into a wire, do not think\nthat anybody is very much benefited by the invention.\n\nThe train that whirls an ordinary Englishman through Italy at the rate of\nforty miles an hour and finally sends him home without any memory of that\nlovely country but that he was cheated by a courier at Rome, or that he\ngot a bad dinner at Verona, does not do him or civilisation much good.\nBut that swift legion of fiery-footed engines that bore to the burning\nruins of Chicago the loving help and generous treasure of the world was\nas noble and as beautiful as any golden troop of angels that ever fed the\nhungry and clothed the naked in the antique times. As beautiful, yes;\nall machinery may be beautiful when it is undecorated even. Do not seek\nto decorate it. We cannot but think all good machinery is graceful,\nalso, the line of strength and the line of beauty being one.\n\nGive then, as I said, to your workmen of today the bright and noble\nsurroundings that you can yourself create. Stately and simple\narchitecture for your cities, bright and simple dress for your men and\nwomen; those are the conditions of a real artistic movement. For the\nartist is not concerned primarily with any theory of life but with life\nitself, with the joy and loveliness that should come daily on eye and ear\nfor a beautiful external world.\n\nBut the simplicity must not be barrenness nor the bright colour gaudy.\nFor all beautiful colours are graduated colours, the colours that seem\nabout to pass into one another\'s realm--colour without tone being like\nmusic without harmony, mere discord. Barren architecture, the vulgar and\nglaring advertisements that desecrate not merely your cities but every\nrock and river that I have seen yet in America--all this is not enough. A\nschool of design we must have too in each city. It should be a stately\nand noble building, full of the best examples of the best art of the\nworld. Furthermore, do not put your designers in a barren whitewashed\nroom and bid them work in that depressing and colourless atmosphere as I\nhave seen many of the American schools of design, but give them beautiful\nsurroundings. Because you want to produce a permanent canon and standard\nof taste in your workman, he must have always by him and before him\nspecimens of the best decorative art of the world, so that you can say to\nhim: \'This is good work. Greek or Italian or Japanese wrought it so many\nyears ago, but it is eternally young because eternally beautiful.\' Work\nin this spirit and you will be sure to be right. Do not copy it, but\nwork with the same love, the same reverence, the same freedom of\nimagination. You must teach him colour and design, how all beautiful\ncolours are graduated colours and glaring colours the essence of\nvulgarity. Show him the quality of any beautiful work of nature like the\nrose, or any beautiful work of art like an Eastern carpet--being merely\nthe exquisite graduation of colour, one tone answering another like the\nanswering chords of a symphony. Teach him how the true designer is not\nhe who makes the design and then colours it, but he who designs in\ncolour, creates in colour, thinks in colour too. Show him how the most\ngorgeous stained glass windows of Europe are filled with white glass, and\nthe most gorgeous Eastern tapestry with toned colours--the primary\ncolours in both places being set in the white glass, and the tone colours\nlike brilliant jewels set in dusky gold. And then as regards design,\nshow him how the real designer will take first any given limited space,\nlittle disk of silver, it may be, like a Greek coin, or wide expanse of\nfretted ceiling or lordly wall as Tintoret chose at Venice (it does not\nmatter which), and to this limited space--the first condition of\ndecoration being the limitation of the size of the material used--he will\ngive the effect of its being filled with beautiful decoration, filled\nwith it as a golden cup will be filled with wine, so complete that you\nshould not be able to take away anything from it or add anything to it.\nFor from a good piece of design you can take away nothing, nor can you\nadd anything to it, each little bit of design being as absolutely\nnecessary and as vitally important to the whole effect as a note or chord\nof music is for a sonata of Beethoven.\n\nBut I said the effect of its being so filled, because this, again, is of\nthe essence of good design. With a simple spray of leaves and a bird in\nflight a Japanese artist will give you the impression that he has\ncompletely covered with lovely design the reed fan or lacquer cabinet at\nwhich he is working, merely because he knows the exact spot in which to\nplace them. All good design depends on the texture of the utensil used\nand the use you wish to put it to. One of the first things I saw in an\nAmerican school of design was a young lady painting a romantic moonlight\nlandscape on a large round dish, and another young lady covering a set of\ndinner plates with a series of sunsets of the most remarkable colours.\nLet your ladies paint moonlight landscapes and sunsets, but do not let\nthem paint them on dinner plates or dishes. Let them take canvas or\npaper for such work, but not clay or china. They are merely painting the\nwrong subjects on the wrong material, that is all. They have not been\ntaught that every material and texture has certain qualities of its own.\nThe design suitable for one is quite wrong for the other, just as the\ndesign which you should work on a flat table-cover ought to be quite\ndifferent from the design you would work on a curtain, for the one will\nalways be straight, the other broken into folds; and the use too one puts\nthe object to should guide one in the choice of design. One does not\nwant to eat one\'s terrapins off a romantic moonlight nor one\'s clams off\na harrowing sunset. Glory of sun and moon, let them be wrought for us by\nour landscape artist and be on the walls of the rooms we sit in to remind\nus of the undying beauty of the sunsets that fade and die, but do not let\nus eat our soup off them and send them down to the kitchen twice a day to\nbe washed and scrubbed by the handmaid.\n\nAll these things are simple enough, yet nearly always forgotten. Your\nschool of design here will teach your girls and your boys, your\nhandicraftsmen of the future (for all your schools of art should be local\nschools, the schools of particular cities). We talk of the Italian\nschool of painting, but there is no Italian school; there were the\nschools of each city. Every town in Italy, from Venice itself, queen of\nthe sea, to the little hill fortress of Perugia, each had its own school\nof art, each different and all beautiful.\n\nSo do not mind what art Philadelphia or New York is having, but make by\nthe hands of your own citizens beautiful art for the joy of your own\ncitizens, for you have here the primary elements of a great artistic\nmovement.\n\nFor, believe me, the conditions of art are much simpler than people\nimagine. For the noblest art one requires a clear healthy atmosphere,\nnot polluted as the air of our English cities is by the smoke and grime\nand horridness which comes from open furnace and from factory chimney.\nYou must have strong, sane, healthy physique among your men and women.\nSickly or idle or melancholy people do not do much in art. And lastly,\nyou require a sense of individualism about each man and woman, for this\nis the essence of art--a desire on the part of man to express himself in\nthe noblest way possible. And this is the reason that the grandest art\nof the world always came from a republic, Athens, Venice, and\nFlorence--there were no kings there and so their art was as noble and\nsimple as sincere. But if you want to know what kind of art the folly of\nkings will impose on a country look at the decorative art of France under\nthe grand monarch, under Louis the Fourteenth; the gaudy gilt furniture\nwrithing under a sense of its own horror and ugliness, with a nymph\nsmirking at every angle and a dragon mouthing on every claw. Unreal and\nmonstrous art this, and fit only for such periwigged pomposities as the\nnobility of France at that time, but not at all fit for you or me. We do\nnot want the rich to possess more beautiful things but the poor to create\nmore beautiful things; for every man is poor who cannot create. Nor\nshall the art which you and I need be merely a purple robe woven by a\nslave and thrown over the whitened body of some leprous king to adorn or\nto conceal the sin of his luxury, but rather shall it be the noble and\nbeautiful expression of a people\'s noble and beautiful life. Art shall\nbe again the most glorious of all the chords through which the spirit of\na great nation finds its noblest utterance.\n\nAll around you, I said, lie the conditions for a great artistic movement\nfor every great art. Let us think of one of them; a sculptor, for\ninstance.\n\nIf a modern sculptor were to come and say, \'Very well, but where can one\nfind subjects for sculpture out of men who wear frock-coats and chimney-\npot hats?\' I would tell him to go to the docks of a great city and watch\nthe men loading or unloading the stately ships, working at wheel or\nwindlass, hauling at rope or gangway. I have never watched a man do\nanything useful who has not been graceful at some moment of his labour;\nit is only the loafer and the idle saunterer who is as useless and\nuninteresting to the artist as he is to himself. I would ask the\nsculptor to go with me to any of your schools or universities, to the\nrunning ground and gymnasium, to watch the young men start for a race,\nhurling quoit or club, kneeling to tie their shoes before leaping,\nstepping from the boat or bending to the oar, and to carve them; and when\nhe was weary of cities I would ask him to come to your fields and meadows\nto watch the reaper with his sickle and the cattle driver with lifted\nlasso. For if a man cannot find the noblest motives for his art in such\nsimple daily things as a woman drawing water from the well or a man\nleaning with his scythe, he will not find them anywhere at all. Gods and\ngoddesses the Greek carved because he loved them; saint and king the Goth\nbecause he believed in them. But you, you do not care much for Greek\ngods and goddesses, and you are perfectly and entirely right; and you do\nnot think much of kings either, and you are quite right. But what you do\nlove are your own men and women, your own flowers and fields, your own\nhills and mountains, and these are what your art should represent to you.\n\nOurs has been the first movement which has brought the handicraftsman and\nthe artist together, for remember that by separating the one from the\nother you do ruin to both; you rob the one of all spiritual motive and\nall imaginative joy, you isolate the other from all real technical\nperfection. The two greatest schools of art in the world, the sculptor\nat Athens and the school of painting at Venice, had their origin entirely\nin a long succession of simple and earnest handicraftsmen. It was the\nGreek potter who taught the sculptor that restraining influence of design\nwhich was the glory of the Parthenon; it was the Italian decorator of\nchests and household goods who kept Venetian painting always true to its\nprimary pictorial condition of noble colour. For we should remember that\nall the arts are fine arts and all the arts decorative arts. The\ngreatest triumph of Italian painting was the decoration of a pope\'s\nchapel in Rome and the wall of a room in Venice. Michael Angelo wrought\nthe one, and Tintoret, the dyer\'s son, the other. And the little \'Dutch\nlandscape, which you put over your sideboard today, and between the\nwindows tomorrow, is\' no less a glorious \'piece of work than the extents\nof field and forest with which Benozzo has made green and beautiful the\nonce melancholy arcade of the Campo Santo at Pisa,\' as Ruskin says.\n\nDo not imitate the works of a nation, Greek or Japanese, Italian or\nEnglish; but their artistic spirit of design and their artistic attitude\ntoday, their own world, you should absorb but imitate never, copy never.\nUnless you can make as beautiful a design in painted china or embroidered\nscreen or beaten brass out of your American turkey as the Japanese does\nout of his grey silver-winged stork, you will never do anything. Let the\nGreek carve his lions and the Goth his dragons: buffalo and wild deer are\nthe animals for you.\n\nGolden rod and aster and rose and all the flowers that cover your valleys\nin the spring and your hills in the autumn: let them be the flowers for\nyour art. Not merely has Nature given you the noblest motives for a new\nschool of decoration, but to you above all other countries has she given\nthe utensils to work in.\n\nYou have quarries of marble richer than Pantelicus, more varied than\nParos, but do not build a great white square house of marble and think\nthat it is beautiful, or that you are using marble nobly. If you build\nin marble you must either carve it into joyous decoration, like the lives\nof dancing children that adorn the marble castles of the Loire, or fill\nit with beautiful sculpture, frieze and pediment, as the Greeks did, or\ninlay it with other coloured marbles as they did in Venice. Otherwise\nyou had better build in simple red brick as your Puritan fathers, with no\npretence and with some beauty. Do not treat your marble as if it was\nordinary stone and build a house of mere blocks of it. For it is indeed\na precious stone, this marble of yours, and only workmen of nobility of\ninvention and delicacy of hand should be allowed to touch it at all,\ncarving it into noble statues or into beautiful decoration, or inlaying\nit with other coloured marbles: for the true colours of architecture are\nthose of natural stone, and I would fain see them taken advantage of to\nthe full. Every variety is here, from pale yellow to purple passing\nthrough orange, red and brown, entirely at your command; nearly every\nkind of green and grey also is attainable, and with these and with pure\nwhite what harmony might you not achieve. Of stained and variegated\nstone the quantity is unlimited, the kinds innumerable. Were brighter\ncolours required, let glass, and gold protected by glass, be used in\nmosaic, a kind of work as durable as the solid stone and incapable of\nlosing its lustre by time. And let the painter\'s work be reserved for\nthe shadowed loggia and inner chamber.\n\nThis is the true and faithful way of building. Where this cannot be, the\ndevice of external colouring may indeed be employed without dishonour--but\nit must be with the warning reflection that a time will come when such\naids will pass away and when the building will be judged in its\nlifelessness, dying the death of the dolphin. Better the less bright,\nmore enduring fabric. The transparent alabasters of San Miniato and the\nmosaics of Saint Mark\'s are more warmly filled and more brightly touched\nby every return of morning and evening rays, while the hues of the Gothic\ncathedrals have died like the iris out of the cloud, and the temples,\nwhose azure and purple once flamed above the Grecian promontory, stand in\ntheir faded whiteness like snows which the sunset has left cold.\n\n* * * * *\n\nI do not know anything so perfectly commonplace in design as most modern\njewellery. How easy for you to change that and to produce goldsmiths\'\nwork that would be a joy to all of us. The gold is ready for you in\nunexhausted treasure, stored up in the mountain hollow or strewn on the\nriver sand, and was not given to you merely for barren speculation. There\nshould be some better record of it left in your history than the\nmerchant\'s panic and the ruined home. We do not remember often enough\nhow constantly the history of a great nation will live in and by its art.\nOnly a few thin wreaths of beaten gold remain to tell us of the stately\nempire of Etruria; and, while from the streets of Florence the noble\nknight and haughty duke have long since passed away, the gates which the\nsimple goldsmith Gheberti made for their pleasure still guard their\nlovely house of baptism, worthy still of the praise of Michael Angelo who\ncalled them worthy to be the Gates of Paradise.\n\nHave then your school of design, search out your workmen and, when you\nfind one who has delicacy of hand and that wonder of invention necessary\nfor goldsmiths\' work, do not leave him to toil in obscurity and dishonour\nand have a great glaring shop and two great glaring shop-boys in it (not\nto take your orders: they never do that; but to force you to buy\nsomething you do not want at all). When you want a thing wrought in\ngold, goblet or shield for the feast, necklace or wreath for the women,\ntell him what you like most in decoration, flower or wreath, bird in\nflight or hound in the chase, image of the woman you love or the friend\nyou honour. Watch him as he beats out the gold into those thin plates\ndelicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or draws it into the long wires\nlike tangled sunbeams at dawn. Whoever that workman be help him, cherish\nhim, and you will have such lovely work from his hand as will be a joy to\nyou for all time.\n\nThis is the spirit of our movement in England, and this is the spirit in\nwhich we would wish you to work, making eternal by your art all that is\nnoble in your men and women, stately in your lakes and mountains,\nbeautiful in your own flowers and natural life. We want to see that you\nhave nothing in your houses that has not been a joy to the man who made\nit, and is not a joy to those that use it. We want to see you create an\nart made by the hands of the people to please the hearts of the people\ntoo. Do you like this spirit or not? Do you think it simple and strong,\nnoble in its aim, and beautiful in its result? I know you do.\n\nFolly and slander have their own way for a little time, but for a little\ntime only. You now know what we mean: you will be able to estimate what\nis said of us--its value and its motive.\n\nThere should be a law that no ordinary newspaper should be allowed to\nwrite about art. The harm they do by their foolish and random writing it\nwould be impossible to overestimate--not to the artist but to the public,\nblinding them to all, but harming the artist not at all. Without them we\nwould judge a man simply by his work; but at present the newspapers are\ntrying hard to induce the public to judge a sculptor, for instance, never\nby his statues but by the way he treats his wife; a painter by the amount\nof his income and a poet by the colour of his necktie. I said there\nshould be a law, but there is really no necessity for a new law: nothing\ncould be easier than to bring the ordinary critic under the head of the\ncriminal classes. But let us leave such an inartistic subject and return\nto beautiful and comely things, remembering that the art which would\nrepresent the spirit of modern newspapers would be exactly the art which\nyou and I want to avoid--grotesque art, malice mocking you from every\ngateway, slander sneering at you from every corner.\n\nPerhaps you may be surprised at my talking of labour and the workman. You\nhave heard of me, I fear, through the medium of your somewhat imaginative\nnewspapers as, if not a \'Japanese young man,\' at least a young man to\nwhom the rush and clamour and reality of the modern world were\ndistasteful, and whose greatest difficulty in life was the difficulty of\nliving up to the level of his blue china--a paradox from which England\nhas not yet recovered.\n\nWell, let me tell you how it first came to me at all to create an\nartistic movement in England, a movement to show the rich what beautiful\nthings they might enjoy and the poor what beautiful things they might\ncreate.\n\nOne summer afternoon in Oxford--\'that sweet city with her dreaming\nspires,\' lovely as Venice in its splendour, noble in its learning as\nRome, down the long High Street that winds from tower to tower, past\nsilent cloister and stately gateway, till it reaches that long, grey\nseven-arched bridge which Saint Mary used to guard (used to, I say,\nbecause they are now pulling it down to build a tramway and a light cast-\niron bridge in its place, desecrating the loveliest city in\nEngland)--well, we were coming down the street--a troop of young men,\nsome of them like myself only nineteen, going to river or tennis-court or\ncricket-field--when Ruskin going up to lecture in cap and gown met us. He\nseemed troubled and prayed us to go back with him to his lecture, which a\nfew of us did, and there he spoke to us not on art this time but on life,\nsaying that it seemed to him to be wrong that all the best physique and\nstrength of the young men in England should be spent aimlessly on cricket-\nground or river, without any result at all except that if one rowed well\none got a pewter-pot, and if one made a good score, a cane-handled bat.\nHe thought, he said, that we should be working at something that would do\ngood to other people, at something by which we might show that in all\nlabour there was something noble. Well, we were a good deal moved, and\nsaid we would do anything he wished. So he went out round Oxford and\nfound two villages, Upper and Lower Hinksey, and between them there lay a\ngreat swamp, so that the villagers could not pass from one to the other\nwithout many miles of a round. And when we came back in winter he asked\nus to help him to make a road across this morass for these village people\nto use. So out we went, day after day, and learned how to lay levels and\nto break stones, and to wheel barrows along a plank--a very difficult\nthing to do. And Ruskin worked with us in the mist and rain and mud of\nan Oxford winter, and our friends and our enemies came out and mocked us\nfrom the bank. We did not mind it much then, and we did not mind it\nafterwards at all, but worked away for two months at our road. And what\nbecame of the road? Well, like a bad lecture it ended abruptly--in the\nmiddle of the swamp. Ruskin going away to Venice, when we came back for\nthe next term there was no leader, and the \'diggers,\' as they called us,\nfell asunder. And I felt that if there was enough spirit amongst the\nyoung men to go out to such work as road-making for the sake of a noble\nideal of life, I could from them create an artistic movement that might\nchange, as it has changed, the face of England. So I sought them\nout--leader they would call me--but there was no leader: we were all\nsearchers only and we were bound to each other by noble friendship and by\nnoble art. There was none of us idle: poets most of us, so ambitious\nwere we: painters some of us, or workers in metal or modellers,\ndetermined that we would try and create for ourselves beautiful work: for\nthe handicraftsman beautiful work, for those who love us poems and\npictures, for those who love us not epigrams and paradoxes and scorn.\n\nWell, we have done something in England and we will do something more.\nNow, I do not want you, believe me, to ask your brilliant young men, your\nbeautiful young girls, to go out and make a road on a swamp for any\nvillage in America, but I think you might each of you have some art to\npractise.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWe must have, as Emerson said, a mechanical craft for our culture, a\nbasis for our higher accomplishments in the work of our hands--the\nuselessness of most people\'s hands seems to me one of the most\nunpractical things. \'No separation from labour can be without some loss\nof power or truth to the seer,\' says Emerson again. The heroism which\nwould make on us the impression of Epaminondas must be that of a domestic\nconqueror. The hero of the future is he who shall bravely and gracefully\nsubdue this Gorgon of fashion and of convention.\n\nWhen you have chosen your own part, abide by it, and do not weakly try\nand reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common\nnor the common the heroic. Congratulate yourself if you have done\nsomething strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorous\nage.\n\nAnd lastly, let us remember that art is the one thing which Death cannot\nharm. The little house at Concord may be desolate, but the wisdom of New\nEngland\'s Plato is not silenced nor the brilliancy of that Attic genius\ndimmed: the lips of Longfellow are still musical for us though his dust\nbe turning into the flowers which he loved: and as it is with the greater\nartists, poet and philosopher and songbird, so let it be with you.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE TO ART STUDENTS\n\n\nDelivered to the Art students of the Royal Academy at their Club in\nGolden Square, Westminster, on June 30, 1883. The text is taken from the\noriginal manuscript.\n\nIn the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before you to-night I\ndo not desire to give you any abstract definition of beauty at all. For,\nwe who are working in art cannot accept any theory of beauty in exchange\nfor beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to isolate it in a formula\nappealing to the intellect, we, on the contrary, seek to materialise it\nin a form that gives joy to the soul through the senses. We want to\ncreate it, not to define it. The definition should follow the work: the\nwork should not adapt itself to the definition.\n\nNothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young artist than any\nconception of ideal beauty: he is constantly led by it either into weak\nprettiness or lifeless abstraction: whereas to touch the ideal at all you\nmust not strip it of vitality. You must find it in life and re-create it\nin art.\n\nWhile, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give you any philosophy\nof beauty--for, what I want to-night is to investigate how we can create\nart, not how we can talk of it--on the other hand, I do not wish to deal\nwith anything like a history of English art.\n\nTo begin with, such an expression as English art is a meaningless\nexpression. One might just as well talk of English mathematics. Art is\nthe science of beauty, and Mathematics the science of truth: there is no\nnational school of either. Indeed, a national school is a provincial\nschool, merely. Nor is there any such thing as a school of art even.\nThere are merely artists, that is all.\n\nAnd as regards histories of art, they are quite valueless to you unless\nyou are seeking the ostentatious oblivion of an art professorship. It is\nof no use to you to know the date of Perugino or the birthplace of\nSalvator Rosa: all that you should learn about art is to know a good\npicture when you see it, and a bad picture when you see it. As regards\nthe date of the artist, all good work looks perfectly modern: a piece of\nGreek sculpture, a portrait of Velasquez--they are always modern, always\nof our time. And as regards the nationality of the artist, art is not\nnational but universal. As regards archaeology, then, avoid it\naltogether: archaeology is merely the science of making excuses for bad\nart; it is the rock on which many a young artist founders and shipwrecks;\nit is the abyss from which no artist, old or young, ever returns. Or, if\nhe does return, he is so covered with the dust of ages and the mildew of\ntime, that he is quite unrecognisable as an artist, and has to conceal\nhimself for the rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as a\nmere illustrator of ancient history. How worthless archaeology is in art\nyou can estimate by the fact of its being so popular. Popularity is the\ncrown of laurel which the world puts on bad art. Whatever is popular is\nwrong.\n\nAs I am not going to talk to you, then, about the philosophy of the\nbeautiful, or the history of art, you will ask me what I am going to talk\nabout. The subject of my lecture to-night is what makes an artist and\nwhat does the artist make; what are the relations of the artist to his\nsurroundings, what is the education the artist should get, and what is\nthe quality of a good work of art.\n\nNow, as regards the relations of the artist to his surroundings, by which\nI mean the age and country in which he is born. All good art, as I said\nbefore, has nothing to do with any particular century; but this\nuniversality is the quality of the work of art; the conditions that\nproduce that quality are different. And what, I think, you should do is\nto realise completely your age in order completely to abstract yourself\nfrom it; remembering that if you are an artist at all, you will be not\nthe mouthpiece of a century, but the master of eternity; that all art\nrests on a principle, and that mere temporal considerations are no\nprinciple at all; and that those who advise you to make your art\nrepresentative of the nineteenth century are advising you to produce an\nart which your children, when you have them, will think old-fashioned.\nBut you will tell me this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartistic\npeople, and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century of ours.\n\nOf course he does. I, of all men, am not going to deny that. But\nremember that there never has been an artistic age, or an artistic\npeople, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always been,\nand will always be, an exquisite exception. There is no golden age of\nart; only artists who have produced what is more golden than gold.\n\n_What_, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they an artistic people?\n\nWell, the Greeks certainly not, but, perhaps, you mean the Athenians, the\ncitizens of one out of a thousand cities.\n\nDo you think that they were an artistic people? Take them even at the\ntime of their highest artistic development, the latter part of the fifth\ncentury before Christ, when they had the greatest poets and the greatest\nartists of the antique world, when the Parthenon rose in loveliness at\nthe bidding of a Phidias, and the philosopher spake of wisdom in the\nshadow of the painted portico, and tragedy swept in the perfection of\npageant and pathos across the marble of the stage. Were they an artistic\npeople then? Not a bit of it. What is an artistic people but a people\nwho love their artists and understand their art? The Athenians could do\nneither.\n\nHow did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the great era, not merely\nin Greek, but in all art--I mean of the introduction of the use of the\nliving model.\n\nAnd what would you say if all the English bishops, backed by the English\npeople, came down from Exeter Hall to the Royal Academy one day and took\noff Sir Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate on the charge of\nhaving allowed you to make use of the living model in your designs for\nsacred pictures?\n\nWould you not cry out against the barbarism and the Puritanism of such an\nidea? Would you not explain to them that the worst way to honour God is\nto dishonour man who is made in His image, and is the work of His hands;\nand, that if one wants to paint Christ one must take the most Christlike\nperson one can find, and if one wants to paint the Madonna, the purest\ngirl one knows?\n\nWould you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if necessary, and say that\nsuch a thing was without parallel in history?\n\nWithout parallel? Well, that is exactly what the Athenians did.\n\nIn the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British Museum, you will see\na marble shield on the wall. On it there are two figures; one of a man\nwhose face is half hidden, the other of a man with the godlike lineaments\nof Pericles. For having done this, for having introduced into a bas\nrelief, taken from Greek sacred history, the image of the great statesman\nwho was ruling Athens at the time, Phidias was flung into prison and\nthere, in the common gaol of Athens, died, the supreme artist of the old\nworld.\n\nAnd do you think that this was an exceptional case? The sign of a\nPhilistine age is the cry of immorality against art, and this cry was\nraised by the Athenian people against every great poet and thinker of\ntheir day--AEschylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the same with Florence\nin the thirteenth century. Good handicrafts are due to guilds not to the\npeople. The moment the guilds lost their power and the people rushed in,\nbeauty and honesty of work died.\n\nAnd so, never talk of an artistic people; there never has been such a\nthing.\n\nBut, perhaps, you will tell me that the external beauty of the world has\nalmost entirely passed away from us, that the artist dwells no longer in\nthe midst of the lovely surroundings which, in ages past, were the\nnatural inheritance of every one, and that art is very difficult in this\nunlovely town of ours, where, as you go to your work in the morning, or\nreturn from it at eventide, you have to pass through street after street\nof the most foolish and stupid architecture that the world has ever seen;\narchitecture, where every lovely Greek form is desecrated and defiled,\nand every lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducing\nthree-fourths of the London houses to being, merely, like square boxes of\nthe vilest proportions, as gaunt as they are grimy, and as poor as they\nare pretentious--the hall door always of the wrong colour, and the\nwindows of the wrong size, and where, even when wearied of the houses you\nturn to contemplate the street itself, you have nothing to look at but\nchimney-pot hats, men with sandwich boards, vermilion letterboxes, and do\nthat even at the risk of being run over by an emerald-green omnibus.\n\nIs not art difficult, you will say to me, in such surroundings as these?\nOf course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you yourselves\nwould not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing except\nwhat the world says is impossible.\n\nStill, you do not care to be answered merely by a paradox. What are the\nrelations of the artist to the external world, and what is the result of\nthe loss of beautiful surroundings to you, is one of the most important\nquestions of modern art; and there is no point on which Mr. Ruskin so\ninsists as that the decadence of art has come from the decadence of\nbeautiful things; and that when the artist can not feed his eye on\nbeauty, beauty goes from his work.\n\nI remember in one of his lectures, after describing the sordid aspect of\na great English city, he draws for us a picture of what were the artistic\nsurroundings long ago.\n\nThink, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque imagery, whose beauty\nI can but feebly echo, think of what was the scene which presented\nitself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school of\nPisa--Nino Pisano or any of his men {317}:\n\n On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter palaces,\n arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and with\n serpentine; along the quays before their gates were riding troops of\n knights, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and shield; horse\n and man one labyrinth of quaint colour and gleaming light--the purple,\n and silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over the strong limbs and\n clashing mail, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset. Opening on each\n side from the river were gardens, courts, and cloisters; long\n successions of white pillars among wreaths of vine; leaping of\n fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange: and still along the\n garden-paths, and under and through the crimson of the pomegranate\n shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women that Italy ever\n saw--fairest, because purest and thoughtfullest; trained in all high\n knowledge, as in all courteous art--in dance, in song, in sweet wit,\n in lofty learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest love--able alike to\n cheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of men. Above all this scenery\n of perfect human life, rose dome and bell-tower, burning with white\n alabaster and gold: beyond dome and bell-tower the slopes of mighty\n hills, hoary with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea of peaks\n of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven Carrara mountains sent up\n their steadfast flames of marble summit into amber sky; the great sea\n itself, scorching with expanse of light, stretching from their feet to\n the Gorgonian isles; and over all these, ever present, near or\n far--seen through the leaves of vine, or imaged with all its march of\n clouds in the Arno\'s stream, or set with its depth of blue close\n against the golden hair and burning cheek of lady and knight,--that\n untroubled and sacred sky, which was to all men, in those days of\n innocent faith, indeed the unquestioned abode of spirits, as the earth\n was of men; and which opened straight through its gates of cloud and\n veils of dew into the awfulness of the eternal world;--a heaven in\n which every cloud that passed was literally the chariot of an angel,\n and every ray of its Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of\n God.\n\nWhat think you of that for a school of design?\n\nAnd then look at the depressing, monotonous appearance of any modern\ncity, the sombre dress of men and women, the meaningless and barren\narchitecture, the colourless and dreadful surroundings. Without a\nbeautiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all the arts will die.\n\nWell, as regards the religious feeling of the close of the passage, I do\nnot think I need speak about that. Religion springs from religious\nfeeling, art from artistic feeling: you never get one from the other;\nunless you have the right root you will not get the right flower; and, if\na man sees in a cloud the chariot of an angel, he will probably paint it\nvery unlike a cloud.\n\nBut, as regards the general idea of the early part of that lovely bit of\nprose, is it really true that beautiful surroundings are necessary for\nthe artist? I think not; I am sure not. Indeed, to me the most\ninartistic thing in this age of ours is not the indifference of the\npublic to beautiful things, but the indifference of the artist to the\nthings that are called ugly. For, to the real artist, nothing is\nbeautiful or ugly in itself at all. With the facts of the object he has\nnothing to do, but with its appearance only, and appearance is a matter\nof light and shade, of masses, of position, and of value.\n\nAppearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and it is with the\neffects of nature that you have to deal, not with the real condition of\nthe object. What you, as painters, have to paint is not things as they\nare but things as they seem to be, not things as they are but things as\nthey are not.\n\nNo object is so ugly that, under certain conditions of light and shade,\nor proximity to other things, it will not look beautiful; no object is so\nbeautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly. I\nbelieve that in every twenty-four hours what is beautiful looks ugly, and\nwhat is ugly looks beautiful, once.\n\nAnd, the commonplace character of so much of our English painting seems\nto me due to the fact that so many of our young artists look merely at\nwhat we may call \'ready-made beauty,\' whereas you exist as artists not to\ncopy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait and watch for it in\nnature.\n\nWhat would you say of a dramatist who would take nobody but virtuous\npeople as characters in his play? Would you not say he was missing half\nof life? Well, of the young artist who paints nothing but beautiful\nthings, I say he misses one half of the world.\n\nDo not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and see life under\npicturesque conditions. These conditions you can create for yourself in\nyour studio, for they are merely conditions of light. In nature, you\nmust wait for them, watch for them, choose them; and, if you wait and\nwatch, come they will.\n\nIn Gower Street at night you may see a letterbox that is picturesque; on\nthe Thames Embankment you may see picturesque policemen. Even Venice is\nnot always beautiful, nor France.\n\nTo paint what you see is a good rule in art, but to see what is worth\npainting is better. See life under pictorial conditions. It is better\nto live in a city of changeable weather than in a city of lovely\nsurroundings.\n\nNow, having seen what makes the artist, and what the artist makes, who is\nthe artist? There is a man living amongst us who unites in himself all\nthe qualities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy for all time, who\nis, himself, a master of all time. That man is Mr. Whistler.\n\nBut, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you cannot paint black\ncloth you could not have painted silken doublet. Ugly dress is better\nfor art--facts of vision, not of the object.\n\nWhat is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beautifully coloured\nsurface, merely, with no more spiritual message or meaning for you than\nan exquisite fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall of\nDamascus. It is, primarily, a purely decorative thing, a delight to look\nat.\n\nAll archaeological pictures that make you say \'How curious!\' all\nsentimental pictures that make you say \'How sad!\' all historical pictures\nthat make you say \'How interesting!\' all pictures that do not immediately\ngive you such artistic joy as to make you say \'How beautiful!\' are bad\npictures.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWe never know what an artist is going to do. Of course not. The artist\nis not a specialist. All such divisions as animal painters, landscape\npainters, painters of Scotch cattle in an English mist, painters of\nEnglish cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters, bull-terrier\npainters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist he can paint\neverything.\n\nThe object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the chords\nwhich make music in our soul; and colour is, indeed, of itself a mystical\npresence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel.\n\nAm I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As long as there are any\nsigns of technique at all, the picture is unfinished. What is finish? A\npicture is finished when all traces of work, and of the means employed to\nbring about the result, have disappeared.\n\nIn the case of handicraftsmen--the weaver, the potter, the smith--on\ntheir work are the traces of their hand. But it is not so with the\npainter; it is not so with the artist.\n\nArt should have no sentiment about it but its beauty, no technique except\nwhat you cannot observe. One should be able to say of a picture not that\nit is \'well painted,\' but that it is \'not painted.\'\n\nWhat is the difference between absolutely decorative art and a painting?\nDecorative art emphasises its material: imaginative art annihilates it.\nTapestry shows its threads as part of its beauty: a picture annihilates\nits canvas; it shows nothing of it. Porcelain emphasises its glaze:\nwater-colours reject the paper.\n\nA picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message but its joy. That is\nthe first truth about art that you must never lose sight of. A picture\nis a purely decorative thing.\n\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHY BY STUART MASON\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nPart I. includes all the authorised editions published in England, and\nthe two French editions of Salome published in Paris. Authorised\neditions of some of the works were issued in the United States of America\nsimultaneously with the English publication.\n\nPart II. contains the only two \'Privately Printed\' editions which are\nauthorised.\n\nPart III. is a chronological list of all contributions (so far as at\npresent known) to magazines, periodicals, etc., the date given being that\nof the first publication only. Those marked with an asterisk (*) were\npublished anonymously. Many of the poems have been included in\nanthologies of modern verse, but no attempt has been made to give\nparticulars of such reprints in this Bibliography.\n\n\n\nI.--AUTHORISED ENGLISH EDITIONS\n\n\nNEWDIGATE PRIZE POEM. RAVENNA. Recited in the Theatre, Oxford, June 26,\n1878. By OSCAR WILDE, Magdalen College. Oxford: Thos. Shrimpton and\nSon, 1878.\n\nPOEMS. London: David Bogue, 1881 (June 30).\n\nSecond and Third Editions, 1881.\n\nFourth and Fifth Editions [Revised], 1882.\n\n220 copies (200 for sale) of the Fifth Edition, with a new title-page and\ncover designed by Charles Ricketts. London: Elkin Mathews and John Lane,\n1892 (May 26).\n\nTHE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES. (\'The Happy Prince,\' \'The Nightingale\nand the Rose,\' \'The Selfish Giant,\' \'The Devoted Friend,\' \'The Remarkable\nRocket.\') Illustrated by Walter Crane and Jacomb Hood. London: David\nNutt, 1888 (May).\n\nAlso 75 copies (65 for sale) on Large Paper, with the plates in two\nstates.\n\nSecond Edition, January 1889.\n\nThird Edition, February 1902.\n\nFourth Impression, September 1905.\n\nFifth Impression, February 1907.\n\nINTENTIONS. (\'The Decay of Lying,\' \'Pen, Pencil, and Poison,\' \'The\nCritic as Artist,\' \'The Truth of Masks.\') London: James R. Osgood,\nMcIlvaine and Co., 1891 (May). New Edition, 1894.\n\nEdition for Continental circulation only. The English Library, No. 54.\nLeipzig: Heinemann and Balestier, 1891. Frequently reprinted.\n\nTHE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. London: Ward, Lock and Co. [1891 (July 1).]\n\nAlso 250 copies on Large Paper. Dated 1891.\n\n[Note.--July 1 is the official date of publication, but presentation\ncopies signed by the author and dated May 1891 are known.]\n\nNew Edition [1894 (October 1).] London: Ward, Lock and Bowden.\n\nReprinted. Paris: Charles Carrington, 1901, 1905, 1908 (January).\n\nEdition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz,\nvol. 4049. 1908 (July).\n\nLORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME AND OTHER STORIES. (\'Lord Arthur Savile\'s\nCrime,\' \'The Sphinx Without a Secret,\' \'The Canterville Ghost,\' \'The\nModel Millionaire.\') London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891\n(July).\n\nA HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES. (\'The Young King,\' \'The Birthday of the\nInfanta,\' \'The Fisherman and His Soul,\' \'The Star Child.\') With Designs\nand Decorations by Charles Ricketts and C. H. Shannon. London: James R.\nOsgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891 (November).\n\nSALOME. DRAME EN UN ACTE. Paris: Librairie de l\'Art Independant.\nLondres: Elkin Mathews et John Lane, 1893 (February 22).\n\n600 copies (500 for sale) and 25 on Large Paper.\n\nNew Edition. With sixteen Illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. Paris:\nEdition a petit nombre imprimee pour les Souscripteurs. 1907.\n\n500 copies.\n\n[Note.--Several editions, containing only a portion of the text, have\nbeen issued for the performance of the Opera by Richard Strauss. London:\nMethuen and Co.; Berlin: Adolph Furstner. ]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN. A PLAY ABOUT A GOOD WOMAN. London: Elkin Mathews\nand John Lane, 1893 (November 8).\n\n500 copies and 50 on Large Paper.\n\nActing Edition. London: Samuel French. (Text Incomplete.)\n\nSALOME. A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT. Translated from the French [by Lord\nAlfred Bruce Douglas.] Pictured by Aubrey Beardsley. London: Elkin\nMathews and John Lane, 1894 (February 9).\n\n500 copies and 100 on Large Paper.\n\nWith the two suppressed plates and extra title-page. Preface by Robert\nRoss. London: John Lane, 1907 (September 1906).\n\nNew Edition (without illustrations). London: John Lane, 1906 (June),\n1908.\n\nTHE SPHINX. With Decorations by Charles Ricketts. London: Elkin Mathews\nand John Lane, 1894 (July).\n\n200 copies and 25 on Large Paper.\n\nA WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. London: John Lane, 1894 (October 9).\n\n500 copies and 50 on Large Paper.\n\nTHE SOUL OF MAN. London: Privately Printed, 1895.\n\n[Reprinted from the Fortnightly Review (February 1891), by permission of\nthe Proprietors, and published by A. L. Humphreys.]\n\nNew Edition. London: Arthur L. Humphreys, 1907.\n\nReprinted in Sebastian Melmoth. London: Arthur L. Humphreys, 1904, 1905.\n\nTHE BALLAD OF READING GAOL. By C.3.3. London: Leonard Smithers, 1898\n(February 13).\n\n800 copies and 30 on Japanese Vellum.\n\nSecond Edition, March 1898.\n\nThird Edition, 1898. 99 copies only, signed by the author.\n\nFourth, Fifth and Sixth Editions, 1898.\n\nSeventh Edition, 1899. {328a}\n\n[Note.--The above are printed at the Chiswick Press on handmade paper.\nAll reprints on ordinary paper are unauthorised.]\n\nTHE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. A TRIVIAL COMEDY FOR SERIOUS PEOPLE. BY\nTHE AUTHOR OF LADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN. London: Leonard Smithers and Co.,\n1899 (February).\n\n1000 copies. Also 100 copies on Large Paper, and 12 on Japanese Vellum.\n\nActing Edition. London: Samuel French. (Text Incomplete.)\n\nAN IDEAL HUSBAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF LADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN. London:\nLeonard Smithers and Co., 1889 (July).\n\n1000 copies. Also 100 copies on Large Paper, and 12 on Japanese Vellum.\n\nDE PROFUNDIS. London: Methuen and Co., 1905 (February 23).\n\nAlso 200 copies on Large Paper, and 50 on Japanese Vellum.\n\nSecond Edition, March 1905.\n\nThird Edition, March 1905.\n\nFourth Edition, April 1905.\n\nFifth Edition, September 1905.\n\nSixth Edition, March 1906.\n\nSeventh Edition, January 1907.\n\nEighth Edition, April 1907.\n\nNinth Edition, July 1907.\n\nTenth Edition, October 1907.\n\nEleventh Edition, January 1908. {328b}\n\nTHE WORKS OF OSCAR WILDE. London: Methuen and Co., 1908 (February 13).\nIn thirteen volumes. 1000 copies on Handmade Paper and 80 on Japanese\nVellum.\n\nTHE DUCHESS OF PADUA. A PLAY.\n\nSALOME. A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY. VERA.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN. A PLAY ABOUT A GOOD WOMAN.\n\nA WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. A PLAY.\n\nAN IDEAL HUSBAND. A PLAY.\n\nTHE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. A TRIVIAL COMEDY FOR SERIOUS PEOPLE.\n\nLORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME AND OTHER PROSE PIECES.\n\nINTENTIONS AND THE SOUL OF MAN.\n\nTHE POEMS.\n\nA HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES, THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES.\n\nDE PROFUNDIS.\n\nREVIEWS.\n\nMISCELLANIES.\n\nUniform with the above. Paris: Charles Carrington, 1908 (April 16).\n\nTHE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY.\n\n\n\nII.--EDITIONS PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR\n\n\nVERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS. A DRAMA IN A PROLOGUE AND FOUR ACTS. [New\nYork] 1882.\n\nTHE DUCHESS OF PADUA: A TRAGEDY OF THE XVI CENTURY WRITTEN IN PARIS IN\nTHE XIX CENTURY. Privately Printed as Manuscript. [New York, 1883\n(March 15).]\n\n\n\nIII.--MISCELLANEOUS CONTRIBUTIONS TO MAGAZINES, PERIODICALS, Etc.\n\n\n1875\n\nNovember. CHORUS OF CLOUD MAIDENS ([Greek], 275-287 and 295-307). Dublin\nUniversity Magazine, Vol. LXXXVI. No. 515, page 622.\n\n1876\n\nJanuary. FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER. (FOR MUSIC.) Dublin University\nMagazine, Vol. LXXXVII. No. 517, page 47.\n\nMarch. GRAFFITI D\'ITALIA. I. SAN MINIATO. (JUNE 15.) Dublin\nUniversity Magazine, Vol. LXXXVII. No. 519, page 297.\n\nJune. THE DOLE OF THE KING\'S DAUGHTER. Dublin University Magazine, Vol.\nLXXXVII. No. 522, page 682.\n\nTrinity Term. [Greek]. (THE ROSE OF LOVE, AND WITH A ROSE\'S THORNS.)\nKottabos, Vol. II. No. 10, page 268.\n\nSeptember. [Greek]. Dublin University Magazine, Vol. LXXXVIII. No. 525,\npage 291.\n\nSeptember. THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE. Irish Monthly, Vol. IV. No. 39, page\n594.\n\nSeptember. GRAFFITI D\'ITALIA. (ARONA. LAGO MAGGIORE.) Month and\nCatholic Review, Vol. xxviii. No. 147, page 77.\n\nMichaelmas Term. [Greek]. Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 11, page 298.\n\n1877\n\nFebruary. LOTUS LEAVES. Irish Monthly, Vol. v. No. 44, page 133.\n\nHilary Term. A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLOS. Kottabos, Vol.\nII. No. 12, page 320.\n\nHilary Term. A NIGHT VISION. Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 12, page 331.\n\nJune. SALVE SATURNIA TELLUS. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 48, page 415.\n\nJune. URBS SACRA AETERNA. Illustrated Monitor, Vol. IV. No. 3, page\n130.\n\nJuly. THE TOMB OF KEATS. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 49, page 476.\n\nJuly. SONNET WRITTEN DURING HOLY WEEK. Illustrated Monitor, Vol. IV.\nNo. 4, page 186.\n\nJuly. THE GROSVENOR GALLERY. Dublin University Magazine, Vol. XC. No.\n535, page 118.\n\nMichaelmas Term. WASTED DAYS. (FROM A PICTURE PAINTED BY MISS V. T.)\nKottabos, Vol. III. No. 2, page 56.\n\nDecember. [Greek]. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 54, page 746.\n\n1878\n\nApril. MAGDALEN WALKS. Irish Monthly, Vol. VI. No. 58, page 211.\n\n1879\n\nHilary Term. \'LA BELLE MARGUERITE.\' BALLADE DU MOYEN AGE. Kottabos,\nVol. III. No. 6, page 146.\n\nApril. THE CONQUEROR OF TIME. Time, Vol. I. No. 1, page 30.\n\nMay 5. GROSVENOR GALLERY (First Notice.) Saunders\' Irish Daily News,\nVol. CXC. No. 42,886, page 5.\n\nJune. EASTER DAY. Waifs and Strays, Vol. I. No. 1, page 2.\n\nJune 11. TO SARAH BERNHARDT. World, No. 258, page 18.\n\nJuly. THE NEW HELEN. Time, Vol. I. No. 4, page 400.\n\nJuly 16. QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA. (Charles I,, act iii.) World, No. 263,\npage 18.\n\nMichaelmas Term. AVE! MARIA. Kottabos, Vol. III. No. 8, page 206.\n\n1880\n\nJanuary 14. PORTIA. World, No. 289, page 13.\n\nMarch. IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE. Waifs and Strays, Vol. I. No. 3, page 77.\n\nAugust 25. AVE IMPERATRIX! A POEM ON ENGLAND. World, No. 321, page 12.\n\nNovember 10. LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES. World, No. 332, page 15.\n\nDecember. SEN ARTYSTY; OR, THE ARTIST\'S DREAM. Translated from the\nPolish of Madame Helena Modjeska. Routledge\'s Christmas Annual: The\nGreen Room, page 66.\n\n1881\n\nJanuary. THE GRAVE OF KEATS. Burlington, Vol. I. No. 1, page 35.\n\nMarch 2. IMPRESSION DE MATIN. World, No. 348, page 15.\n\n1882\n\nFebruary 15. IMPRESSIONS: I. LE JARDIN. II. LA MER. Our Continent\n(Philadelphia), Vol. I. No. 1, page 9.\n\nNovember 7. MRS. LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK. New York World, page 5.\n\nL\'ENVOI, An Introduction to Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd,\npage 11. Philadelphia: J. M. Stoddart and Co.\n\n[Besides the ordinary edition a limited number of an edition de luxe was\nissued printed in brown ink on one side only of a thin transparent\nhandmade parchment paper, the whole book being interleaved with green\ntissue.]\n\n1883\n\nNovember 14. TELEGRAM TO WHISTLER. World, No. 489, page 16.\n\n1884\n\nMay 29. UNDER THE BALCONY. Shaksperean Show-Book, page 23.\n\n(Set to Music by Lawrence Kellie as OH! BEAUTIFUL STAR. SERENADE.\nLondon: Robert Cocks and Co., 1892.)\n\nOctober 14. MR. OSCAR WILDE ON WOMAN\'S DRESS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXL. No. 6114, page 6.\n\nNovember 11. MORE RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM. (With two\nillustrations.) Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XL. No. 6138, page 14.\n\n1885\n\nFebruary 21. MR. WHISTLER\'S TEN O\'CLOCK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI.\nNo. 6224, page 1.\n\nFebruary 25. TENDERNESS IN TITE STREET. World, No. 556, page 14.\n\nFebruary 28. THE RELATION OF DRESS TO ART. A NOTE IN BLACK AND WHITE ON\nMR. WHISTLER\'S LECTURE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6230, page 4.\n\nMarch 7. *DINNERS AND DISHES. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6236,\npage 5.\n\nMarch 13. *A MODERN EPIC. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6241, page\n11.\n\nMarch 14. SHAKESPEARE ON SCENERY. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 7, page\n99.\n\nMarch 27. *A BEVY OF POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6253, page\n5.\n\nApril 1. *PARNASSUS VERSUS PHILOLOGY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No.\n6257, page 6.\n\nApril 11. THE HARLOT\'S HOUSE. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 11, page\n167.\n\nMay. SHAKESPEARE AND STAGE COSTUME. Nineteenth Century, Vol. XVII. No.\n99, page 800.\n\nMay 9. HAMLET AT THE LYCEUM. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 15, page 227.\n\nMay 15. *TWO NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6293, page 4.\n\nMay 23. HENRY THE FOURTH AT OXFORD. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 17,\npage 264.\n\nMay 27. *MODERN GREEK POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6302,\npage 5.\n\nMay 30. OLIVIA AT THE LYCEUM. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 18, page\n278.\n\nJune. LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES. (With an illustration by L. Troubridge.)\nIn a Good Cause, page 83. London: Wells Gardner, Darton and Co.\n\nJune 6. AS YOU LIKE IT AT COOMBE HOUSE. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No.\n19, page 296.\n\nJuly. ROSES AND RUE. Midsummer Dreams, Summer Number of Society.\n\n(No copy of this is known to exist.)\n\nNovember 18. *A HANDBOOK TO MARRIAGE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLII. No.\n6452, page 5.\n\n1886\n\nJanuary 15. *HALF-HOURS WITH THE WORST AUTHORS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLIII. No. 6501, page 4.\n\nJanuary 23. SONNET. ON THE RECENT SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS\' LOVE\nLETTERS. Dramatic Review, Vol. II. No. 52, page 249.\n\nFebruary 1. *ONE OF MR. CONWAY\'S REMAINDERS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLIII. No. 6515, page 5.\n\nFebruary 8. TO READ OR NOT TO READ. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No.\n6521, page 11.\n\nFebruary 20. TWELFTH NIGHT AT OXFORD. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No.\n56, page 34.\n\nMarch 6. *THE LETTERS OF A GREAT WOMAN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII.\nNo. 6544, page 4.\n\nApril 12. *NEWS FROM PARNASSUS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No.\n6575, page 5.\n\nApril 14. *SOME NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6577, page\n5.\n\nApril 17. *A LITERARY PILGRIM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6580,\npage 5.\n\nApril 21. *BERANGER IN ENGLAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No.\n6583, page 5.\n\nMay 13. *THE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No.\n6601, page 5.\n\nMay 15. THE CENCI. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No. 68, page 151.\n\nMay 22. HELENA IN TROAS. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No. 69, page 161.\n\nJuly. KEATS\' SONNET ON BLUE. (With facsimile of original Manuscript.)\nCentury Guild Hobby Horse, Vol. I. No. 3, page 83.\n\nAugust 4. *PLEASING AND PRATTLING. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6672, page 5.\n\nSeptember 13. *BALZAC IN ENGLISH. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6706, page 5.\n\nSeptember 16. *TWO NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6709,\npage 5.\n\nSeptember 20. *BEN JONSON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6712, page\n6.\n\nSeptember 27. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6718, page 5.\n\nOctober 8. *A RIDE THROUGH MOROCCO. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6728, page 5.\n\nOctober 14. *THE CHILDREN OF THE POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV.\nNo. 6733, page 5.\n\nOctober 28. *NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6745, page\n4.\n\nNovember 3. *A POLITICIAN\'S POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6750, page 4.\n\nNovember 10. *MR. SYMONDS\' HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE. Pall Mall\nGazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6756, page 5.\n\nNovember 18. *A \'JOLLY\' ART CRITIC. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No.\n6763, page 6.\n\nNovember 24. NOTE ON WHISTLER. World, No. 647, page 14.\n\nDecember 1. *A \'SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY\' THROUGH LITERATURE. Pall Mall\nGazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6774, page 5.\n\nDecember 11. *TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. Pall Mall Gazette,\nVol. XLIV. No. 6783, page 5.\n\n1887\n\nJanuary 8. *COMMON SENSE IN ART. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6806,\npage 5.\n\nFebruary 1. *MINER AND MINOR POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No.\n6826, page 5.\n\nFebruary 17. *A NEW CALENDAR. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6840,\npage 5.\n\nFebruary 23. THE CANTERVILLE GHOST--I. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend.\nCourt and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 138, page 193.\n\nMarch 2. THE CANTERVILLE GHOST--II. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend.\nCourt and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 139, page 207.\n\nMarch 8. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6856,\npage 5.\n\nMarch 23. *THE AMERICAN INVASION. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV.\nNo. 142, page 270.\n\nMarch 28. *GREAT WRITERS BY LITTLE MEN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV.\nNo. 6873, page 5.\n\nMarch 31. *A NEW BOOK ON DICKENS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No.\n6876, page 5.\n\nApril 12. *OUR BOOK SHELF. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6885, page\n5.\n\nApril 18. *A CHEAP EDITION OF A GREAT MAN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV.\nNo. 6890, page 5.\n\nApril 26. *MR. MORRIS\'S ODYSSEY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6897,\npage 5.\n\nMay 2. *A BATCH OF NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6902, page\n11.\n\nMay 7. *SOME NOVELS. Saturday Review, Vol. LXIII. No. 1645, page 663.\n\nMay 11. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY.--I. II.\nIllustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No.\n149, page 447.\n\nMay 18. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY.--III. IV.\nCourt and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 150, page 471.\n\nMay 25. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE\'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY.--V. VI.\nIllustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No.\n151, page 495.\n\nMay 25. LADY ALROY. World, No. 673, page 18.\n\nMay 30. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6926, page\n5.\n\nJune 11. *MR. PATER\'S IMAGINARY PORTRAITS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV.\nNo. 6937, page 2.\n\nJune 22. THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE. World, No. 677, page 18.\n\nAugust 8. *A GOOD HISTORICAL NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No.\n6986, page 3.\n\nAugust 20. *NEW NOVELS. Saturday Review, Vol. LXIV. No. 1660, page 264.\n\nSeptember 27. *TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF KEATS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI.\nNo. 7029, page 3.\n\nOctober 15. *SERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLVI. No. 7045, page 5.\n\nOctober 24. *A SCOTCHMAN ON SCOTTISH POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLVI. No. 7052, page 3.\n\nNovember. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. I. No. 1, page\n36.\n\nNovember 9. *MR. MAHAFFY\'S NEW BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No.\n7066, page 3.\n\nNovember 24. *MR. MORRIS\'S COMPLETION OF THE ODYSSEY. Pall Mall\nGazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7079, page 3.\n\nNovember 30. *SIR CHARLES BOWEN\'S VIRGIL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI.\nNo. 7084, page 3.\n\nDecember. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. I. No. 2, page\n81.\n\nDecember 12. *THE UNITY OF THE ARTS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No.\n7094, page 13.\n\nDecember 13. UN AMANT DE NOS JOURS. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV.\nNo. 180, page 587.\n\nDecember 16. *ARISTOTLE AT AFTERNOON TEA. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI.\nNo. 7098, page 3.\n\nDecember 17. *EARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLVI. No. 7099, page 3.\n\nDecember 25. *ART AT WILLIS\'S ROOMS. Sunday Times, No. 3376, page 7.\n\nDecember 25. FANTAISIES DECORATIVES. I. LE PANNEAU. II. LES BALLONS.\nIllustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady\'s Pictorial Christmas Number,\npages 2, 3.\n\n1888\n\nJanuary. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. I. No. 3, page\n132.\n\nJanuary 20. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No.\n7128, page 3.\n\nFebruary. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. I. No. 4, page\n180.\n\nFebruary 15. THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No.\n7150, page 3.\n\nFebruary 24. *VENUS OR VICTORY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No.\n7158, page 2.\n\nMarch. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. I. No. 5, page\n229.\n\nApril. CANZONET. Art and Letters, Vol. II. No. 1, page 46.\n\nApril 6. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7193,\npage 3.\n\nApril 14. *M. CARO ON GEORGE SAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No.\n7200, page 3.\n\nOctober 24. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No.\n7365, page 5.\n\nNovember. A FASCINATING BOOK. A NOTE BY THE EDITOR. Woman\'s World,\nVol. II. No. 13, page 53.\n\nNovember 2. *MR. MORRIS ON TAPESTRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII.\nNo. 7373, page 6.\n\nNovember 9. *SCULPTURE AT THE \'ARTS AND CRAFTS.\' Pall Mall Gazette,\nVol. XLVIII. No. 7379, page 3.\n\nNovember 16. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No.\n7385, page 2.\n\nNovember 16. *PRINTING AND PRINTERS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII.\nNo. 7385, page 5.\n\nNovember 23. *THE BEAUTIES OF BOOKBINDING. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLVIII. No. 7391, page 3.\n\nNovember 30. *THE CLOSE OF THE \'ARTS AND CRAFTS.\' Pall Mall Gazette,\nVol. XLVIII. No. 7397, page 3.\n\nDecember. A NOTE ON SOME MODERN POETS. Woman\'s World, Vol. II. No. 14,\npage 108.\n\nDecember 8. ENGLISH POETESSES. Queen, Vol. LXXXIV. No. 2189, page 742.\n\nDecember 11. *SIR EDWIN ARNOLD\'S LAST VOLUME. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLVIII. No. 7046, page 3.\n\nDecember 14. *AUSTRALIAN POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No.\n7409, page 3.\n\nDecember. THE YOUNG KING. Illustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady\'s\nPictorial Christmas Number, page 1.\n\n1889\n\nJanuary. THE DECAY OF LYING: A DIALOGUE. Nineteenth Century, Vol. XXV.\nNo. 143, page 35.\n\nJanuary. PEN, PENCIL, AND POISON: A STUDY. Fortnightly Review, Vol.\nXLV. No. 265, page 41.\n\nJanuary. LONDON MODELS. Illustrated by Harper Pennington. English\nIllustrated Magazine, Vol. VI. No. 64, page 313.\n\nJanuary. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. II. No. 15, page 164.\n\nJanuary 3. *POETRY AND PRISON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7425,\npage 3.\n\nJanuary 25. *THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO WALT WHITMAN. Pall Mall Gazette,\nVol. XLIX. No. 7444, page 3.\n\nJanuary 26. *THE NEW PRESIDENT. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7445,\npage 3.\n\nFebruary. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. II. No. 16, page\n221.\n\nFebruary. SYMPHONY IN YELLOW. Centennial Magazine (Sydney), Vol. II.\nNo. 7, page 437.\n\nFebruary 12. *ONE OF THE BIBLES OF THE WORLD. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLIX. No. 7459, page 3.\n\nFebruary 15. *POETICAL SOCIALISTS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No.\n7462, page 3.\n\nFebruary 27. *MR. BRANDER MATTHEWS\' ESSAYS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol.\nXLIX. No. 7472, page 3.\n\nMarch. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. III. No. 17, page 277.\n\nMarch 2. *MR. WILLIAM MORRIS\'S LAST BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX.\nNo. 7475, page 3.\n\nMarch 25. *ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7494,\npage 3.\n\nMarch 30. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7499,\npage 3.\n\nApril. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. II. No. 18, page 333.\n\nApril 13. MR. FROUDE\'S BLUE-BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No.\n7511, page 3.\n\nMay. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. ii. No. 19, page 389.\n\nMay 17. *OUIDA\'S NEW NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7539,\npage 3.\n\nJune. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman\'s World, Vol. II. No. 20, page 446.\n\nJune 5. *A THOUGHT-READER\'S NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No.\n7555, page 2.\n\nJune 24. *THE POETS\' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7571,\npage 3.\n\nJune 27. *MR. SWINBURNE\'S LAST VOLUME. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX.\nNo. 7574, page 3.\n\nJuly. THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, Vol.\nCXLVI. No. 885, page 1.\n\nJuly 12. *THREE NEW POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. I. No. 7587, page 3.\n\nDecember. IN THE FOREST. Illustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady\'s\nPictorial Christmas Number, page 9.\n\n(Set to music by Edwin Tilden and published by Miles and Thompson,\nBoston, U.S.A., 1891.)\n\n1890\n\nJanuary 9. REPLY TO MR. WHISTLER. Truth, Vol. XXVII. No. 680, page 51.\n\nFebruary 8. A CHINESE SAGE. Speaker, Vol. I. No. 6, page 144.\n\nMarch 22. MR. PATER\'S LAST VOLUME. Speaker, Vol. I. No. 12, page 319.\n\nMay 24. *PRIMAVERA. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LI. No. 7856, page 3.\n\nJune 20. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. Lippincott\'s Monthly Magazine\n(July), Vol. XLVI. No. 271, page 3.\n\n(Containing thirteen chapters only.)\n\nJune 26. MR. WILDE\'S BAD CASE. St. James\'s Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3135,\npage 4.\n\nJune 27. MR. OSCAR WILDE AGAIN. St. James\'s Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3136,\npage 5.\n\nJune 28. MR. OSCAR WILDE\'S DEFENCE. St. James\'s Gazette, Vol. XX. No.\n3137, page 5.\n\nJune 30. MR. OSCAR WILDE\'S DEFENCE. St. James\'s Gazette, Vol. XX. No.\n3138, page 5.\n\nJuly. THE TRUE FUNCTION AND VALUE OF CRITICISM; WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE\nIMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING: A DIALOGUE. Nineteenth Century, Vol.\nXXVIII. No. 161, page 123.\n\nJuly 2. \'DORIAN GRAY.\' Daily Chronicle and Clerkenwell News, No. 8830,\npage 5.\n\nJuly 12. MR. WILDE\'S REJOINDER. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 86, page\n201.\n\nAugust 2. ART AND MORALITY. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 89, page 279.\n\nAugust 16. ART AND MORALITY. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 91, page 332.\n\nSeptember. THE TRUE FUNCTION AND VALUE OF CRITICISM; WITH SOME REMARKS\nON THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING: A DIALOGUE (concluded). Nineteenth\nCentury, Vol. XXVIII. No. 163, page 435.\n\n1891\n\nFebruary. THE SOUL OF MAN UNDER SOCIALISM. Fortnightly Review, Vol.\nXLIX. No. 290, page 292.\n\nMarch. A PREFACE TO \'DORIAN GRAY.\' Fortnightly Review, Vol. XLIX. No.\n291, page 480.\n\nSeptember 26. AN ANGLO-INDIAN\'S COMPLAINT. Times, No. 33,440, page 10.\n\nDecember 5. \'A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES.\' Speaker, Vol. IV. No. 101, page\n682.\n\nDecember 11. MR. OSCAR WILDE\'S \'HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES.\' Pall Mall\nGazette, Vol. LIII. No. 8339, page 2.\n\n1892\n\nFebruary 20. PUPPETS AND ACTORS. Daily Telegraph, No. 11,470, page 3.\n\nFebruary 27. MR. OSCAR WILDE EXPLAINS. St. James\'s Gazette, Vol. XXIV.\nNo. 3654, page 4.\n\nDecember 6. THE NEW REMORSE. Spirit Lamp, Vol. II. No. 4, page 97.\n\n1893\n\nFebruary 17. THE HOUSE OF JUDGMENT. Spirit Lamp, Vol. III. No. 2, page\n52.\n\nMarch 2. MR. OSCAR WILDE ON \'SALOME.\' Times, No. 33,888, page 4.\n\nJune 6. THE DISCIPLE. Spirit Lamp, Vol. IV. No. 2, page 49.\n\nTO MY WIFE: WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS; AND WITH A COPY OF \'THE HOUSE OF\nPOMEGRANATES.\' Book-Song, An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmen\nfrom Modern Authors. Edited by Gleeson White, pages 156, 157. London:\nElliot Stock.\n\n[This was the first publication of these two poems. Anthologies\ncontaining reprints are not included in this list.]\n\n1894\n\nJanuary 15. LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE THIRTEEN CLUB. Times, No.\n34,161, page 7.\n\nJuly. POEMS IN PROSE. (\'The Artist,\' \'The Doer of Good,\' \'The\nDisciple,\' \'The Master,\' \'The House of Judgment.\') Fortnightly Review,\nVol. LIV. No. 331, page 22.\n\nSeptember 20. THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX.\nNo. 9202, page 3.\n\nSeptember 25. THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX.\nNo. 9206, page 3.\n\nOctober 2. \'THE GREEN CARNATION.\' Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX. No.\n9212, page 3.\n\nDecember. PHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG. Chameleon,\nVol. I. No. 1, page 1.\n\n1895\n\nApril 6. LETTER ON THE QUEENSBERRY CASE. Evening News, No. 4226, page\n3.\n\n1897\n\nMay 28. THE CASE OF WARDER MARTIN. SOME CRUELTIES OF PRISON LIFE. Daily\nChronicle, No. 10,992, page 9.\n\n1898\n\nMarch 24. LETTER ON PRISON REFORM. Daily Chronicle, No. 11,249, page 5.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes.\n\n\n{0a} See Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime and other Prose Pieces in this\nedition, page 223.\n\n{3} Reverently some well-meaning persons have placed a marble slab on\nthe wall of the cemetery with a medallion-profile of Keats on it and some\nmediocre lines of poetry. The face is ugly, and rather hatchet-shaped,\nwith thick sensual lips, and is utterly unlike the poet himself, who was\nvery beautiful to look upon. \'His countenance,\' says a lady who saw him\nat one of Hazlitt\'s lectures, \'lives in my mind as one of singular beauty\nand brightness; it had the expression as if he had been looking on some\nglorious sight.\' And this is the idea which Severn\'s picture of him\ngives. Even Haydon\'s rough pen-and-ink sketch of him is better than this\n\'marble libel,\' which I hope will soon be taken down. I think the best\nrepresentation of the poet would be a coloured bust, like that of the\nyoung Rajah of Koolapoor at Florence, which is a lovely and lifelike work\nof art.\n\n{19} It is perhaps not generally known that there is another and older\npeacock ceiling in the world besides the one Mr. Whistler has done at\nKensington. I was surprised lately at Ravenna to come across a mosaic\nceiling done in the keynote of a peacock\'s tail--blue, green, purple, and\ngold--and with four peacocks in the four spandrils. Mr. Whistler was\nunaware of the existence of this ceiling at the time he did his own.\n\n{43} An Unequal Match, by Tom Taylor, at Wallack\'s Theatre, New York,\nNovember 6, 1882.\n\n{74} \'Make\' is of course a mere printer\'s error for \'mock,\' and was\nsubsequently corrected by Lord Houghton. The sonnet as given in The\nGarden of Florence reads \'orbs\' for \'those.\'\n\n{158} September 1890. See Intentions, page 214.\n\n{163} November 30, 1891.\n\n{164} February 12, 1892.\n\n{170} February 23, 1893.\n\n{172} The verses called \'The Shamrock\' were printed in the Sunday Sun,\nAugust 5, 1894, and the charge of plagiarism was made in the issue dated\nSeptember 16, 1894.\n\n{188} Cousin errs a good deal in this respect. To say, as he did, \'Give\nme the latitude and the longitude of a country, its rivers and its\nmountains, and I will deduce the race,\' is surely a glaring exaggeration.\n\n{190} The monarchical, aristocratical, and democratic elements of the\nRoman constitution are referred to.\n\n{193a} Polybius, vi. 9. [Greek].\n\n{193b} [Greek].\n\n{193c} The various stages are [Greek].\n\n{197a} Polybius, xii. 24.\n\n{197b} Polybius, i. 4, viii. 4, specially; and really passim.\n\n{198a} He makes one exception.\n\n{198b} Polybius, viii. 4.\n\n{199} Polybius, xvi. 12.\n\n{200a} Polybius, viii. 4: [Greek].\n\n{200b} Polybius resembled Gibbon in many respects. Like him he held\nthat all religions were to the philosopher equally false, to the vulgar\nequally true, to the statesman equally useful.\n\n{203} Cf. Polybius, xii. 25, [Greek].\n\n{205} Polybius, xxii. 22.\n\n{207} I mean particularly as regards his sweeping denunciation of the\ncomplete moral decadence of Greek society during the Peloponnesian War\nwhich, from what remains to us of Athenian literature, we know must have\nbeen completely exaggerated. Or, rather, he is looking at men merely in\ntheir political dealings: and in politics the man who is personally\nhonourable and refined will not scruple to do anything for his party.\n\n{211} Polybius, xii. 25.\n\n{253} As an instance of the inaccuracy of published reports of this\nlecture, it may be mentioned that all previous versions give this passage\nas The artist may trace the depressed revolution of Bunthorne simply to\nthe lack of technical means!\n\n{317} The Two Paths, Lect. III. p. 123 (1859 ed.).\n\n{328a} Edition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: Bernhard\nTauchnitz, vol. 4056. 1908 (August).\n\n{328b} Edition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: Bernhard\nTauchnitz, vol. 4056. 1908 (August).\n\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISCELLANIES***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 14062.txt or 14062.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/0/6/14062\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, The Importance of Being Earnest, by Oscar\nWilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: The Importance of Being Earnest\n A Trivial Comedy for Serious People\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: August 29, 2006 [eBook #844]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST***\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1915 Methuen & Co. Ltd. edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Importance of Being Earnest\nA Trivial Comedy for Serious People\n\n\nTHE PERSONS IN THE PLAY\n\n\nJohn Worthing, J.P.\nAlgernon Moncrieff\nRev. Canon Chasuble, D.D.\nMerriman, Butler\nLane, Manservant\nLady Bracknell\nHon. Gwendolen Fairfax\nCecily Cardew\nMiss Prism, Governess\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCENES OF THE PLAY\n\n\nACT I. Algernon Moncrieff\'s Flat in Half-Moon Street, W.\n\nACT II. The Garden at the Manor House, Woolton.\n\nACT III. Drawing-Room at the Manor House, Woolton.\n\nTIME: The Present.\n\n\n\n\nLONDON: ST. JAMES\'S THEATRE\n\n\nLessee and Manager: Mr. George Alexander\n\nFebruary 14th, 1895\n\n* * * * *\n\nJohn Worthing, J.P.: Mr. George Alexander.\nAlgernon Moncrieff: Mr. Allen Aynesworth.\nRev. Canon Chasuble, D.D.: Mr. H. H. Vincent.\nMerriman: Mr. Frank Dyall.\nLane: Mr. F. Kinsey Peile.\nLady Bracknell: Miss Rose Leclercq.\nHon. Gwendolen Fairfax: Miss Irene Vanbrugh.\nCecily Cardew: Miss Evelyn Millard.\nMiss Prism: Mrs. George Canninge.\n\n\n\n\nFIRST ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\nMorning-room in Algernon\'s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is\nluxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in\nthe adjoining room.\n\n[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has\nceased, Algernon enters.]\n\nAlgernon. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?\n\nLane. I didn\'t think it polite to listen, sir.\n\nAlgernon. I\'m sorry for that, for your sake. I don\'t play\naccurately--any one can play accurately--but I play with wonderful\nexpression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I\nkeep science for Life.\n\nLane. Yes, sir.\n\nAlgernon. And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the\ncucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?\n\nLane. Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.]\n\nAlgernon. [Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] Oh! . . .\nby the way, Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when\nLord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of\nchampagne are entered as having been consumed.\n\nLane. Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.\n\nAlgernon. Why is it that at a bachelor\'s establishment the servants\ninvariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.\n\nLane. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have\noften observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a\nfirst-rate brand.\n\nAlgernon. Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?\n\nLane. I believe it _is_ a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very\nlittle experience of it myself up to the present. I have only been\nmarried once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between\nmyself and a young person.\n\nAlgernon. [Languidly_._] I don\'t know that I am much interested in your\nfamily life, Lane.\n\nLane. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of\nit myself.\n\nAlgernon. Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you.\n\nLane. Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]\n\nAlgernon. Lane\'s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the\nlower orders don\'t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of\nthem? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral\nresponsibility.\n\n[Enter Lane.]\n\nLane. Mr. Ernest Worthing.\n\n[Enter Jack.]\n\n[Lane goes out_._]\n\nAlgernon. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?\n\nJack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere?\nEating as usual, I see, Algy!\n\nAlgernon. [Stiffly_._] I believe it is customary in good society to\ntake some slight refreshment at five o\'clock. Where have you been since\nlast Thursday?\n\nJack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.\n\nAlgernon. What on earth do you do there?\n\nJack. [Pulling off his gloves_._] When one is in town one amuses\noneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is\nexcessively boring.\n\nAlgernon. And who are the people you amuse?\n\nJack. [Airily_._] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.\n\nAlgernon. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?\n\nJack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.\n\nAlgernon. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes\nsandwich.] By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?\n\nJack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why\ncucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who\nis coming to tea?\n\nAlgernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.\n\nJack. How perfectly delightful!\n\nAlgernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won\'t\nquite approve of your being here.\n\nJack. May I ask why?\n\nAlgernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly\ndisgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.\n\nJack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to\npropose to her.\n\nAlgernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that\nbusiness.\n\nJack. How utterly unromantic you are!\n\nAlgernon. I really don\'t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very\nromantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite\nproposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then\nthe excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.\nIf ever I get married, I\'ll certainly try to forget the fact.\n\nJack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was\nspecially invented for people whose memories are so curiously\nconstituted.\n\nAlgernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are\nmade in Heaven--[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at\nonce interferes.] Please don\'t touch the cucumber sandwiches. They are\nordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]\n\nJack. Well, you have been eating them all the time.\n\nAlgernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes\nplate from below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is\nfor Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.\n\nJack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and\nbutter it is too.\n\nAlgernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to\neat it all. You behave as if you were married to her already. You are\nnot married to her already, and I don\'t think you ever will be.\n\nJack. Why on earth do you say that?\n\nAlgernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt\nwith. Girls don\'t think it right.\n\nJack. Oh, that is nonsense!\n\nAlgernon. It isn\'t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the\nextraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. In\nthe second place, I don\'t give my consent.\n\nJack. Your consent!\n\nAlgernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I\nallow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of\nCecily. [Rings bell.]\n\nJack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by\nCecily! I don\'t know any one of the name of Cecily.\n\n[Enter Lane.]\n\nAlgernon. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-\nroom the last time he dined here.\n\nLane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]\n\nJack. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I\nwish to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic\nletters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a large\nreward.\n\nAlgernon. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than\nusually hard up.\n\nJack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is\nfound.\n\n[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at\nonce. Lane goes out.]\n\nAlgernon. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens\ncase and examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look\nat the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn\'t yours after all.\n\nJack. Of course it\'s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a\nhundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written\ninside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette\ncase.\n\nAlgernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one\nshould read and what one shouldn\'t. More than half of modern culture\ndepends on what one shouldn\'t read.\n\nJack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don\'t propose to discuss\nmodern culture. It isn\'t the sort of thing one should talk of in\nprivate. I simply want my cigarette case back.\n\nAlgernon. Yes; but this isn\'t your cigarette case. This cigarette case\nis a present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn\'t\nknow any one of that name.\n\nJack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.\n\nAlgernon. Your aunt!\n\nJack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells.\nJust give it back to me, Algy.\n\nAlgernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself\nlittle Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells?\n[Reading.] \'From little Cecily with her fondest love.\'\n\nJack. [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on\nearth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall.\nThat is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for\nherself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your\naunt! That is absurd! For Heaven\'s sake give me back my cigarette case.\n[Follows Algernon round the room.]\n\nAlgernon. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? \'From little\nCecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.\' There is no\nobjection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no\nmatter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I\ncan\'t quite make out. Besides, your name isn\'t Jack at all; it is\nErnest.\n\nJack. It isn\'t Ernest; it\'s Jack.\n\nAlgernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you\nto every one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as\nif your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking person I ever\nsaw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn\'t\nErnest. It\'s on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from\ncase.] \'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.\' I\'ll keep this as a\nproof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or\nto Gwendolen, or to any one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]\n\nJack. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the\ncigarette case was given to me in the country.\n\nAlgernon. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small\nAunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle.\nCome, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once.\n\nJack. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is\nvery vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn\'t a dentist. It produces\na false impression.\n\nAlgernon. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on!\nTell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you\nof being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it\nnow.\n\nJack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?\n\nAlgernon. I\'ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression\nas soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town\nand Jack in the country.\n\nJack. Well, produce my cigarette case first.\n\nAlgernon. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your\nexplanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]\n\nJack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation\nat all. In fact it\'s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who\nadopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his\ngrand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her\nuncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate,\nlives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable\ngoverness, Miss Prism.\n\nAlgernon. Where is that place in the country, by the way?\n\nJack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited\n. . . I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.\n\nAlgernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over\nShropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in\ntown and Jack in the country?\n\nJack. My dear Algy, I don\'t know whether you will be able to understand\nmy real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in\nthe position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all\nsubjects. It\'s one\'s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly\nbe said to conduce very much to either one\'s health or one\'s happiness,\nin order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger\nbrother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the\nmost dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and\nsimple.\n\nAlgernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would\nbe very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete\nimpossibility!\n\nJack. That wouldn\'t be at all a bad thing.\n\nAlgernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don\'t\ntry it. You should leave that to people who haven\'t been at a\nUniversity. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are\nis a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You\nare one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.\n\nJack. What on earth do you mean?\n\nAlgernon. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest,\nin order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I\nhave invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order\nthat I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury\nis perfectly invaluable. If it wasn\'t for Bunbury\'s extraordinary bad\nhealth, for instance, I wouldn\'t be able to dine with you at Willis\'s to-\nnight, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a\nweek.\n\nJack. I haven\'t asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.\n\nAlgernon. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out\ninvitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much\nas not receiving invitations.\n\nJack. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.\n\nAlgernon. I haven\'t the smallest intention of doing anything of the\nkind. To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite\nenough to dine with one\'s own relations. In the second place, whenever I\ndo dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent\ndown with either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I know\nperfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will place\nme next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the\ndinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent\n. . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amount\nof women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly\nscandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one\'s clean linen in\npublic. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I\nnaturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the\nrules.\n\nJack. I\'m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going\nto kill my brother, indeed I think I\'ll kill him in any case. Cecily is\na little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going\nto get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr.\n. . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.\n\nAlgernon. Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever\nget married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very\nglad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a\nvery tedious time of it.\n\nJack. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and\nshe is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I\ncertainly won\'t want to know Bunbury.\n\nAlgernon. Then your wife will. You don\'t seem to realise, that in\nmarried life three is company and two is none.\n\nJack. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory that\nthe corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.\n\nAlgernon. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the\ntime.\n\nJack. For heaven\'s sake, don\'t try to be cynical. It\'s perfectly easy\nto be cynical.\n\nAlgernon. My dear fellow, it isn\'t easy to be anything nowadays. There\'s\nsuch a lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell\nis heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors,\never ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way for\nten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to\nGwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis\'s?\n\nJack. I suppose so, if you want to.\n\nAlgernon. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are\nnot serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.\n\n[Enter Lane.]\n\nLane. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.\n\n[Algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter Lady Bracknell and\nGwendolen.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are behaving\nvery well.\n\nAlgernon. I\'m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. That\'s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things\nrarely go together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]\n\nAlgernon. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!\n\nGwendolen. I am always smart! Am I not, Mr. Worthing?\n\nJack. You\'re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.\n\nGwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for\ndevelopments, and I intend to develop in many directions. [Gwendolen and\nJack sit down together in the corner.]\n\nLady Bracknell. I\'m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was\nobliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn\'t been there since her poor\nhusband\'s death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty\nyears younger. And now I\'ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice\ncucumber sandwiches you promised me.\n\nAlgernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Won\'t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?\n\nGwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I\'m quite comfortable where I am.\n\nAlgernon. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good heavens! Lane! Why\nare there no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.\n\nLane. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this morning,\nsir. I went down twice.\n\nAlgernon. No cucumbers!\n\nLane. No, sir. Not even for ready money.\n\nAlgernon. That will do, Lane, thank you.\n\nLane. Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]\n\nAlgernon. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no\ncucumbers, not even for ready money.\n\nLady Bracknell. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some\ncrumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for\npleasure now.\n\nAlgernon. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.\n\nLady Bracknell. It certainly has changed its colour. From what cause I,\nof course, cannot say. [Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you.\nI\'ve quite a treat for you to-night, Algernon. I am going to send you\ndown with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to\nher husband. It\'s delightful to watch them.\n\nAlgernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the\npleasure of dining with you to-night after all.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my\ntable completely out. Your uncle would have to dine upstairs.\nFortunately he is accustomed to that.\n\nAlgernon. It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible\ndisappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say\nthat my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with\nJack.] They seem to think I should be with him.\n\nLady Bracknell. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer\nfrom curiously bad health.\n\nAlgernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.\n\nLady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time\nthat Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die.\nThis shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in any way\napprove of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid.\nIllness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Health\nis the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to your poor\nuncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any\nimprovement in his ailment goes. I should be much obliged if you would\nask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on\nSaturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last\nreception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation,\nparticularly at the end of the season when every one has practically said\nwhatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.\n\nAlgernon. I\'ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious,\nand I think I can promise you he\'ll be all right by Saturday. Of course\nthe music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music,\npeople don\'t listen, and if one plays bad music people don\'t talk. But\nI\'ll run over the programme I\'ve drawn out, if you will kindly come into\nthe next room for a moment.\n\nLady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you.\n[Rising, and following Algernon.] I\'m sure the programme will be\ndelightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly\nallow. People always seem to think that they are improper, and either\nlook shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But German\nsounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so.\nGwendolen, you will accompany me.\n\nGwendolen. Certainly, mamma.\n\n[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room, Gwendolen remains\nbehind.]\n\nJack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.\n\nGwendolen. Pray don\'t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing.\nWhenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain\nthat they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous.\n\nJack. I do mean something else.\n\nGwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.\n\nJack. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady\nBracknell\'s temporary absence . . .\n\nGwendolen. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of\ncoming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her\nabout.\n\nJack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired\nyou more than any girl . . . I have ever met since . . . I met you.\n\nGwendolen. Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish\nthat in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you\nhave always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was\nfar from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live,\nas I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is\nconstantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has\nreached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been\nto love some one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name\nthat inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned\nto me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love\nyou.\n\nJack. You really love me, Gwendolen?\n\nGwendolen. Passionately!\n\nJack. Darling! You don\'t know how happy you\'ve made me.\n\nGwendolen. My own Ernest!\n\nJack. But you don\'t really mean to say that you couldn\'t love me if my\nname wasn\'t Ernest?\n\nGwendolen. But your name is Ernest.\n\nJack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you\nmean to say you couldn\'t love me then?\n\nGwendolen. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation,\nand like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all\nto the actual facts of real life, as we know them.\n\nJack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don\'t much care\nabout the name of Ernest . . . I don\'t think the name suits me at all.\n\nGwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music\nof its own. It produces vibrations.\n\nJack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of\nother much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.\n\nGwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack,\nif any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no\nvibrations . . . I have known several Jacks, and they all, without\nexception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious\ndomesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man\ncalled John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing\npleasure of a single moment\'s solitude. The only really safe name is\nErnest.\n\nJack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once--I mean we must get\nmarried at once. There is no time to be lost.\n\nGwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?\n\nJack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and\nyou led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely\nindifferent to me.\n\nGwendolen. I adore you. But you haven\'t proposed to me yet. Nothing\nhas been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been\ntouched on.\n\nJack. Well . . . may I propose to you now?\n\nGwendolen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare\nyou any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to\ntell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to accept\nyou.\n\nJack. Gwendolen!\n\nGwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?\n\nJack. You know what I have got to say to you.\n\nGwendolen. Yes, but you don\'t say it.\n\nJack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]\n\nGwendolen. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it!\nI am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose.\n\nJack. My own one, I have never loved any one in the world but you.\n\nGwendolen. Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother\nGerald does. All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes\nyou have, Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope you will always\nlook at me just like that, especially when there are other people\npresent. [Enter Lady Bracknell.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent\nposture. It is most indecorous.\n\nGwendolen. Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must beg\nyou to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not\nquite finished yet.\n\nLady Bracknell. Finished what, may I ask?\n\nGwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. When you do\nbecome engaged to some one, I, or your father, should his health permit\nhim, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young\ngirl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is\nhardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself . . .\nAnd now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am\nmaking these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the\ncarriage.\n\nGwendolen. [Reproachfully.] Mamma!\n\nLady Bracknell. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the\ndoor. She and Jack blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell\'s\nback. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understand\nwhat the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!\n\nGwendolen. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]\n\nLady Bracknell. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.\n\n[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]\n\nJack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell\nyou that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although I\nhave the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together,\nin fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your\nanswers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?\n\nJack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.\n\nLady Bracknell. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an\noccupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it\nis. How old are you?\n\nJack. Twenty-nine.\n\nLady Bracknell. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of\nopinion that a man who desires to get married should know either\neverything or nothing. Which do you know?\n\nJack. [After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.\n\nLady Bracknell. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything\nthat tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic\nfruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern\neducation is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate,\neducation produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a\nserious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of\nviolence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?\n\nJack. Between seven and eight thousand a year.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?\n\nJack. In investments, chiefly.\n\nLady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected\nof one during one\'s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one\'s\ndeath, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one\nposition, and prevents one from keeping it up. That\'s all that can be\nsaid about land.\n\nJack. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it,\nabout fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don\'t depend on that for my\nreal income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the\nonly people who make anything out of it.\n\nLady Bracknell. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point\ncan be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl\nwith a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected\nto reside in the country.\n\nJack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year\nto Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six\nmonths\' notice.\n\nLady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don\'t know her.\n\nJack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably\nadvanced in years.\n\nLady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of\ncharacter. What number in Belgrave Square?\n\nJack. 149.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought\nthere was something. However, that could easily be altered.\n\nJack. Do you mean the fashion, or the side?\n\nLady Bracknell. [Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are\nyour politics?\n\nJack. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.\n\nLady Bracknell. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come\nin the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents\nliving?\n\nJack. I have lost both my parents.\n\nLady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a\nmisfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father?\nHe was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical\npapers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the\naristocracy?\n\nJack. I am afraid I really don\'t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I\nsaid I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my\nparents seem to have lost me . . . I don\'t actually know who I am by\nbirth. I was . . . well, I was found.\n\nLady Bracknell. Found!\n\nJack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable\nand kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing,\nbecause he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his\npocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside\nresort.\n\nLady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class\nticket for this seaside resort find you?\n\nJack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.\n\nLady Bracknell. A hand-bag?\n\nJack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag--a\nsomewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it--an ordinary\nhand-bag in fact.\n\nLady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew\ncome across this ordinary hand-bag?\n\nJack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in\nmistake for his own.\n\nLady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?\n\nJack. Yes. The Brighton line.\n\nLady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel\nsomewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any\nrate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to\ndisplay a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds\none of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you\nknow what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular\nlocality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway\nstation might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably,\nindeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly be\nregarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.\n\nJack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly\nsay I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen\'s happiness.\n\nLady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and\nacquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort\nto produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is\nquite over.\n\nJack. Well, I don\'t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can\nproduce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I\nreally think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.\n\nLady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly\nimagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only\ndaughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a cloak-\nroom, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!\n\n[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]\n\nJack. Good morning! [Algernon, from the other room, strikes up the\nWedding March. Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For\ngoodness\' sake don\'t play that ghastly tune, Algy. How idiotic you are!\n\n[The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]\n\nAlgernon. Didn\'t it go off all right, old boy? You don\'t mean to say\nGwendolen refused you? I know it is a way she has. She is always\nrefusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.\n\nJack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is\nconcerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Never\nmet such a Gorgon . . . I don\'t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I\nam quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she is a monster,\nwithout being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . I beg your pardon,\nAlgy, I suppose I shouldn\'t talk about your own aunt in that way before\nyou.\n\nAlgernon. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the\nonly thing that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a\ntedious pack of people, who haven\'t got the remotest knowledge of how to\nlive, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.\n\nJack. Oh, that is nonsense!\n\nAlgernon. It isn\'t!\n\nJack. Well, I won\'t argue about the matter. You always want to argue\nabout things.\n\nAlgernon. That is exactly what things were originally made for.\n\nJack. Upon my word, if I thought that, I\'d shoot myself . . . [A pause.]\nYou don\'t think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother\nin about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?\n\nAlgernon. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.\nNo man does. That\'s his.\n\nJack. Is that clever?\n\nAlgernon. It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation\nin civilised life should be.\n\nJack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays.\nYou can\'t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has\nbecome an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few\nfools left.\n\nAlgernon. We have.\n\nJack. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?\n\nAlgernon. The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.\n\nJack. What fools!\n\nAlgernon. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being\nErnest in town, and Jack in the country?\n\nJack. [In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn\'t\nquite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What\nextraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!\n\nAlgernon. The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if\nshe is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.\n\nJack. Oh, that is nonsense.\n\nAlgernon. What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest?\n\nJack. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I\'ll\nsay he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite\nsuddenly, don\'t they?\n\nAlgernon. Yes, but it\'s hereditary, my dear fellow. It\'s a sort of\nthing that runs in families. You had much better say a severe chill.\n\nJack. You are sure a severe chill isn\'t hereditary, or anything of that\nkind?\n\nAlgernon. Of course it isn\'t!\n\nJack. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest to carried off suddenly,\nin Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.\n\nAlgernon. But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too\nmuch interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won\'t she feel his loss a\ngood deal?\n\nJack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am\nglad to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays\nno attention at all to her lessons.\n\nAlgernon. I would rather like to see Cecily.\n\nJack. I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively\npretty, and she is only just eighteen.\n\nAlgernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively\npretty ward who is only just eighteen?\n\nJack. Oh! one doesn\'t blurt these things out to people. Cecily and\nGwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I\'ll bet\nyou anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be\ncalling each other sister.\n\nAlgernon. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of\nother things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at\nWillis\'s, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?\n\nJack. [Irritably.] Oh! It always is nearly seven.\n\nAlgernon. Well, I\'m hungry.\n\nJack. I never knew you when you weren\'t . . .\n\nAlgernon. What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?\n\nJack. Oh no! I loathe listening.\n\nAlgernon. Well, let us go to the Club?\n\nJack. Oh, no! I hate talking.\n\nAlgernon. Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?\n\nJack. Oh, no! I can\'t bear looking at things. It is so silly.\n\nAlgernon. Well, what shall we do?\n\nJack. Nothing!\n\nAlgernon. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don\'t mind\nhard work where there is no definite object of any kind.\n\n[Enter Lane.]\n\nLane. Miss Fairfax.\n\n[Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.]\n\nAlgernon. Gwendolen, upon my word!\n\nGwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very\nparticular to say to Mr. Worthing.\n\nAlgernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don\'t think I can allow this at all.\n\nGwendolen. Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards\nlife. You are not quite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires to the\nfireplace.]\n\nJack. My own darling!\n\nGwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on\nmamma\'s face I fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard\nto what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the\nyoung is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I\nlost at the age of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming\nman and wife, and I may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing\nthat she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.\n\nJack. Dear Gwendolen!\n\nGwendolen. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma,\nwith unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my\nnature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The\nsimplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to\nme. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in the\ncountry?\n\nJack. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.\n\n[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and\nwrites the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]\n\nGwendolen. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be\nnecessary to do something desperate. That of course will require serious\nconsideration. I will communicate with you daily.\n\nJack. My own one!\n\nGwendolen. How long do you remain in town?\n\nJack. Till Monday.\n\nGwendolen. Good! Algy, you may turn round now.\n\nAlgernon. Thanks, I\'ve turned round already.\n\nGwendolen. You may also ring the bell.\n\nJack. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?\n\nGwendolen. Certainly.\n\nJack. [To Lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out.\n\nLane. Yes, sir. [Jack and Gwendolen go off.]\n\n[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to be\nsurmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at the\nenvelopes, tears them up.]\n\nAlgernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.\n\nLane. Yes, sir.\n\nAlgernon. To-morrow, Lane, I\'m going Bunburying.\n\nLane. Yes, sir.\n\nAlgernon. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my\ndress clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits . . .\n\nLane. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]\n\nAlgernon. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.\n\nLane. It never is, sir.\n\nAlgernon. Lane, you\'re a perfect pessimist.\n\nLane. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.\n\n[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]\n\nJack. There\'s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared\nfor in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are\nyou so amused at?\n\nAlgernon. Oh, I\'m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.\n\nJack. If you don\'t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a\nserious scrape some day.\n\nAlgernon. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never\nserious.\n\nJack. Oh, that\'s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.\n\nAlgernon. Nobody ever does.\n\n[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. Algernon lights a\ncigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]\n\nACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nSECOND ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\nGarden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up to the\nhouse. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year,\nJuly. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a\nlarge yew-tree.\n\n[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at the back\nwatering flowers.]\n\nMiss Prism. [Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian\noccupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton\'s duty than\nyours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await you.\nYour German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We\nwill repeat yesterday\'s lesson.\n\nCecily. [Coming over very slowly.] But I don\'t like German. It isn\'t\nat all a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite\nplain after my German lesson.\n\nMiss Prism. Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should\nimprove yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German,\nas he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on\nyour German when he is leaving for town.\n\nCecily. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious\nthat I think he cannot be quite well.\n\nMiss Prism. [Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of\nhealth, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one\nso comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of\nduty and responsibility.\n\nCecily. I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we\nthree are together.\n\nMiss Prism. Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many\ntroubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of\nplace in his conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about\nthat unfortunate young man his brother.\n\nCecily. I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his\nbrother, to come down here sometimes. We might have a good influence\nover him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would. You know German,\nand geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [Cecily\nbegins to write in her diary.]\n\nMiss Prism. [Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could\nproduce any effect on a character that according to his own brother\'s\nadmission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure\nthat I would desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern\nmania for turning bad people into good people at a moment\'s notice. As a\nman sows so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I\nreally don\'t see why you should keep a diary at all.\n\nCecily. I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my\nlife. If I didn\'t write them down, I should probably forget all about\nthem.\n\nMiss Prism. Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about\nwith us.\n\nCecily. Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never\nhappened, and couldn\'t possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is\nresponsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.\n\nMiss Prism. Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily.\nI wrote one myself in earlier days.\n\nCecily. Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I\nhope it did not end happily? I don\'t like novels that end happily. They\ndepress me so much.\n\nMiss Prism. The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what\nFiction means.\n\nCecily. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel\never published?\n\nMiss Prism. Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned.\n[Cecily starts.] I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To\nyour work, child, these speculations are profitless.\n\nCecily. [Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the\ngarden.\n\nMiss Prism. [Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a\npleasure.\n\n[Enter Canon Chasuble.]\n\nChasuble. And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust,\nwell?\n\nCecily. Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I\nthink it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the\nPark, Dr. Chasuble.\n\nMiss Prism. Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.\n\nCecily. No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that\nyou had a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my\nGerman lesson, when the Rector came in.\n\nChasuble. I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.\n\nCecily. Oh, I am afraid I am.\n\nChasuble. That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism\'s\npupil, I would hang upon her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spoke\nmetaphorically.--My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I\nsuppose, has not returned from town yet?\n\nMiss Prism. We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.\n\nChasuble. Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is\nnot one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that\nunfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb\nEgeria and her pupil any longer.\n\nMiss Prism. Egeria? My name is Laetitia, Doctor.\n\nChasuble. [Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan\nauthors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?\n\nMiss Prism. I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find\nI have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good.\n\nChasuble. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far\nas the schools and back.\n\nMiss Prism. That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your\nPolitical Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee\nyou may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic\nproblems have their melodramatic side.\n\n[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]\n\nCecily. [Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid\nPolitical Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!\n\n[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]\n\nMerriman. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He\nhas brought his luggage with him.\n\nCecily. [Takes the card and reads it.] \'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The\nAlbany, W.\' Uncle Jack\'s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in\ntown?\n\nMerriman. Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned\nthat you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to\nspeak to you privately for a moment.\n\nCecily. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better\ntalk to the housekeeper about a room for him.\n\nMerriman. Yes, Miss.\n\n[Merriman goes off.]\n\nCecily. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather\nfrightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.\n\n[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!\n\nAlgernon. [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I\'m sure.\n\nCecily. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact,\nI believe I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather\ntaken aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card,\nare Uncle Jack\'s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.\n\nAlgernon. Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You mustn\'t\nthink that I am wicked.\n\nCecily. If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in\na very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double\nlife, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That\nwould be hypocrisy.\n\nAlgernon. [Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been\nrather reckless.\n\nCecily. I am glad to hear it.\n\nAlgernon. In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in\nmy own small way.\n\nCecily. I don\'t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure\nit must have been very pleasant.\n\nAlgernon. It is much pleasanter being here with you.\n\nCecily. I can\'t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won\'t be\nback till Monday afternoon.\n\nAlgernon. That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the\nfirst train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am\nanxious . . . to miss?\n\nCecily. Couldn\'t you miss it anywhere but in London?\n\nAlgernon. No: the appointment is in London.\n\nCecily. Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a\nbusiness engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of\nlife, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack arrives. I\nknow he wants to speak to you about your emigrating.\n\nAlgernon. About my what?\n\nCecily. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.\n\nAlgernon. I certainly wouldn\'t let Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste\nin neckties at all.\n\nCecily. I don\'t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending\nyou to Australia.\n\nAlgernon. Australia! I\'d sooner die.\n\nCecily. Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would have\nto choose between this world, the next world, and Australia.\n\nAlgernon. Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and the\nnext world, are not particularly encouraging. This world is good enough\nfor me, cousin Cecily.\n\nCecily. Yes, but are you good enough for it?\n\nAlgernon. I\'m afraid I\'m not that. That is why I want you to reform me.\nYou might make that your mission, if you don\'t mind, cousin Cecily.\n\nCecily. I\'m afraid I\'ve no time, this afternoon.\n\nAlgernon. Well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon?\n\nCecily. It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.\n\nAlgernon. I will. I feel better already.\n\nCecily. You are looking a little worse.\n\nAlgernon. That is because I am hungry.\n\nCecily. How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when one\nis going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome\nmeals. Won\'t you come in?\n\nAlgernon. Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any\nappetite unless I have a buttonhole first.\n\nCecily. A Marechal Niel? [Picks up scissors.]\n\nAlgernon. No, I\'d sooner have a pink rose.\n\nCecily. Why? [Cuts a flower.]\n\nAlgernon. Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.\n\nCecily. I don\'t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that.\nMiss Prism never says such things to me.\n\nAlgernon. Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. [Cecily puts the\nrose in his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.\n\nCecily. Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.\n\nAlgernon. They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be\ncaught in.\n\nCecily. Oh, I don\'t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I\nshouldn\'t know what to talk to him about.\n\n[They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble return.]\n\nMiss Prism. You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should get\nmarried. A misanthrope I can understand--a womanthrope, never!\n\nChasuble. [With a scholar\'s shudder.] Believe me, I do not deserve so\nneologistic a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the\nPrimitive Church was distinctly against matrimony.\n\nMiss Prism. [Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the\nPrimitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And you do not\nseem to realise, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a\nman converts himself into a permanent public temptation. Men should be\nmore careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray.\n\nChasuble. But is a man not equally attractive when married?\n\nMiss Prism. No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.\n\nChasuble. And often, I\'ve been told, not even to her.\n\nMiss Prism. That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman.\nMaturity can always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young\nwomen are green. [Dr. Chasuble starts.] I spoke horticulturally. My\nmetaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is Cecily?\n\nChasuble. Perhaps she followed us to the schools.\n\n[Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in the\ndeepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]\n\nMiss Prism. Mr. Worthing!\n\nChasuble. Mr. Worthing?\n\nMiss Prism. This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till\nMonday afternoon.\n\nJack. [Shakes Miss Prism\'s hand in a tragic manner.] I have returned\nsooner than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well?\n\nChasuble. Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken\nsome terrible calamity?\n\nJack. My brother.\n\nMiss Prism. More shameful debts and extravagance?\n\nChasuble. Still leading his life of pleasure?\n\nJack. [Shaking his head.] Dead!\n\nChasuble. Your brother Ernest dead?\n\nJack. Quite dead.\n\nMiss Prism. What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it.\n\nChasuble. Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at\nleast the consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous\nand forgiving of brothers.\n\nJack. Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.\n\nChasuble. Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?\n\nJack. No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last\nnight from the manager of the Grand Hotel.\n\nChasuble. Was the cause of death mentioned?\n\nJack. A severe chill, it seems.\n\nMiss Prism. As a man sows, so shall he reap.\n\nChasuble. [Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None\nof us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will\nthe interment take place here?\n\nJack. No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris.\n\nChasuble. In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to\nany very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me\nto make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next\nSunday. [Jack presses his hand convulsively.] My sermon on the meaning\nof the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion,\njoyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. [All sigh.] I have\npreached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days\nof humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the\nCathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the\nPrevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was\npresent, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.\n\nJack. Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr.\nChasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? [Dr. Chasuble\nlooks astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually christening,\naren\'t you?\n\nMiss Prism. It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector\'s most constant\nduties in this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the\nsubject. But they don\'t seem to know what thrift is.\n\nChasuble. But is there any particular infant in whom you are interested,\nMr. Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?\n\nJack. Oh yes.\n\nMiss Prism. [Bitterly.] People who live entirely for pleasure usually\nare.\n\nJack. But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of\nchildren. No! the fact is, I would like to be christened myself, this\nafternoon, if you have nothing better to do.\n\nChasuble. But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been christened already?\n\nJack. I don\'t remember anything about it.\n\nChasuble. But have you any grave doubts on the subject?\n\nJack. I certainly intend to have. Of course I don\'t know if the thing\nwould bother you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old now.\n\nChasuble. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of\nadults is a perfectly canonical practice.\n\nJack. Immersion!\n\nChasuble. You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is\nnecessary, or indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so changeable. At\nwhat hour would you wish the ceremony performed?\n\nJack. Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you.\n\nChasuble. Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies\nto perform at that time. A case of twins that occurred recently in one\nof the outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a\nmost hard-working man.\n\nJack. Oh! I don\'t see much fun in being christened along with other\nbabies. It would be childish. Would half-past five do?\n\nChasuble. Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear Mr.\nWorthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would\nmerely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us\nbitter trials are often blessings in disguise.\n\nMiss Prism. This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.\n\n[Enter Cecily from the house.]\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid\nclothes you have got on! Do go and change them.\n\nMiss Prism. Cecily!\n\nChasuble. My child! my child! [Cecily goes towards Jack; he kisses her\nbrow in a melancholy manner.]\n\nCecily. What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if\nyou had toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you\nthink is in the dining-room? Your brother!\n\nJack. Who?\n\nCecily. Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.\n\nJack. What nonsense! I haven\'t got a brother.\n\nCecily. Oh, don\'t say that. However badly he may have behaved to you in\nthe past he is still your brother. You couldn\'t be so heartless as to\ndisown him. I\'ll tell him to come out. And you will shake hands with\nhim, won\'t you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]\n\nChasuble. These are very joyful tidings.\n\nMiss Prism. After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden\nreturn seems to me peculiarly distressing.\n\nJack. My brother is in the dining-room? I don\'t know what it all means.\nI think it is perfectly absurd.\n\n[Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. They come slowly up to Jack.]\n\nJack. Good heavens! [Motions Algernon away.]\n\nAlgernon. Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am\nvery sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to\nlead a better life in the future. [Jack glares at him and does not take\nhis hand.]\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother\'s hand?\n\nJack. Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming down\nhere disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every one. Ernest\nhas just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom\nhe goes to visit so often. And surely there must be much good in one who\nis kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a bed\nof pain.\n\nJack. Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?\n\nCecily. Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terrible\nstate of health.\n\nJack. Bunbury! Well, I won\'t have him talk to you about Bunbury or\nabout anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic.\n\nAlgernon. Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I\nmust say that I think that Brother John\'s coldness to me is peculiarly\npainful. I expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering\nit is the first time I have come here.\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack, if you don\'t shake hands with Ernest I will never\nforgive you.\n\nJack. Never forgive me?\n\nCecily. Never, never, never!\n\nJack. Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. [Shakes with\nAlgernon and glares.]\n\nChasuble. It\'s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation?\nI think we might leave the two brothers together.\n\nMiss Prism. Cecily, you will come with us.\n\nCecily. Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is\nover.\n\nChasuble. You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child.\n\nMiss Prism. We must not be premature in our judgments.\n\nCecily. I feel very happy. [They all go off except Jack and Algernon.]\n\nJack. You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon\nas possible. I don\'t allow any Bunburying here.\n\n[Enter Merriman.]\n\nMerriman. I have put Mr. Ernest\'s things in the room next to yours, sir.\nI suppose that is all right?\n\nJack. What?\n\nMerriman. Mr. Ernest\'s luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in\nthe room next to your own.\n\nJack. His luggage?\n\nMerriman. Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes,\nand a large luncheon-basket.\n\nAlgernon. I am afraid I can\'t stay more than a week this time.\n\nJack. Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been\nsuddenly called back to town.\n\nMerriman. Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]\n\nAlgernon. What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called\nback to town at all.\n\nJack. Yes, you have.\n\nAlgernon. I haven\'t heard any one call me.\n\nJack. Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.\n\nAlgernon. My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures\nin the smallest degree.\n\nJack. I can quite understand that.\n\nAlgernon. Well, Cecily is a darling.\n\nJack. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don\'t like it.\n\nAlgernon. Well, I don\'t like your clothes. You look perfectly\nridiculous in them. Why on earth don\'t you go up and change? It is\nperfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is actually\nstaying for a whole week with you in your house as a guest. I call it\ngrotesque.\n\nJack. You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest\nor anything else. You have got to leave . . . by the four-five train.\n\nAlgernon. I certainly won\'t leave you so long as you are in mourning. It\nwould be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me,\nI suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn\'t.\n\nJack. Well, will you go if I change my clothes?\n\nAlgernon. Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so\nlong to dress, and with such little result.\n\nJack. Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed\nas you are.\n\nAlgernon. If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it\nby being always immensely over-educated.\n\nJack. Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your\npresence in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to catch the\nfour-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town. This\nBunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you.\n\n[Goes into the house.]\n\nAlgernon. I think it has been a great success. I\'m in love with Cecily,\nand that is everything.\n\n[Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and begins\nto water the flowers.] But I must see her before I go, and make\narrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.\n\nCecily. Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were\nwith Uncle Jack.\n\nAlgernon. He\'s gone to order the dog-cart for me.\n\nCecily. Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?\n\nAlgernon. He\'s going to send me away.\n\nCecily. Then have we got to part?\n\nAlgernon. I am afraid so. It\'s a very painful parting.\n\nCecily. It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for\na very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure\nwith equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one\nhas just been introduced is almost unbearable.\n\nAlgernon. Thank you.\n\n[Enter Merriman.]\n\nMerriman. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [Algernon looks appealingly\nat Cecily.]\n\nCecily. It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes.\n\nMerriman. Yes, Miss. [Exit Merriman.]\n\nAlgernon. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite\nfrankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible\npersonification of absolute perfection.\n\nCecily. I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you\nwill allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to\ntable and begins writing in diary.]\n\nAlgernon. Do you really keep a diary? I\'d give anything to look at it.\nMay I?\n\nCecily. Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very\nyoung girl\'s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently\nmeant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will\norder a copy. But pray, Ernest, don\'t stop. I delight in taking down\nfrom dictation. I have reached \'absolute perfection\'. You can go on. I\nam quite ready for more.\n\nAlgernon. [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!\n\nCecily. Oh, don\'t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak\nfluently and not cough. Besides, I don\'t know how to spell a cough.\n[Writes as Algernon speaks.]\n\nAlgernon. [Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked\nupon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you\nwildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.\n\nCecily. I don\'t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly,\npassionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn\'t seem to make\nmuch sense, does it?\n\nAlgernon. Cecily!\n\n[Enter Merriman.]\n\nMerriman. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.\n\nAlgernon. Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.\n\nMerriman. [Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.\n\n[Merriman retires.]\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were\nstaying on till next week, at the same hour.\n\nAlgernon. Oh, I don\'t care about Jack. I don\'t care for anybody in the\nwhole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won\'t you?\n\nCecily. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the\nlast three months.\n\nAlgernon. For the last three months?\n\nCecily. Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.\n\nAlgernon. But how did we become engaged?\n\nCecily. Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he\nhad a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have\nformed the chief topic of conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And\nof course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One\nfeels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was\nfoolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.\n\nAlgernon. Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?\n\nCecily. On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance\nof my existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and\nafter a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree\nhere. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is\nthe little bangle with the true lover\'s knot I promised you always to\nwear.\n\nAlgernon. Did I give you this? It\'s very pretty, isn\'t it?\n\nCecily. Yes, you\'ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It\'s the excuse\nI\'ve always given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box\nin which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, and\nproduces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]\n\nAlgernon. My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written\nyou any letters.\n\nCecily. You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too\nwell that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote always\nthree times a week, and sometimes oftener.\n\nAlgernon. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?\n\nCecily. Oh, I couldn\'t possibly. They would make you far too conceited.\n[Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the\nengagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can\nhardly read them without crying a little.\n\nAlgernon. But was our engagement ever broken off?\n\nCecily. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the\nentry if you like. [Shows diary.] \'To-day I broke off my engagement with\nErnest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues\ncharming.\'\n\nAlgernon. But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I\nhad done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you\nbroke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.\n\nCecily. It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it\nhadn\'t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week\nwas out.\n\nAlgernon. [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you\nare, Cecily.\n\nCecily. You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers\nthrough his hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?\n\nAlgernon. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.\n\nCecily. I am so glad.\n\nAlgernon. You\'ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?\n\nCecily. I don\'t think I could break it off now that I have actually met\nyou. Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.\n\nAlgernon. Yes, of course. [Nervously.]\n\nCecily. You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a\ngirlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest. [Algernon\nrises, Cecily also.] There is something in that name that seems to\ninspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband\nis not called Ernest.\n\nAlgernon. But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me\nif I had some other name?\n\nCecily. But what name?\n\nAlgernon. Oh, any name you like--Algernon--for instance . . .\n\nCecily. But I don\'t like the name of Algernon.\n\nAlgernon. Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really\ncan\'t see why you should object to the name of Algernon. It is not at\nall a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the\nchaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But\nseriously, Cecily . . . [Moving to her] . . . if my name was Algy,\ncouldn\'t you love me?\n\nCecily. [Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your\ncharacter, but I fear that I should not be able to give you my undivided\nattention.\n\nAlgernon. Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I\nsuppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and\nceremonials of the Church?\n\nCecily. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never\nwritten a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.\n\nAlgernon. I must see him at once on a most important christening--I mean\non most important business.\n\nCecily. Oh!\n\nAlgernon. I shan\'t be away more than half an hour.\n\nCecily. Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th,\nand that I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather\nhard that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour.\nCouldn\'t you make it twenty minutes?\n\nAlgernon. I\'ll be back in no time.\n\n[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]\n\nCecily. What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must\nenter his proposal in my diary.\n\n[Enter Merriman.]\n\nMerriman. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very\nimportant business, Miss Fairfax states.\n\nCecily. Isn\'t Mr. Worthing in his library?\n\nMerriman. Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some\ntime ago.\n\nCecily. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be\nback soon. And you can bring tea.\n\nMerriman. Yes, Miss. [Goes out.]\n\nCecily. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who\nare associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in\nLondon. I don\'t quite like women who are interested in philanthropic\nwork. I think it is so forward of them.\n\n[Enter Merriman.]\n\nMerriman. Miss Fairfax.\n\n[Enter Gwendolen.]\n\n[Exit Merriman.]\n\nCecily. [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you.\nMy name is Cecily Cardew.\n\nGwendolen. Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a\nvery sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be great\nfriends. I like you already more than I can say. My first impressions\nof people are never wrong.\n\nCecily. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each\nother such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.\n\nGwendolen. [Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?\n\nCecily. With pleasure!\n\nGwendolen. And you will always call me Gwendolen, won\'t you?\n\nCecily. If you wish.\n\nGwendolen. Then that is all quite settled, is it not?\n\nCecily. I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]\n\nGwendolen. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my\nmentioning who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard\nof papa, I suppose?\n\nCecily. I don\'t think so.\n\nGwendolen. Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is\nentirely unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems\nto me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man\nbegins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate,\ndoes he not? And I don\'t like that. It makes men so very attractive.\nCecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has\nbrought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so\ndo you mind my looking at you through my glasses?\n\nCecily. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.\n\nGwendolen. [After examining Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You\nare here on a short visit, I suppose.\n\nCecily. Oh no! I live here.\n\nGwendolen. [Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female\nrelative of advanced years, resides here also?\n\nCecily. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.\n\nGwendolen. Indeed?\n\nCecily. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the\narduous task of looking after me.\n\nGwendolen. Your guardian?\n\nCecily. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing\'s ward.\n\nGwendolen. Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a\nward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not\nsure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed\ndelight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I\nhave liked you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now\nthat I know that you are Mr. Worthing\'s ward, I cannot help expressing a\nwish you were--well, just a little older than you seem to be--and not\nquite so very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly--\n\nCecily. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to\nsay, one should always be quite candid.\n\nGwendolen. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you\nwere fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest\nhas a strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour.\nDisloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of\nthe noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the\ninfluence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than Ancient\nHistory, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to.\nIf it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.\n\nCecily. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?\n\nGwendolen. Yes.\n\nCecily. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is\nhis brother--his elder brother.\n\nGwendolen. [Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he\nhad a brother.\n\nCecily. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long\ntime.\n\nGwendolen. Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have\nnever heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful\nto most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing\nalmost anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across\na friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite\nsure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?\n\nCecily. Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.\n\nGwendolen. [Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?\n\nCecily. [Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no\nreason why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county\nnewspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing\nand I are engaged to be married.\n\nGwendolen. [Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there\nmust be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The\nannouncement will appear in the _Morning Post_ on Saturday at the latest.\n\nCecily. [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some\nmisconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows\ndiary.]\n\nGwendolen. [Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It is\ncertainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday\nafternoon at 5.30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so.\n[Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without my diary. One\nshould always have something sensational to read in the train. I am so\nsorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I\nhave the prior claim.\n\nCecily. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen,\nif it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to\npoint out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his\nmind.\n\nGwendolen. [Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into\nany foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once,\nand with a firm hand.\n\nCecily. [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my\ndear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we\nare married.\n\nGwendolen. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You\nare presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a\nmoral duty to speak one\'s mind. It becomes a pleasure.\n\nCecily. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an\nengagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask\nof manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.\n\nGwendolen. [Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a\nspade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.\n\n[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table\ncloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the\nservants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls\nchafe.]\n\nMerriman. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?\n\nCecily. [Sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to\nclear table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at\neach other.]\n\nGwendolen. Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss\nCardew?\n\nCecily. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite\nclose one can see five counties.\n\nGwendolen. Five counties! I don\'t think I should like that; I hate\ncrowds.\n\nCecily. [Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen\nbites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]\n\nGwendolen. [Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss\nCardew.\n\nCecily. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.\n\nGwendolen. I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.\n\nCecily. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in\nLondon.\n\nGwendolen. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist\nin the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores\nme to death.\n\nCecily. Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression,\nis it not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it\njust at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been\ntold. May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?\n\nGwendolen. [With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable\ngirl! But I require tea!\n\nCecily. [Sweetly.] Sugar?\n\nGwendolen. [Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable\nany more. [Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four\nlumps of sugar into the cup.]\n\nCecily. [Severely.] Cake or bread and butter?\n\nGwendolen. [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is\nrarely seen at the best houses nowadays.\n\nCecily. [Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] Hand\nthat to Miss Fairfax.\n\n[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea\nand makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the\nbread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in\nindignation.]\n\nGwendolen. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I\nasked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am\nknown for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary\nsweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.\n\nCecily. [Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the\nmachinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not\ngo.\n\nGwendolen. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you\nwere false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first\nimpressions of people are invariably right.\n\nCecily. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your\nvaluable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character\nto make in the neighbourhood.\n\n[Enter Jack.]\n\nGwendolen. [Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest!\n\nJack. Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]\n\nGwendolen. [Draws back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be\nmarried to this young lady? [Points to Cecily.]\n\nJack. [Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could\nhave put such an idea into your pretty little head?\n\nGwendolen. Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.]\n\nCecily. [Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding,\nMiss Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is\nmy guardian, Mr. John Worthing.\n\nGwendolen. I beg your pardon?\n\nCecily. This is Uncle Jack.\n\nGwendolen. [Receding.] Jack! Oh!\n\n[Enter Algernon.]\n\nCecily. Here is Ernest.\n\nAlgernon. [Goes straight over to Cecily without noticing any one else.]\nMy own love! [Offers to kiss her.]\n\nCecily. [Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you--are you\nengaged to be married to this young lady?\n\nAlgernon. [Looking round.] To what young lady? Good heavens!\nGwendolen!\n\nCecily. Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.\n\nAlgernon. [Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea\ninto your pretty little head?\n\nCecily. Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may.\n[Algernon kisses her.]\n\nGwendolen. I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The\ngentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.\n\nCecily. [Breaking away from Algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The\ntwo girls move towards each other and put their arms round each other\'s\nwaists as if for protection.]\n\nCecily. Are you called Algernon?\n\nAlgernon. I cannot deny it.\n\nCecily. Oh!\n\nGwendolen. Is your name really John?\n\nJack. [Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I could\ndeny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been\nJohn for years.\n\nCecily. [To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practised on both of\nus.\n\nGwendolen. My poor wounded Cecily!\n\nCecily. My sweet wronged Gwendolen!\n\nGwendolen. [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you\nnot? [They embrace. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.]\n\nCecily. [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to\nbe allowed to ask my guardian.\n\nGwendolen. An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question\nI would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother\nErnest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it\nis a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is\nat present.\n\nJack. [Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen--Cecily--it is very painful\nfor me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life\nthat I have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really\nquite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However, I will tell\nyou quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at\nall. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the\nsmallest intention of ever having one in the future.\n\nCecily. [Surprised.] No brother at all?\n\nJack. [Cheerily.] None!\n\nGwendolen. [Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind?\n\nJack. [Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.\n\nGwendolen. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is\nengaged to be married to any one.\n\nCecily. It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to\nfind herself in. Is it?\n\nGwendolen. Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come\nafter us there.\n\nCecily. No, men are so cowardly, aren\'t they?\n\n[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]\n\nJack. This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I\nsuppose?\n\nAlgernon. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most\nwonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life.\n\nJack. Well, you\'ve no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.\n\nAlgernon. That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one\nchooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that.\n\nJack. Serious Bunburyist! Good heavens!\n\nAlgernon. Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to\nhave any amusement in life. I happen to be serious about Bunburying.\nWhat on earth you are serious about I haven\'t got the remotest idea.\nAbout everything, I should fancy. You have such an absolutely trivial\nnature.\n\nJack. Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this\nwretched business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. You\nwon\'t be able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to\ndo, dear Algy. And a very good thing too.\n\nAlgernon. Your brother is a little off colour, isn\'t he, dear Jack? You\nwon\'t be able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your wicked\ncustom was. And not a bad thing either.\n\nJack. As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your\ntaking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable.\nTo say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.\n\nAlgernon. I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a\nbrilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss Fairfax.\nTo say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.\n\nJack. I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.\n\nAlgernon. Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her.\n\nJack. There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.\n\nAlgernon. I don\'t think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and Miss\nFairfax being united.\n\nJack. Well, that is no business of yours.\n\nAlgernon. If it was my business, I wouldn\'t talk about it. [Begins to\neat muffins.] It is very vulgar to talk about one\'s business. Only\npeople like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties.\n\nJack. How can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this\nhorrible trouble, I can\'t make out. You seem to me to be perfectly\nheartless.\n\nAlgernon. Well, I can\'t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter\nwould probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite\ncalmly. It is the only way to eat them.\n\nJack. I say it\'s perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under\nthe circumstances.\n\nAlgernon. When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles\nme. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me\nintimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink. At\nthe present moment I am eating muffins because I am unhappy. Besides, I\nam particularly fond of muffins. [Rising.]\n\nJack. [Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in\nthat greedy way. [Takes muffins from Algernon.]\n\nAlgernon. [Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake instead.\nI don\'t like tea-cake.\n\nJack. Good heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own\ngarden.\n\nAlgernon. But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat\nmuffins.\n\nJack. I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances.\nThat is a very different thing.\n\nAlgernon. That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes the\nmuffin-dish from Jack.]\n\nJack. Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.\n\nAlgernon. You can\'t possibly ask me to go without having some dinner.\nIt\'s absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except\nvegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just made arrangements\nwith Dr. Chasuble to be christened at a quarter to six under the name of\nErnest.\n\nJack. My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. I\nmade arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself\nat 5.30, and I naturally will take the name of Ernest. Gwendolen would\nwish it. We can\'t both be christened Ernest. It\'s absurd. Besides, I\nhave a perfect right to be christened if I like. There is no evidence at\nall that I have ever been christened by anybody. I should think it\nextremely probable I never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely\ndifferent in your case. You have been christened already.\n\nAlgernon. Yes, but I have not been christened for years.\n\nJack. Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important thing.\n\nAlgernon. Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you are\nnot quite sure about your ever having been christened, I must say I think\nit rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It might make you very\nunwell. You can hardly have forgotten that some one very closely\nconnected with you was very nearly carried off this week in Paris by a\nsevere chill.\n\nJack. Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary.\n\nAlgernon. It usen\'t to be, I know--but I daresay it is now. Science is\nalways making wonderful improvements in things.\n\nJack. [Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are\nalways talking nonsense.\n\nAlgernon. Jack, you are at the muffins again! I wish you wouldn\'t.\nThere are only two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly\nfond of muffins.\n\nJack. But I hate tea-cake.\n\nAlgernon. Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for\nyour guests? What ideas you have of hospitality!\n\nJack. Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don\'t want you here.\nWhy don\'t you go!\n\nAlgernon. I haven\'t quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one\nmuffin left. [Jack groans, and sinks into a chair. Algernon still\ncontinues eating.]\n\nACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD ACT\n\n\nSCENE\n\n\nMorning-room at the Manor House.\n\n[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]\n\nGwendolen. The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house,\nas any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some\nsense of shame left.\n\nCecily. They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.\n\nGwendolen. [After a pause.] They don\'t seem to notice us at all.\nCouldn\'t you cough?\n\nCecily. But I haven\'t got a cough.\n\nGwendolen. They\'re looking at us. What effrontery!\n\nCecily. They\'re approaching. That\'s very forward of them.\n\nGwendolen. Let us preserve a dignified silence.\n\nCecily. Certainly. It\'s the only thing to do now. [Enter Jack followed\nby Algernon. They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British\nOpera.]\n\nGwendolen. This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.\n\nCecily. A most distasteful one.\n\nGwendolen. But we will not be the first to speak.\n\nCecily. Certainly not.\n\nGwendolen. Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you.\nMuch depends on your reply.\n\nCecily. Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff,\nkindly answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to be my\nguardian\'s brother?\n\nAlgernon. In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.\n\nCecily. [To Gwendolen.] That certainly seems a satisfactory\nexplanation, does it not?\n\nGwendolen. Yes, dear, if you can believe him.\n\nCecily. I don\'t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his\nanswer.\n\nGwendolen. True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity\nis the vital thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me\nfor pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you might have an\nopportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?\n\nJack. Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?\n\nGwendolen. I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to\ncrush them. This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to\nCecily.] Their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially\nMr. Worthing\'s. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.\n\nCecily. I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice\nalone inspires one with absolute credulity.\n\nGwendolen. Then you think we should forgive them?\n\nCecily. Yes. I mean no.\n\nGwendolen. True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that\none cannot surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is not a\npleasant one.\n\nCecily. Could we not both speak at the same time?\n\nGwendolen. An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as\nother people. Will you take the time from me?\n\nCecily. Certainly. [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]\n\nGwendolen and Cecily [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are still\nan insuperable barrier. That is all!\n\nJack and Algernon [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that\nall? But we are going to be christened this afternoon.\n\nGwendolen. [To Jack.] For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible\nthing?\n\nJack. I am.\n\nCecily. [To Algernon.] To please me you are ready to face this fearful\nordeal?\n\nAlgernon. I am!\n\nGwendolen. How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where\nquestions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.\n\nJack. We are. [Clasps hands with Algernon.]\n\nCecily. They have moments of physical courage of which we women know\nabsolutely nothing.\n\nGwendolen. [To Jack.] Darling!\n\nAlgernon. [To Cecily.] Darling! [They fall into each other\'s arms.]\n\n[Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.]\n\nMerriman. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!\n\nJack. Good heavens!\n\n[Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate in alarm. Exit Merriman.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Gwendolen! What does this mean?\n\nGwendolen. Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing,\nmamma.\n\nLady Bracknell. Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitation\nof any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness\nin the old. [Turns to Jack.] Apprised, sir, of my daughter\'s sudden\nflight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a\nsmall coin, I followed her at once by a luggage train. Her unhappy\nfather is, I am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a\nmore than usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on\nthe Influence of a permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to\nundeceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question. I\nwould consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand that\nall communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately\nfrom this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.\n\nJack. I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!\n\nLady Bracknell. You are nothing of the kind, sir. And now, as regards\nAlgernon! . . . Algernon!\n\nAlgernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid\nfriend Mr. Bunbury resides?\n\nAlgernon. [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn\'t live here. Bunbury\nis somewhere else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.\n\nLady Bracknell. Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have\nbeen extremely sudden.\n\nAlgernon. [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor\nBunbury died this afternoon.\n\nLady Bracknell. What did he die of?\n\nAlgernon. Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.\n\nLady Bracknell. Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage?\nI was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If\nso, he is well punished for his morbidity.\n\nAlgernon. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors\nfound out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean--so Bunbury\ndied.\n\nLady Bracknell. He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of\nhis physicians. I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last\nto some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice.\nAnd now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr.\nWorthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now\nholding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?\n\nJack. That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [Lady Bracknell bows\ncoldly to Cecily.]\n\nAlgernon. I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. I beg your pardon?\n\nCecily. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell.\n\nLady Bracknell. [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.]\nI do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of\nthis particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that\ngo on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics\nhave laid down for our guidance. I think some preliminary inquiry on my\npart would not be out of place. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all\nconnected with any of the larger railway stations in London? I merely\ndesire information. Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any\nfamilies or persons whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly\nfurious, but restrains himself.]\n\nJack. [In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of\nthe late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park,\nDorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.\n\nLady Bracknell. That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses always\ninspire confidence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have I of their\nauthenticity?\n\nJack. I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period. They\nare open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Grimly.] I have known strange errors in that\npublication.\n\nJack. Miss Cardew\'s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and\nMarkby.\n\nLady Bracknell. Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest\nposition in their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr.\nMarkby\'s is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far I am\nsatisfied.\n\nJack. [Very irritably.] How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell! I\nhave also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of\nMiss Cardew\'s birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination,\nconfirmation, and the measles; both the German and the English variety.\n\nLady Bracknell. Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps\nsomewhat too exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in favour of\npremature experiences. [Rises, looks at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time\napproaches for our departure. We have not a moment to lose. As a matter\nof form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any little\nfortune?\n\nJack. Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That\nis all. Goodbye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Sitting down again.] A moment, Mr. Worthing. A\nhundred and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems\nto me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of\nthe present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities\nthat last, and improve with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of\nsurfaces. [To Cecily.] Come over here, dear. [Cecily goes across.]\nPretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as\nNature might have left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thoroughly\nexperienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in a very\nbrief space of time. I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing,\nand after three months her own husband did not know her.\n\nJack. And after six months nobody knew her.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Glares at Jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a\npractised smile, to Cecily.] Kindly turn round, sweet child. [Cecily\nturns completely round.] No, the side view is what I want. [Cecily\npresents her profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct\nsocial possibilities in your profile. The two weak points in our age are\nits want of principle and its want of profile. The chin a little higher,\ndear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn\nvery high, just at present. Algernon!\n\nAlgernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta!\n\nLady Bracknell. There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew\'s\nprofile.\n\nAlgernon. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole\nworld. And I don\'t care twopence about social possibilities.\n\nLady Bracknell. Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only\npeople who can\'t get into it do that. [To Cecily.] Dear child, of\ncourse you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon.\nBut I do not approve of mercenary marriages. When I married Lord\nBracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I never dreamed for a moment\nof allowing that to stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my\nconsent.\n\nAlgernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. Cecily, you may kiss me!\n\nCecily. [Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell.\n\nLady Bracknell. You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.\n\nCecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.\n\nAlgernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.\n\nCecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.\n\nLady Bracknell. To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long\nengagements. They give people the opportunity of finding out each\nother\'s character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.\n\nJack. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this\nengagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew\'s guardian,\nand she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. That\nconsent I absolutely decline to give.\n\nLady Bracknell. Upon what grounds may I ask? Algernon is an extremely,\nI may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing,\nbut he looks everything. What more can one desire?\n\nJack. It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady\nBracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at\nall of his moral character. I suspect him of being untruthful. [Algernon\nand Cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]\n\nLady Bracknell. Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an\nOxonian.\n\nJack. I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This\nafternoon during my temporary absence in London on an important question\nof romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false\npretence of being my brother. Under an assumed name he drank, I\'ve just\nbeen informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet,\nBrut, \'89; wine I was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his\ndisgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in\nalienating the affections of my only ward. He subsequently stayed to\ntea, and devoured every single muffin. And what makes his conduct all\nthe more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first\nthat I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don\'t\nintend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him so\nmyself yesterday afternoon.\n\nLady Bracknell. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have\ndecided entirely to overlook my nephew\'s conduct to you.\n\nJack. That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision,\nhowever, is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.\n\nLady Bracknell. [To Cecily.] Come here, sweet child. [Cecily goes\nover.] How old are you, dear?\n\nCecily. Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty\nwhen I go to evening parties.\n\nLady Bracknell. You are perfectly right in making some slight\nalteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her\nage. It looks so calculating . . . [In a meditative manner.] Eighteen,\nbut admitting to twenty at evening parties. Well, it will not be very\nlong before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. So\nI don\'t think your guardian\'s consent is, after all, a matter of any\nimportance.\n\nJack. Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it\nis only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather\'s\nwill Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.\n\nLady Bracknell. That does not seem to me to be a grave objection. Thirty-\nfive is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the\nvery highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-\nfive for years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in point. To my own\nknowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of\nforty, which was many years ago now. I see no reason why our dear Cecily\nshould not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she\nis at present. There will be a large accumulation of property.\n\nCecily. Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?\n\nAlgernon. Of course I could, Cecily. You know I could.\n\nCecily. Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn\'t wait all that time.\nI hate waiting even five minutes for anybody. It always makes me rather\ncross. I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in\nothers, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question.\n\nAlgernon. Then what is to be done, Cecily?\n\nCecily. I don\'t know, Mr. Moncrieff.\n\nLady Bracknell. My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively\nthat she cannot wait till she is thirty-five--a remark which I am bound\nto say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature--I would beg of\nyou to reconsider your decision.\n\nJack. But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own\nhands. The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most\ngladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Rising and drawing herself up.] You must be quite\naware that what you propose is out of the question.\n\nJack. Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward\nto.\n\nLady Bracknell. That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen.\nAlgernon, of course, can choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.]\nCome, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six,\ntrains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.\n\n[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]\n\nChasuble. Everything is quite ready for the christenings.\n\nLady Bracknell. The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature?\n\nChasuble. [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack and Algernon.]\nBoth these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.\n\nLady Bracknell. At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious!\nAlgernon, I forbid you to be baptized. I will not hear of such excesses.\nLord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the\nway in which you wasted your time and money.\n\nChasuble. Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings\nat all this afternoon?\n\nJack. I don\'t think that, as things are now, it would be of much\npractical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.\n\nChasuble. I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing.\nThey savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have\ncompletely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. However, as your\npresent mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will return to the\nchurch at once. Indeed, I have just been informed by the pew-opener that\nfor the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in the\nvestry.\n\nLady Bracknell. [Starting.] Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss\nPrism?\n\nChasuble. Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way to join her.\n\nLady Bracknell. Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter\nmay prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is\nthis Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with\neducation?\n\nChasuble. [Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies,\nand the very picture of respectability.\n\nLady Bracknell. It is obviously the same person. May I ask what\nposition she holds in your household?\n\nChasuble. [Severely.] I am a celibate, madam.\n\nJack. [Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last\nthree years Miss Cardew\'s esteemed governess and valued companion.\n\nLady Bracknell. In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once.\nLet her be sent for.\n\nChasuble. [Looking off.] She approaches; she is nigh.\n\n[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]\n\nMiss Prism. I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I\nhave been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters. [Catches\nsight of Lady Bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. Miss\nPrism grows pale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to\nescape.]\n\nLady Bracknell. [In a severe, judicial voice.] Prism! [Miss Prism bows\nher head in shame.] Come here, Prism! [Miss Prism approaches in a\nhumble manner.] Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation. The\nCanon starts back in horror. Algernon and Jack pretend to be anxious to\nshield Cecily and Gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public\nscandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell\'s\nhouse, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator\nthat contained a baby of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks\nlater, through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police,\nthe perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a\nremote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a\nthree-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [Miss\nPrism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not there!\n[Every one looks at Miss Prism.] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]\n\nMiss Prism. Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I\nonly wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning\nof the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I\nprepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also\nwith me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to\nplace the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my\nfew unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I\nnever can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette,\nand placed the baby in the hand-bag.\n\nJack. [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit\nthe hand-bag?\n\nMiss Prism. Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.\n\nJack. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I\ninsist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that\ninfant.\n\nMiss Prism. I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway\nstations in London.\n\nJack. What railway station?\n\nMiss Prism. [Quite crushed.] Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into\na chair.]\n\nJack. I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen, wait here for\nme.\n\nGwendolen. If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my\nlife. [Exit Jack in great excitement.]\n\nChasuble. What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?\n\nLady Bracknell. I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly\ntell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not\nsupposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.\n\n[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. Every\none looks up.]\n\nCecily. Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.\n\nChasuble. Your guardian has a very emotional nature.\n\nLady Bracknell. This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he\nwas having an argument. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are\nalways vulgar, and often convincing.\n\nChasuble. [Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]\n\nLady Bracknell. I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.\n\nGwendolen. This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last. [Enter Jack\nwith a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]\n\nJack. [Rushing over to Miss Prism.] Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism?\nExamine it carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than one\nlife depends on your answer.\n\nMiss Prism. [Calmly.] It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it\nreceived through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and\nhappier days. Here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of\na temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington. And\nhere, on the lock, are my initials. I had forgotten that in an\nextravagant mood I had had them placed there. The bag is undoubtedly\nmine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. It has\nbeen a great inconvenience being without it all these years.\n\nJack. [In a pathetic voice.] Miss Prism, more is restored to you than\nthis hand-bag. I was the baby you placed in it.\n\nMiss Prism. [Amazed.] You?\n\nJack. [Embracing her.] Yes . . . mother!\n\nMiss Prism. [Recoiling in indignant astonishment.] Mr. Worthing! I am\nunmarried!\n\nJack. Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all,\nwho has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot\nrepentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be one law for\nmen, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace\nher again.]\n\nMiss Prism. [Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error.\n[Pointing to Lady Bracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you\nreally are.\n\nJack. [After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but\nwould you kindly inform me who I am?\n\nLady Bracknell. I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not\naltogether please you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs.\nMoncrieff, and consequently Algernon\'s elder brother.\n\nJack. Algy\'s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I\nhad a brother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily,--how could you\nhave ever doubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of Algernon.] Dr.\nChasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother.\nGwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young scoundrel, you will\nhave to treat me with more respect in the future. You have never behaved\nto me like a brother in all your life.\n\nAlgernon. Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit. I did my best,\nhowever, though I was out of practice.\n\n[Shakes hands.]\n\nGwendolen. [To Jack.] My own! But what own are you? What is your\nChristian name, now that you have become some one else?\n\nJack. Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point. Your\ndecision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?\n\nGwendolen. I never change, except in my affections.\n\nCecily. What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!\n\nJack. Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta,\na moment. At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I\nbeen christened already?\n\nLady Bracknell. Every luxury that money could buy, including\nchristening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.\n\nJack. Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I\ngiven? Let me know the worst.\n\nLady Bracknell. Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after\nyour father.\n\nJack. [Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father\'s Christian name?\n\nLady Bracknell. [Meditatively.] I cannot at the present moment recall\nwhat the General\'s Christian name was. But I have no doubt he had one.\nHe was eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And that was the\nresult of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other\nthings of that kind.\n\nJack. Algy! Can\'t you recollect what our father\'s Christian name was?\n\nAlgernon. My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He died\nbefore I was a year old.\n\nJack. His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose,\nAunt Augusta?\n\nLady Bracknell. The General was essentially a man of peace, except in\nhis domestic life. But I have no doubt his name would appear in any\nmilitary directory.\n\nJack. The Army Lists of the last forty years are here. These delightful\nrecords should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and\ntears the books out.] M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what\nghastly names they have--Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant\n1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian\nnames, Ernest John. [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite\ncalmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn\'t I?\nWell, it is Ernest after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.\n\nLady Bracknell. Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest,\nI knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.\n\nGwendolen. Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could\nhave no other name!\n\nJack. Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly\nthat all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you\nforgive me?\n\nGwendolen. I can. For I feel that you are sure to change.\n\nJack. My own one!\n\nChasuble. [To Miss Prism.] Laetitia! [Embraces her]\n\nMiss Prism. [Enthusiastically.] Frederick! At last!\n\nAlgernon. Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!\n\nJack. Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!\n\nLady Bracknell. My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of\ntriviality.\n\nJack. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Selected Prose of Oscar Wilde, by Oscar\nWilde, Edited by Robert Ross\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Selected Prose of Oscar Wilde\n with a Preface by Robert Ross\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: March 22, 2005 [eBook #1338]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED PROSE OF OSCAR WILDE***\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1914 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email\nccx074@coventry.ac.uk\n\n\n\n\n\nSELECTED PROSE OF OSCAR WILDE\n\n\nContents:\n\nPreface by Robert Ross\nHow They Struck a Contemporary\nThe Quality of George Meredith\nLife in the Fallacious Model\nLife the Disciple\nLife the Plagiarist\nThe Indispensable East\nThe Influence of the Impressionists on Climate\nAn Exposure to Naturalism\nThomas Griffiths Wainewright\nWainewright at Hobart Town\nCardinal Newman and the Autobiographers\nRobert Browning\nThe Two Supreme and Highest Arts\nThe Secrets of Immortality\nThe Critic and his Material\nDante the Living Guide\nThe Limitations of Genius\nWanted A New Background\nWithout Frontiers\nThe Poetry of Archaeology\nThe Art of Archaeology\nHerod Suppliant\nThe Tetrarch\'s Remorse\nThe Tetrarch\'s Treasure\nSalome anticipates Dr. Strauss\nThe Young King\nA Coronation\nThe King of Spain\nA Bull Fight\nThe Throne Room\nA Protected Country\nThe Blackmailing of the Emperor\nCovent Garden\nA Letter from Miss Jane Percy to her Aunt\nThe Triumph of American \'Humor\'\nThe Garden of Death\nAn Eton Kit-cat\nMrs. Erlynne Exercises the Prerogative of a Grandmother\nMotherhood more than Marriage\nThe Damnable Ideal\nFrom a Rejected Prize-essay\nThe Possibilities of the Useful\nThe Artist\nThe Doer of Good\nThe Disciple\nThe Master\nThe House of Judgment\nThe Teacher of Wisdom\nWilde gives directions about \'De Profundis\'\nCarey Street\nSorrow wears no mask\nVita Nuova\nThe Grand Romantic\nClapham Junction\nThe Broken Resolution\nDomesticity at Berneval\nA visit to the Pope\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATION\n\n\nThis anthology is dedicated to Michael Lykiardopulos as a little token of\nhis services to English Literature in the great Russian Empire.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nWith the possible exceptions of the Greek Anthology, the "Golden\nTreasury" and those which bear the name of E. V. Lucas, no selections of\npoetry or prose have ever given complete satisfaction to anyone except\nthe compiler. But critics derive great satisfaction from pointing out\nerrors of omission and inclusion on the part of the anthologist, and all\nof us have putatively re-arranged and re-edited even the "Golden\nTreasury" in our leisure moments. In an age when "Art for Art\'s sake" is\nan exploded doctrine, anthologies, like everything else, must have a\npurpose. The purpose or object of the present volume is to afford\nadmirers of Wilde\'s work the same innocent pleasure obtainable from\nsimilar compilations, namely that of reconstructing a selection of their\nown in their mind\'s eye--for copyright considerations would interfere\nwith the materialisation of their dream.\n\nA stray observation in an esteemed weekly periodical determined the plan\nof this anthology and the choice of particular passages. The writer,\nwhose name has escaped me, opined that the reason the works of Pater and\nWilde were no longer read was owing to both authors having treated\nEnglish as a dead language. By a singular coincidence I had purchased\nsimultaneously with the newspaper a shilling copy of Pater\'s\n"Renaissance," published by Messrs. Macmillan; and a few days afterwards\nMessrs. Methuen issued at a shilling the twenty-eighth edition of "De\nProfundis." Obviously either Messrs. Macmillan and Messrs. Methuen or\nthe authority on dead languages must have been suffering from\nhallucinations. It occurred to me that a selection of Wilde\'s prose\nmight at least rehabilitate the notorious reputation for common sense\nenjoyed by all publishers, who rarely issue shilling editions of deceased\nauthors for mere aesthetic considerations. And I confess to a hope that\nthis volume may reach the eye or ear of those who have not read Wilde\'s\nbooks, or of those, such as Mr. Sydney Grundy, who are irritated by the\nrevival of his plays and the praise accorded to his works throughout the\nContinent.\n\nWilde\'s prose is distinguished by its extraordinary ease and clarity, and\nby the absence--very singular in his case--of the preciosity which he\nadmired too much in other writers, and advocated with over-emphasis.\nPerhaps that is why many of his stories and essays and plays are used as\nEnglish text-books in Russian and Scandinavian and Hungarian schools.\nArtifice and affectation, often assumed to be recurrent defects in his\nwritings by those unacquainted with them, are comparatively rare. Wilde\nonce boasted in an interview that only Flaubert, Pater, Keats, and\nMaeterlinck had influenced him, and then added in a characteristic way:\n"But I had already gone more than half-way to meet them." Anyone curious\nas to the origin of Wilde\'s style and development should consult the\nlearned treatise {1} of Dr. Ernst Bendz, whose comprehensive treatment of\nthe subject renders any elucidation of mine superfluous; while nothing\ncan be added to Mr. Holbrook Jackson\'s masterly criticism {2} of Wilde\nand his position in literature.\n\nIn making this selection, with the valuable assistance of Mr. Stuart\nMason, I have endeavoured to illustrate and to justify the critical\nappreciations of both Dr. Bendz and Mr. Holbrook Jackson, as well as to\nafford the general reader a fair idea of Wilde\'s variety as a prose\nwriter. He is more various than almost any author of the last century,\nthough the act of writing was always a burden to him. Some critic\nacutely pointed out that poetry and prose were almost side-issues for\nhim. The resulting faults and weakness of what he left are obvious.\nExcept in the plays he has no sustained scheme of thought. Even "De\nProfundis" is too desultory.\n\nFor the purpose of convenient reference I have exercised the prerogative\nof a literary executor and editor by endowing with special titles some of\nthe pieces quoted in these pages. Though unlike one of Wilde\'s other\nfriends I cannot claim to have collaborated with him or to have assisted\nhim in any of his plays, I was sometimes permitted, as Wilde acknowledges\nin different letters, to act in the capacity of godfather by suggesting\nthe actual titles by which some of his books are known to the world. I\nmention the circumstance only as a precedent for my present temerity. To\ncompensate those who disapprove of my choice, I have included two\nunpublished letters. The examples of Wilde\'s epistolary style, published\nsince his death, have been generally associated with disagreeable\nsubjects. Those included here will, I hope, prove a pleasant contrast.\n\nROBERT ROSS\n\n\n\n\nHOW THEY STRUCK A CONTEMPORARY\n\n\nThere is such a thing as robbing a story of its reality by trying to make\nit too true, and _The Black Arrow_ is so inartistic as not to contain a\nsingle anachronism to boast of, while the transformation of Dr. Jekyll\nreads dangerously like an experiment out of the _Lancet_. As for Mr.\nRider Haggard, who really has, or had once, the makings of a perfectly\nmagnificent liar, he is now so afraid of being suspected of genius that\nwhen he does tell us anything marvellous, he feels bound to invent a\npersonal reminiscence, and to put it into a footnote as a kind of\ncowardly corroboration. Nor are our other novelists much better. Mr.\nHenry James writes fiction as if it were a painful duty, and wastes upon\nmean motives and imperceptible \'points of view\' his neat literary style,\nhis felicitous phrases, his swift and caustic satire. Mr. Hall Caine, it\nis true, aims at the grandiose, but then he writes at the top of his\nvoice. He is so loud that one cannot bear what he says. Mr. James Payn\nis an adept in the art of concealing what is not worth finding. He hunts\ndown the obvious with the enthusiasm of a short-sighted detective. As\none turns over the pages, the suspense of the author becomes almost\nunbearable. The horses of Mr. William Black\'s phaeton do not soar\ntowards the sun. They merely frighten the sky at evening into violent\nchromolithographic effects. On seeing them approach, the peasants take\nrefuge in dialect. Mrs. Oliphant prattles pleasantly about curates, lawn-\ntennis parties, domesticity, and other wearisome things. Mr. Marion\nCrawford has immolated himself upon the altar of local colour. He is\nlike the lady in the French comedy who keeps talking about "le beau ciel\nd\'Italie." Besides, he has fallen into the bad habit of uttering moral\nplatitudes. He is always telling us that to be good is to be good, and\nthat to be bad is to be wicked. At times he is almost edifying. _Robert\nElsmere_ is of course a masterpiece--a masterpiece of the "genre\nennuyeux," the one form of literature that the English people seems\nthoroughly to enjoy. A thoughtful young friend of ours once told us that\nit reminded him of the sort of conversation that goes on at a meat tea in\nthe house of a serious Nonconformist family, and we can quite believe it.\nIndeed it is only in England that such a book could be produced. England\nis the home of lost ideas. As for that great and daily increasing school\nof novelists for whom the sun always rises in the East-End, the only\nthing that can be said about them is that they find life crude, and leave\nit raw.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUALITY OF GEORGE MEREDITH\n\n\nAh! Meredith! Who can define him? His style is chaos illumined by\nflashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered everything except\nlanguage: as a novelist he can do everything, except tell a story: as an\nartist he is everything except articulate. Somebody in\nShakespeare--Touchstone, I think--talks about a man who is always\nbreaking his shins over his own wit, and it seems to me that this might\nserve as the basis for a criticism of Meredith\'s method. But whatever he\nis, he is not a realist. Or rather I would say that he is a child of\nrealism who is not on speaking terms with his father. By deliberate\nchoice he has made himself a romanticist. He has refused to bow the knee\nto Baal, and after all, even if the man\'s fine spirit did not revolt\nagainst the noisy assertions of realism, his style would be quite\nsufficient of itself to keep life at a respectful distance. By its means\nhe has planted round his garden a hedge full of thorns, and red with\nwonderful roses. As for Balzac, he was a most remarkable combination of\nthe artistic temperament with the scientific spirit. The latter he\nbequeathed to his disciples. The former was entirely his own. The\ndifference between such a book as M. Zola\'s _L\'Assommoir_ and Balzac\'s\n_Illusions Perdues_ is the difference between unimaginative realism and\nimaginative reality. \'All Balzac\'s characters;\' said Baudelaire, \'are\ngifted with the same ardour of life that animated himself. All his\nfictions are as deeply coloured as dreams. Each mind is a weapon loaded\nto the muzzle with will. The very scullions have genius.\' A steady\ncourse of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows, and our\nacquaintances to the shadows of shades. His characters have a kind of\nfervent fiery-coloured existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism.\nOne of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de\nRubempre. It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to\nrid myself. It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when\nI laugh. But Balzac is no more a realist than Holbein was. He created\nlife, he did not copy it. I admit, however, that he set far too high a\nvalue on modernity of form, and that, consequently, there is no book of\nhis that, as an artistic masterpiece, can rank with _Salammbo_ or\n_Esmond_, or _The Cloister and the Hearth_, or the _Vicomte de\nBragelonne_.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE THE FALLACIOUS MODEL\n\n\nArt begins with abstract decoration, with purely imaginative and\npleasurable work dealing with what is unreal and non-existent. This is\nthe first stage. Then Life becomes fascinated with this new wonder, and\nasks to be admitted into the charmed circle. Art takes life as part of\nher rough material, recreates it, and refashions it in fresh forms, is\nabsolutely indifferent to fact, invents, imagines, dreams, and keeps\nbetween herself and reality the impenetrable barrier of beautiful style,\nof decorative or ideal treatment. The third stage is when Life gets the\nupper hand, and drives Art out into the wilderness. That is the true\ndecadence, and it is from this that we are now suffering.\n\nTake the case of the English drama. At first in the hands of the monks\nDramatic Art was abstract, decorative and mythological. Then she\nenlisted Life in her service, and using some of life\'s external forms,\nshe created an entirely new race of beings, whose sorrows were more\nterrible than any sorrow man has ever felt, whose joys were keener than\nlover\'s joys, who had the rage of the Titans and the calm of the gods,\nwho had monstrous and marvellous sins, monstrous and marvellous virtues.\nTo them she gave a language different from that of actual use, a language\nfull of resonant music and sweet rhythm, made stately by solemn cadence,\nor made delicate by fanciful rhyme, jewelled with wonderful words, and\nenriched with lofty diction. She clothed her children in strange raiment\nand gave them masks, and at her bidding the antique world rose from its\nmarble tomb. A new Caesar stalked through the streets of risen Rome, and\nwith purple sail and flute-led oars another Cleopatra passed up the river\nto Antioch. Old myth and legend and dream took shape and substance.\nHistory was entirely re-written, and there was hardly one of the\ndramatists who did not recognise that the object of Art is not simple\ntruth but complex beauty. In this they were perfectly right. Art itself\nis really a form of exaggeration; and selection, which is the very spirit\nof art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over-emphasis.\n\nBut Life soon shattered the perfection of the form. Even in Shakespeare\nwe can see the beginning of the end. It shows itself by the gradual\nbreaking-up of the blank-verse in the later plays, by the predominance\ngiven to prose, and by the over-importance assigned to characterisation.\nThe passages in Shakespeare--and they are many--where the language is\nuncouth, vulgar, exaggerated, fantastic, obscene even, are entirely due\nto Life calling for an echo of her own voice, and rejecting the\nintervention of beautiful style, through which alone should life be\nsuffered to find expression. Shakespeare is not by any means a flawless\nartist. He is too fond of going directly to life, and borrowing life\'s\nnatural utterance. He forgets that when Art surrenders her imaginative\nmedium she surrenders everything.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE THE DISCIPLE\n\n\nWe have all seen in our own day in England how a certain curious and\nfascinating type of beauty, invented and emphasised by two imaginative\npainters, has so influenced Life that whenever one goes to a private view\nor to an artistic salon one sees, here the mystic eyes of Rossetti\'s\ndream, the long ivory throat, the strange square-cut jaw, the loosened\nshadowy hair that he so ardently loved, there the sweet maidenhood of\n\'The Golden Stair,\' the blossom-like mouth and weary loveliness of the\n\'Laus Amoris,\' the passion-pale face of Andromeda, the thin hands and\nlithe beauty of the Vivian in \'Merlin\'s Dream.\' And it has always been\nso. A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to copy it, to\nreproduce it in a popular form, like an enterprising publisher. Neither\nHolbein nor Vandyck found in England what they have given us. They\nbrought their types with them, and Life with her keen imitative faculty\nset herself to supply the master with models. The Greeks, with their\nquick artistic instinct, understood this, and set in the bride\'s chamber\nthe statue of Hermes or of Apollo, that she might bear children as lovely\nas the works of art that she looked at in her rapture or her pain. They\nknew that Life gains from art not merely spirituality, depth of thought\nand feeling, soul-turmoil or soul-peace, but that she can form herself on\nthe very lines and colours of art, and can reproduce the dignity of\nPheidias as well as the grace of Praxiteles. Hence came their objection\nto realism. They disliked it on purely social grounds. They felt that\nit inevitably makes people ugly, and they were perfectly right. We try\nto improve the conditions of the race by means of good air, free\nsunlight, wholesome water, and hideous bare buildings for the better\nhousing of the lower orders. But these things merely produce health,\nthey do not produce beauty. For this, Art is required, and the true\ndisciples of the great artist are not his studio-imitators, but those who\nbecome like his works of art, be they plastic as in Greek days, or\npictorial as in modern times; in a word, Life is Art\'s best, Art\'s only\npupil.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE THE PLAGIARIST\n\n\nI once asked a lady, who knew Thackeray intimately, whether he had had\nany model for Becky Sharp. She told me that Becky was an invention, but\nthat the idea of the character had been partly suggested by a governess\nwho lived in the neighbourhood of Kensington Square, and was the\ncompanion of a very selfish and rich old woman. I inquired what became\nof the governess, and she replied that, oddly enough, some years after\nthe appearance of _Vanity Fair_, she ran away with the nephew of the lady\nwith whom she was living, and for a short time made a great splash in\nsociety, quite in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley\'s style, and entirely by Mrs.\nRawdon Crawley\'s methods. Ultimately she came to grief, disappeared to\nthe Continent, and used to be occasionally seen at Monte Carlo and other\ngambling places. The noble gentleman from whom the same great\nsentimentalist drew Colonel Newcome died, a few months after _The\nNewcomer_ had reached a fourth edition, with the word \'Adsum\' on his\nlips. Shortly after Mr. Stevenson published his curious psychological\nstory of transformation, a friend of mine, called Mr. Hyde, was in the\nnorth of London, and being anxious to get to a railway station, took what\nhe thought would be a short cut, lost his way, and found himself in a\nnetwork of mean, evil-looking streets. Feeling rather nervous he began\nto walk extremely fast, when suddenly out of an archway ran a child right\nbetween his legs. It fell on the pavement, he tripped over it, and\ntrampled upon it. Being of course very much frightened and a little\nhurt, it began to scream, and in a few seconds the whole street was full\nof rough people who came pouring out of the houses like ants. They\nsurrounded him, and asked him his name. He was just about to give it\nwhen he suddenly remembered the opening incident in Mr. Stevenson\'s\nstory. He was so filled with horror at having realised in his own person\nthat terrible and well-written scene, and at having done accidentally,\nthough in fact, what the Mr. Hyde of fiction had done with deliberate\nintent, that he ran away as hard as he could go. He was, however, very\nclosely followed, and finally he took refuge in a surgery, the door of\nwhich happened to be open, where he explained to a young assistant, who\nhappened to be there, exactly what had occurred. The humanitarian crowd\nwere induced to go away on his giving them a small sum of money, and as\nsoon as the coast was clear he left. As he passed out, the name on the\nbrass door-plate of the surgery caught his eye. It was \'Jekyll.\' At\nleast it should have been.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE INDISPENSABLE EAST\n\n\nWhat is true about the drama and the novel is no less true about those\narts that we call the decorative arts. The whole history of these arts\nin Europe is the record of the struggle between Orientalism, with its\nfrank rejection of imitation, its love of artistic convention, its\ndislike to the actual representation of any object in Nature, and our own\nimitative spirit. Wherever the former has been paramount, as in\nByzantium, Sicily and Spain, by actual contact, or in the rest of Europe\nby the influence of the Crusades, we have had beautiful and imaginative\nwork in which the visible things of life are transmuted into artistic\nconventions, and the things that Life has not are invented and fashioned\nfor her delight. But wherever we have returned to Life and Nature, our\nwork has always become vulgar, common and uninteresting. Modern\ntapestry, with its aerial effects, its elaborate perspective, its broad\nexpanses of waste sky, its faithful and laborious realism, has no beauty\nwhatsoever. The pictorial glass of Germany is absolutely detestable. We\nare beginning to weave possible carpets in England, but only because we\nhave returned to the method and spirit of the East. Our rugs and carpets\nof twenty years ago, with their solemn depressing truths, their inane\nworship of Nature, their sordid reproductions of visible objects, have\nbecome, even to the Philistine, a source of laughter. A cultured\nMahomedan once remarked to us, "You Christians are so occupied in\nmisinterpreting the fourth commandment that you have never thought of\nmaking an artistic application of the second." He was perfectly right,\nand the whole truth of the matter is this: The proper school to learn art\nin is not Life but Art.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE INFLUENCE OF THE IMPRESSIONISTS ON CLIMATE\n\n\nWhere, if not from the Impressionists, do we get those wonderful brown\nfogs that come creeping down our streets, blurring the gas-lamps and\nchanging the houses into monstrous shadows? To whom, if not to them and\ntheir master, do we owe the lovely silver mists that brood over our\nriver, and turn to faint forms of fading grace curved bridge and swaying\nbarge? The extraordinary change that has taken place in the climate of\nLondon during the last ten years is entirely due to a particular school\nof Art. You smile. Consider the matter from a scientific or a\nmetaphysical point of view, and you will find that I am right. For what\nis Nature? Nature is no great mother who has borne us. She is our\ncreation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life. Things are\nbecause we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the\nArts that have influenced us. To look at a thing is very different from\nseeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees its beauty.\nThen, and then only, does it come into existence. At present, people see\nfogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets and painters have\ntaught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects. There may have\nbeen fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were. But no one\nsaw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did not exist\ntill Art had invented them. Now, it must be admitted, fogs are carried\nto excess. They have become the mere mannerism of a clique, and the\nexaggerated realism of their method gives dull people bronchitis. Where\nthe cultured catch an effect, the uncultured catch cold. And so, let us\nbe humane, and invite Art to turn her wonderful eyes elsewhere. She has\ndone so already, indeed. That white quivering sunlight that one sees now\nin France, with its strange blotches of mauve, and its restless violet\nshadows, is her latest fancy, and, on the whole, Nature reproduces it\nquite admirably. Where she used to give us Corots and Daubignys, she\ngives us now exquisite Monets and entrancing Pissaros. Indeed there are\nmoments, rare, it is true, but still to be observed from time to time,\nwhen Nature becomes absolutely modern. Of course she is not always to be\nrelied upon. The fact is that she is in this unfortunate position. Art\ncreates an incomparable and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on\nto other things. Nature, upon the other hand, forgetting that imitation\ncan be made the sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect\nuntil we all become absolutely wearied of it. Nobody of any real\nculture, for instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of a sunset.\nSunsets are quite old-fashioned. They belong to the time when Turner was\nthe last note in art. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism\nof temperament. Upon the other hand they go on.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nAN EXPOSURE OF NATURALISM\n\n\nAfter all, what the imitative arts really give us are merely the various\nstyles of particular artists, or of certain schools of artists. Surely\nyou don\'t imagine that the people of the Middle Ages bore any resemblance\nat all to the figures on mediaeval stained glass, or in mediaeval stone\nand wood carving, or on mediaeval metal-work, or tapestries, or\nilluminated MSS. They were probably very ordinary-looking people, with\nnothing grotesque, or remarkable, or fantastic in their appearance. The\nMiddle Ages, as we know them in art, are simply a definite form of style,\nand there is no reason at all why an artist with this style should not be\nproduced in the nineteenth century. No great artist ever sees things as\nthey really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. Take an\nexample from our own day. I know that you are fond of Japanese things.\nNow, do you really imagine that the Japanese people, as they are\npresented to us in art, have any existence? If you do, you have never\nunderstood Japanese art at all. The Japanese people are the deliberate\nself-conscious creation of certain individual artists. If you set a\npicture by Hokusai, or Hokkei, or any of the great native painters,\nbeside a real Japanese gentleman or lady, you will see that there is not\nthe slightest resemblance between them. The actual people who live in\nJapan are not unlike the general run of English people; that is to say,\nthey are extremely commonplace, and have nothing curious or extraordinary\nabout them. In fact the whole of Japan is a pure invention. There is no\nsuch country, there are no such people. One of our most charming\npainters {3} went recently to the Land of the Chrysanthemum in the\nfoolish hope of seeing the Japanese. All he saw, all he had the chance\nof painting, were a few lanterns and some fans. He was quite unable to\ndiscover the inhabitants, as his delightful exhibition at Messrs.\nDowdeswell\'s Gallery showed only too well. He did not know that the\nJapanese people are, as I have said, simply a mode of style, an exquisite\nfancy of art. And so, if you desire to see a Japanese effect, you will\nnot behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On the contrary, you will\nstay at home and steep yourself in the work of certain Japanese artists,\nand then, when you have absorbed the spirit of their style, and caught\ntheir imaginative manner of vision, you will go some afternoon and sit in\nthe Park or stroll down Piccadilly, and if you cannot see an absolutely\nJapanese effect there, you will not see it anywhere. Or, to return again\nto the past, take as another instance the ancient Greeks. Do you think\nthat Greek art ever tells us what the Greek people were like? Do you\nbelieve that the Athenian women were like the stately dignified figures\nof the Parthenon frieze, or like those marvellous goddesses who sat in\nthe triangular pediments of the same building? If you judge from the\nart, they certainly were so. But read an authority, like Aristophanes,\nfor instance. You will find that the Athenian ladies laced tightly, wore\nhigh-heeled shoes, dyed their hair yellow, painted and rouged their\nfaces, and were exactly like any silly fashionable or fallen creature of\nour own day. The fact is that we look back on the ages entirely through\nthe medium of art, and art, very fortunately, has never once told us the\ntruth.--_The Decay of Lying_.\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINEWRIGHT\n\n\nHe was taken back to Newgate, preparatory to his removal to the colonies.\nIn a fanciful passage in one of his early essays he had fancied himself\n\'lying in Horsemonger Gaol under sentence of death\' for having been\nunable to resist the temptation of stealing some Marc Antonios from the\nBritish Museum in order to complete his collection. The sentence now\npassed on him was to a man of his culture a form of death. He complained\nbitterly of it to his friends, and pointed out, with a good deal of\nreason, some people may fancy, that the money was practically his own,\nhaving come to him from his mother, and that the forgery, such as it was,\nhad been committed thirteen years before, which, to use his own phrase,\nwas at least a _circonstance attenuante_. The permanence of personality\nis a very subtle metaphysical problem, and certainly the English law\nsolves the question in an extremely rough-and-ready manner. There is,\nhowever, something dramatic in the fact that this heavy punishment was\ninflicted on him for what, if we remember his fatal influence on the\nprose of modern journalism, was certainly not the worst of all his sins.\n\nWhile he was in gaol, Dickens, Macready, and Hablot Browne came across\nhim by chance. They had been going over the prisons of London, searching\nfor artistic effects, and in Newgate they suddenly caught sight of\nWainewright. He met them with a defiant stare, Forster tells us, but\nMacready was \'horrified to recognise a man familiarly known to him in\nformer years, and at whose table he had dined.\'\n\nOthers had more curiosity, and his cell was for some time a kind of\nfashionable lounge. Many men of letters went down to visit their old\nliterary comrade. But he was no longer the kind light-hearted Janus whom\nCharles Lamb admired. He seems to have grown quite cynical.\n\nTo the agent of an insurance company who was visiting him one afternoon,\nand thought he would improve the occasion by pointing out that, after\nall, crime was a bad speculation, he replied: \'Sir, you City men enter on\nyour speculations, and take the chances of them. Some of your\nspeculations succeed, some fail. Mine happen to have failed, yours\nhappen to have succeeded. That is the only difference, sir, between my\nvisitor and me. But, sir, I will tell you one thing in which I have\nsucceeded to the last. I have been determined through life to hold the\nposition of a gentleman. I have always done so. I do so still. It is\nthe custom of this place that each of the inmates of a cell shall take\nhis morning\'s turn of sweeping it out. I occupy a cell with a bricklayer\nand a sweep, but they never offer me the broom!\' When a friend\nreproached him with the murder of Helen Abercrombie he shrugged his\nshoulders and said, \'Yes; it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very\nthick ankles.\'--_Pen, Pencil and Poison_.\n\n\n\n\nWAINEWRIGHT AT HOBART TOWN\n\n\nHis love of art, however, never deserted him. At Hobart Town he started\na studio, and returned to sketching and portrait-painting, and his\nconversation and manners seem not to have lost their charm. Nor did he\ngive up his habit of poisoning, and there are two cases on record in\nwhich he tried to make away with people who had offended him. But his\nhand seems to have lost its cunning. Both of his attempts were complete\nfailures, and in 1844, being thoroughly dissatisfied with Tasmanian\nsociety, he presented a memorial to the governor of the settlement, Sir\nJohn Eardley Wilmot, praying for a ticket-of-leave. In it he speaks of\nhimself as being \'tormented by ideas struggling for outward form and\nrealisation, barred up from increase of knowledge, and deprived of the\nexercise of profitable or even of decorous speech.\' His request,\nhowever, was refused, and the associate of Coleridge consoled himself by\nmaking those marvellous _Paradis Artificiels_ whose secret is only known\nto the eaters of opium. In 1852 he died of apoplexy, his sole living\ncompanion being a cat, for which he had evinced at extraordinary\naffection.\n\nHis crimes seem to have had an important effect upon his art. They gave\na strong personality to his style, a quality that his early work\ncertainly lacked. In a note to the _Life of Dickens_, Forster mentions\nthat in 1847 Lady Blessington received from her brother, Major Power, who\nheld a military appointment at Hobart Town, an oil portrait of a young\nlady from his clever brush; and it is said that \'he had contrived to put\nthe expression of his own wickedness into the portrait of a nice, kind-\nhearted girl.\' M. Zola, in one of his novels, tells us of a young man\nwho, having committed a murder, takes to art, and paints greenish\nimpressionist portraits of perfectly respectable people, all of which\nbear a curious resemblance to his victim. The development of Mr.\nWainewright\'s style seems to me far more subtle and suggestive. One can\nfancy an intense personality being created out of sin.--_Pen, Pencil and\nPoison_.\n\n\n\n\nCARDINAL NEWMAN AND THE AUTOBIOGRAPHERS\n\n\nIn literature mere egotism is delightful. It is what fascinates us in\nthe letters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac, Flaubert\nand Berlioz, Byron and Madame de Sevigne. Whenever we come across it,\nand, strangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and\ndo not easily forget it. Humanity will always love Rousseau for having\nconfessed his sins, not to a priest, but to the world, and the couchant\nnymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for the castle of King Francis, the\ngreen and gold Perseus, even, that in the open Loggia at Florence shows\nthe moon the dead terror that once turned life to stone, have not given\nit more pleasure than has that autobiography in which the supreme\nscoundrel of the Renaissance relates the story of his splendour and his\nshame. The opinions, the character, the achievements of the man, matter\nvery little. He may be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne, or\na saint like the bitter son of Monica, but when he tells us his own\nsecrets he can always charm our ears to listening and our lips to\nsilence. The mode of thought that Cardinal Newman represented--if that\ncan be called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual\nproblems by a denial of the supremacy of the intellect--may not, cannot,\nI think, survive. But the world will never weary of watching that\ntroubled soul in its progress from darkness to darkness. The lonely\nchurch at Littlemore, where \'the breath of the morning is damp, and\nworshippers are few,\' will always be dear to it, and whenever men see the\nyellow snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of\nthat gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower\'s sure recurrence a\nprophecy that he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his\ndays--a prophecy that Faith, in her wisdom or her folly, suffered not to\nbe fulfilled. Yes; autobiography is irresistible.--_The Critic as\nArtist_.\n\n\n\n\nROBERT BROWNING\n\n\nTaken as a whole the man was great. He did not belong to the Olympians,\nand had all the incompleteness of the Titan. He did not survey, and it\nwas but rarely that he could sing. His work is marred by struggle,\nviolence and effort, and he passed not from emotion to form, but from\nthought to chaos. Still, he was great. He has been called a thinker,\nand was certainly a man who was always thinking, and always thinking\naloud; but it was not thought that fascinated him, but rather the\nprocesses by which thought moves. It was the machine he loved, not what\nthe machine makes. The method by which the fool arrives at his folly was\nas dear to him as the ultimate wisdom of the wise. So much, indeed, did\nthe subtle mechanism of mind fascinate him that he despised language, or\nlooked upon it as an incomplete instrument of expression. Rhyme, that\nexquisite echo which in the Muse\'s hollow hill creates and answers its\nown voice; rhyme, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not\nmerely a material element of metrical beauty, but a spiritual element of\nthought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a\nfresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of\nsound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in\nvain; rhyme, which can turn man\'s utterance to the speech of gods; rhyme,\nthe one chord we have added to the Greek lyre, became in Robert\nBrowning\'s hands a grotesque, misshapen thing, which at times made him\nmasquerade in poetry as a low comedian, and ride Pegasus too often with\nhis tongue in his cheek. There are moments when he wounds us by\nmonstrous music. Nay, if he can only get his music by breaking the\nstrings of his lute, he breaks them, and they snap in discord, and no\nAthenian tettix, making melody from tremulous wings, lights on the ivory\nhorn to make the movement perfect, or the interval less harsh. Yet, he\nwas great: and though he turned language into ignoble clay, he made from\nit men and women that live. He is the most Shakespearian creature since\nShakespeare. If Shakespeare could sing with myriad lips, Browning could\nstammer through a thousand mouths. Even now, as I am speaking, and\nspeaking not against him but for him, there glides through the room the\npageant of his persons. There, creeps Fra Lippo Lippi with his cheeks\nstill burning from some girl\'s hot kiss. There, stands dread Saul with\nthe lordly male-sapphires gleaming in his turban. Mildred Tresham is\nthere, and the Spanish monk, yellow with hatred, and Blougram, and Ben\nEzra, and the Bishop of St. Praxed\'s. The spawn of Setebos gibbers in\nthe corner, and Sebald, hearing Pippa pass by, looks on Ottima\'s haggard\nface, and loathes her and his own sin, and himself. Pale as the white\nsatin of his doublet, the melancholy king watches with dreamy treacherous\neyes too loyal Strafford pass forth to his doom, and Andrea shudders as\nhe hears the cousins whistle in the garden, and bids his perfect wife go\ndown. Yes, Browning was great. And as what will he be remembered? As a\npoet? Ah, not as a poet! He will be remembered as a writer of fiction,\nas the most supreme writer of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had.\nHis sense of dramatic situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not\nanswer his own problems, he could at least put problems forth, and what\nmore should an artist do? Considered from the point of view of a creator\nof character he ranks next to him who made Hamlet. Had he been\narticulate, he might have sat beside him. The only man who can touch the\nhem of his garment is George Meredith. Meredith is a prose Browning, and\nso is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.--_The\nCritic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO SUPREME AND HIGHEST ARTS\n\n\nLife and Literature, life and the perfect expression of life. The\nprinciples of the former, as laid down by the Greeks, we may not realise\nin an age so marred by false ideals as our own. The principles of the\nlatter, as they laid them down, are, in many cases, so subtle that we can\nhardly understand them. Recognising that the most perfect art is that\nwhich most fully mirrors man in all his infinite variety, they elaborated\nthe criticism of language, considered in the light of the mere material\nof that art, to a point to which we, with our accentual system of\nreasonable or emotional emphasis, can barely if at all attain; studying,\nfor instance, the metrical movements of a prose as scientifically as a\nmodern musician studies harmony and counterpoint, and, I need hardly say,\nwith much keener aesthetic instinct. In this they were right, as they\nwere right in all things. Since the introduction of printing, and the\nfatal development of the habit of reading amongst the middle and lower\nclasses of this country, there has been a tendency in literature to\nappeal more and more to the eye, and less and less to the ear which is\nreally the sense which, from the standpoint of pure art, it should seek\nto please, and by whose canons of pleasure it should abide always. Even\nthe work of Mr. Pater, who is, on the whole, the most perfect master of\nEnglish prose now creating amongst us, is often far more like a piece of\nmosaic than a passage in music, and seems, here and there, to lack the\ntrue rhythmical life of words and the fine freedom and richness of effect\nthat such rhythmical life produces. We, in fact, have made writing a\ndefinite mode of composition, and have treated it as a form of elaborate\ndesign. The Greeks, upon the other hand, regarded writing simply as a\nmethod of chronicling. Their test was always the spoken word in its\nmusical and metrical relations. The voice was the medium, and the ear\nthe critic. I have sometimes thought that the story of Homer\'s blindness\nmight be really an artistic myth, created in critical days, and serving\nto remind us, not merely that the great poet is always a seer, seeing\nless with the eyes of the body than he does with the eyes of the soul,\nbut that he is a true singer also, building his song out of music,\nrepeating each line over and over again to himself till he has caught the\nsecret of its melody, chaunting in darkness the words that are winged\nwith light. Certainly, whether this be so or not, it was to his\nblindness, as an occasion, if not as a cause, that England\'s great poet\nowed much of the majestic movement and sonorous splendour of his later\nverse. When Milton could no longer write he began to sing.--_The Critic\nas Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SECRETS OF IMMORTALITY\n\n\nOn the mouldering citadel of Troy lies the lizard like a thing of green\nbronze. The owl has built her nest in the palace of Priam. Over the\nempty plain wander shepherd and goatherd with their flocks, and where, on\nthe wine-surfaced, oily sea, [Greek text], as Homer calls it,\ncopper-prowed and streaked with vermilion, the great galleys of the\nDanaoi came in their gleaming crescent, the lonely tunny-fisher sits in\nhis little boat and watches the bobbing corks of his net. Yet, every\nmorning the doors of the city are thrown open, and on foot, or in horse-\ndrawn chariot, the warriors go forth to battle, and mock their enemies\nfrom behind their iron masks. All day long the fight rages, and when\nnight comes the torches gleam by the tents, and the cresset burns in the\nhall. Those who live in marble or on painted panel, know of life but a\nsingle exquisite instant, eternal indeed in its beauty, but limited to\none note of passion or one mood of calm. Those whom the poet makes live\nhave their myriad emotions of joy and terror, of courage and despair, of\npleasure and of suffering. The seasons come and go in glad or saddening\npageant, and with winged or leaden feet the years pass by before them.\nThey have their youth and their manhood, they are children, and they grow\nold. It is always dawn for St. Helena, as Veronese saw her at the\nwindow. Through the still morning air the angels bring her the symbol of\nGod\'s pain. The cool breezes of the morning lift the gilt threads from\nher brow. On that little hill by the city of Florence, where the lovers\nof Giorgione are lying, it is always the solstice of noon, of noon made\nso languorous by summer suns that hardly can the slim naked girl dip into\nthe marble tank the round bubble of clear glass, and the long fingers of\nthe lute-player rest idly upon the chords. It is twilight always for the\ndancing nymphs whom Corot set free among the silver poplars of France. In\neternal twilight they move, those frail diaphanous figures, whose\ntremulous white feet seem not to touch the dew-drenched grass they tread\non. But those who walk in epos, drama, or romance, see through the\nlabouring months the young moons wax and wane, and watch the night from\nevening unto morning star, and from sunrise unto sunsetting can note the\nshifting day with all its gold and shadow. For them, as for us, the\nflowers bloom and wither, and the Earth, that Green-tressed Goddess as\nColeridge calls her, alters her raiment for their pleasure. The statue\nis concentrated to one moment of perfection. The image stained upon the\ncanvas possesses no spiritual element of growth or change. If they know\nnothing of death, it is because they know little of life, for the secrets\nof life and death belong to those, and those only, whom the sequence of\ntime affects, and who possess not merely the present but the future, and\ncan rise or fall from a past of glory or of shame. Movement, that\nproblem of the visible arts, can be truly realised by Literature alone.\nIt is Literature that shows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in\nits unrest.--_The Critic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRITIC AND HIS MATERIAL\n\n\nWho cares whether Mr. Ruskin\'s views on Turner are sound or not? What\ndoes it matter? That mighty and majestic prose of his, so fervid and so\nfiery-coloured in its noble eloquence, so rich in its elaborate symphonic\nmusic, so sure and certain, at its best, in subtle choice of word and\nepithet, is at least as great a work of art as any of those wonderful\nsunsets that bleach or rot on their corrupted canvases in England\'s\nGallery; greater indeed, one is apt to think at times, not merely because\nits equal beauty is more enduring, but on account of the fuller variety\nof its appeal, soul speaking to soul in those long-cadenced lines, not\nthrough form and colour alone, though through these, indeed, completely\nand without loss, but with intellectual and emotional utterance, with\nlofty passion and with loftier thought, with imaginative insight, and\nwith poetic aim; greater, I always think, even as Literature is the\ngreater art. Who, again, cares whether Mr. Pater has put into the\nportrait of Monna Lisa something that Lionardo never dreamed of? The\npainter may have been merely the slave of an archaic smile, as some have\nfancied, but whenever I pass into the cool galleries of the Palace of the\nLouvre, and stand before that strange figure \'set in its marble chair in\nthat cirque of fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under sea,\' I\nmurmur to myself, \'She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like\nthe vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the\ngrave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day\nabout her: and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants; and,\nas Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as St. Anne, the mother of\nMary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes,\nand lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing\nlineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands.\' And I say to my\nfriend, \'The presence that thus so strangely rose beside the waters is\nexpressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to\ndesire\'; and he answers me, \'Hers is the head upon which all "the ends of\nthe world are come," and the eyelids are a little weary.\'\n\nAnd so the picture becomes more wonderful to us than it really is, and\nreveals to us a secret of which, in truth, it knows nothing, and the\nmusic of the mystical prose is as sweet in our ears as was that flute-\nplayer\'s music that lent to the lips of La Gioconda those subtle and\npoisonous curves. Do you ask me what Lionardo would have said had any\none told him of this picture that \'all the thoughts and experience of the\nworld had etched and moulded therein that which they had of power to\nrefine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the\nlust of Rome, the reverie of the Middle Age with its spiritual ambition\nand imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the\nBorgias?\' He would probably have answered that he had contemplated none\nof these things, but had concerned himself simply with certain\narrangements of lines and masses, and with new and curious\ncolour-harmonies of blue and green. And it is for this very reason that\nthe criticism which I have quoted is criticism of the highest kind. It\ntreats the work of art simply as a starting-point for a new creation. It\ndoes not confine itself--let us at least suppose so for the moment--to\ndiscovering the real intention of the artist and accepting that as final.\nAnd in this it is right, for the meaning of any beautiful created thing\nis, at least, as much in the soul of him who looks at it, as it was in\nhis soul who wrought it. Nay, it is rather the beholder who lends to the\nbeautiful thing its myriad meanings, and makes it marvellous for us, and\nsets it in some new relation to the age, so that it becomes a vital\nportion of our lives, and a symbol of what we pray for, or perhaps of\nwhat, having prayed for, we fear that we may receive.--_The Critic as\nArtist_.\n\n\n\n\nDANTE THE LIVING GUIDE\n\n\nThere is no mood or passion that Art cannot give us, and those of us who\nhave discovered her secret can settle beforehand what our experiences are\ngoing to be. We can choose our day and select our hour. We can say to\nourselves, \'To-morrow, at dawn, we shall walk with grave Virgil through\nthe valley of the shadow of death,\' and lo! the dawn finds us in the\nobscure wood, and the Mantuan stands by our side. We pass through the\ngate of the legend fatal to hope, and with pity or with joy behold the\nhorror of another world. The hypocrites go by, with their painted faces\nand their cowls of gilded lead. Out of the ceaseless winds that drive\nthem, the carnal look at us, and we watch the heretic rending his flesh,\nand the glutton lashed by the rain. We break the withered branches from\nthe tree in the grove of the Harpies, and each dull-hued poisonous twig\nbleeds with red blood before us, and cries aloud with bitter cries. Out\nof a horn of fire Odysseus speaks to us, and when from his sepulchre of\nflame the great Ghibelline rises, the pride that triumphs over the\ntorture of that bed becomes ours for a moment. Through the dim purple\nair fly those who have stained the world with the beauty of their sin,\nand in the pit of loathsome disease, dropsy-stricken and swollen of body\ninto the semblance of a monstrous lute, lies Adamo di Brescia, the coiner\nof false coin. He bids us listen to his misery; we stop, and with dry\nand gaping lips he tells us how he dreams day and night of the brooks of\nclear water that in cool dewy channels gush down the green Casentine\nhills. Sinon, the false Greek of Troy, mocks at him. He smites him in\nthe face, and they wrangle. We are fascinated by their shame, and\nloiter, till Virgil chides us and leads us away to that city turreted by\ngiants where great Nimrod blows his horn. Terrible things are in store\nfor us, and we go to meet them in Dante\'s raiment and with Dante\'s heart.\nWe traverse the marshes of the Styx, and Argenti swims to the boat\nthrough the slimy waves. He calls to us, and we reject him. When we\nhear the voice of his agony we are glad, and Virgil praises us for the\nbitterness of our scorn. We tread upon the cold crystal of Cocytus, in\nwhich traitors stick like straws in glass. Our foot strikes against the\nhead of Bocca. He will not tell us his name, and we tear the hair in\nhandfuls from the screaming skull. Alberigo prays us to break the ice\nupon his face that he may weep a little. We pledge our word to him, and\nwhen he has uttered his dolorous tale we deny the word that we have\nspoken, and pass from him; such cruelty being courtesy indeed, for who\nmore base than he who has mercy for the condemned of God? In the jaws of\nLucifer we see the man who sold Christ, and in the jaws of Lucifer the\nmen who slew Caesar. We tremble, and come forth to re-behold the\nstars.--_The Critic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS\n\n\nThe appeal of all Art is simply to the artistic temperament. Art does\nnot address herself to the specialist. Her claim is that she is\nuniversal, and that in all her manifestations she is one. Indeed, so far\nfrom its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really\ngreat artist can never judge of other people\'s work at all, and can\nhardly, in fact, judge of his own. That very concentration of vision\nthat makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of\nfine appreciation. The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his\nown goal. The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around\nhim. The gods are hidden from each other. They can recognise their\nworshippers. That is all . . . Wordsworth saw in _Endymion_ merely a\npretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with his dislike of actuality, was\ndeaf to Wordsworth\'s message, being repelled by its form, and Byron, that\ngreat passionate human incomplete creature, could appreciate neither the\npoet of the cloud nor the poet of the lake, and the wonder of Keats was\nhidden from him. The realism of Euripides was hateful to Sophokles.\nThose droppings of warm tears had no music for him. Milton, with his\nsense of the grand style, could not understand the method of Shakespeare,\nany more than could Sir Joshua the method of Gainsborough. Bad artists\nalways admire each other\'s work. They call it being large-minded and\nfree from prejudice. But a truly great artist cannot conceive of life\nbeing shown, or beauty fashioned, under any conditions other than those\nthat he has selected. Creation employs all its critical faculty within\nits own sphere. It may not use it in the sphere that belongs to others.\nIt is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge\nof it.--_The Critic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nWANTED A NEW BACKGROUND\n\n\nHe who would stir us now by fiction must either give us an entirely new\nbackground, or reveal to us the soul of man in its innermost workings.\nThe first is for the moment being done for us by Mr. Rudyard Kipling. As\none turns over the pages of his _Plain Tales from the Hills_, one feels\nas if one were seated under a palm-tree reading life by superb flashes of\nvulgarity. The bright colours of the bazaars dazzle one\'s eyes. The\njaded, second-rate Anglo-Indians are in exquisite incongruity with their\nsurroundings. The mere lack of style in the story-teller gives an odd\njournalistic realism to what he tells us. From the point of view of\nliterature Mr. Kipling is a genius who drops his aspirates. From the\npoint of view of life, he is a reporter who knows vulgarity better than\nany one has ever known it. Dickens knew its clothes and its comedy. Mr.\nKipling knows its essence and its seriousness. He is our first authority\non the second-rate, and has seen marvellous things through keyholes, and\nhis backgrounds are real works of art. As for the second condition, we\nhave had Browning, and Meredith is with us. But there is still much to\nbe done in the sphere of introspection. People sometimes say that\nfiction is getting too morbid. As far as psychology is concerned, it has\nnever been morbid enough. We have merely touched the surface of the\nsoul, that is all. In one single ivory cell of the brain there are\nstored away things more marvellous and more terrible than even they have\ndreamed of, who, like the author of _Le Rouge et le Noir_, have sought to\ntrack the soul into its most secret places, and to make life confess its\ndearest sins. Still, there is a limit even to the number of untried\nbackgrounds, and it is possible that a further development of the habit\nof introspection may prove fatal to that creative faculty to which it\nseeks to supply fresh material. I myself am inclined to think that\ncreation is doomed. It springs from too primitive, too natural an\nimpulse. However this may be, it is certain that the subject-matter at\nthe disposal of creation is always diminishing, while the subject-matter\nof criticism increases daily. There are always new attitudes for the\nmind, and new points of view. The duty of imposing form upon chaos does\nnot grow less as the world advances. There was never a time when\nCriticism was more needed than it is now. It is only by its means that\nHumanity can become conscious of the point at which it has arrived.--_The\nCritic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nWITHOUT FRONTIERS\n\n\nGoethe--you will not misunderstand what I say--was a German of the\nGermans. He loved his country--no man more so. Its people were dear to\nhim; and he led them. Yet, when the iron hoof of Napoleon trampled upon\nvineyard and cornfield, his lips were silent. \'How can one write songs\nof hatred without hating?\' he said to Eckermann, \'and how could I, to\nwhom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, hate a nation which\nis among the most cultivated of the earth and to which I owe so great a\npart of my own cultivation?\' This note, sounded in the modern world by\nGoethe first, will become, I think, the starting point for the\ncosmopolitanism of the future. Criticism will annihilate\nrace-prejudices, by insisting upon the unity of the human mind in the\nvariety of its forms. If we are tempted to make war upon another nation,\nwe shall remember that we are seeking to destroy an element of our own\nculture, and possibly its most important element. As long as war is\nregarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is\nlooked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular. The change will of\ncourse be slow, and people will not be conscious of it. They will not\nsay \'We will not war against France because her prose is perfect,\' but\nbecause the prose of France is perfect, they will not hate the land.\nIntellectual criticism will bind Europe together in bonds far closer than\nthose that can be forged by shopman or sentimentalist. It will give us\nthe peace that springs from understanding.--_The Critic as Artist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF ARCHAEOLOGY\n\n\nInfessura tells us that in 1485 some workmen digging on the Appian Way\ncame across an old Roman sarcophagus inscribed with the name \'Julia,\ndaughter of Claudius.\' On opening the coffer they found within its\nmarble womb the body of a beautiful girl of about fifteen years of age,\npreserved by the embalmer\'s skill from corruption and the decay of time.\nHer eyes were half open, her hair rippled round her in crisp curling\ngold, and from her lips and cheek the bloom of maidenhood had not yet\ndeparted. Borne back to the Capitol, she became at once the centre of a\nnew cult, and from all parts of the city crowded pilgrims to worship at\nthe wonderful shrine, till the Pope, fearing lest those who had found the\nsecret of beauty in a Pagan tomb might forget what secrets Judaea\'s rough\nand rock-hewn sepulchre contained, had the body conveyed away by night,\nand in secret buried. Legend though it may be, yet the story is none the\nless valuable as showing us the attitude of the Renaissance towards the\nantique world. Archaeology to them was not a mere science for the\nantiquarian; it was a means by which they could touch the dry dust of\nantiquity into the very breath and beauty of life, and fill with the new\nwine of romanticism forms that else had been old and outworn. From the\npulpit of Niccola Pisano down to Mantegna\'s \'Triumph of Caesar,\' and the\nservice Cellini designed for King Francis, the influence of this spirit\ncan be traced; nor was it confined merely to the immobile arts--the arts\nof arrested movement--but its influence was to be seen also in the great\nGraeco-Roman masques which were the constant amusement of the gay courts\nof the time, and in the public pomps and processions with which the\ncitizens of big commercial towns were wont to greet the princes that\nchanced to visit them; pageants, by the way, which were considered so\nimportant that large prints were made of them and published--a fact which\nis a proof of the general interest at the time in matters of such\nkind.--_The Truth of Masks_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF ARCHAEOLOGY\n\n\nIndeed archaeology is only really delightful when transfused into some\nform of art. I have no desire to underrate the services of laborious\nscholars, but I feel that the use Keats made of Lempriere\'s Dictionary is\nof far more value to us than Professor Max Muller\'s treatment of the same\nmythology as a disease of language. Better _Endymion_ than any theory,\nhowever sound, or, as in the present instance, unsound, of an epidemic\namong adjectives! And who does not feel that the chief glory of\nPiranesi\'s book on Vases is that it gave Keats the suggestion for his\n\'Ode on a Grecian Urn\'? Art, and art only, can make archaeology\nbeautiful; and the theatric art can use it most directly and most\nvividly, for it can combine in one exquisite presentation the illusion of\nactual life with the wonder of the unreal world. But the sixteenth\ncentury was not merely the age of Vitruvius; it was the age of Vecellio\nalso. Every nation seems suddenly to have become interested in the dress\nof its neighbours. Europe began to investigate its own clothes, and the\namount of books published on national costumes is quite extraordinary. At\nthe beginning of the century the _Nuremberg Chronicle_, with its two\nthousand illustrations, reached its fifth edition, and before the century\nwas over seventeen editions were published of Munster\'s _Cosmography_.\nBesides these two books there were also the works of Michael Colyns, of\nHans Weigel, of Amman, and of Vecellio himself, all of them well\nillustrated, some of the drawings in Vecellio being probably from the\nhand of Titian.\n\nNor was it merely from books and treatises that they acquired their\nknowledge. The development of the habit of foreign travel, the increased\ncommercial intercourse between countries, and the frequency of diplomatic\nmissions, gave every nation many opportunities of studying the various\nforms of contemporary dress. After the departure from England, for\ninstance, of the ambassadors from the Czar, the Sultan and the Prince of\nMorocco, Henry the Eighth and his friends gave several masques in the\nstrange attire of their visitors. Later on London saw, perhaps too\noften, the sombre splendour of the Spanish Court, and to Elizabeth came\nenvoys from all lands, whose dress, Shakespeare tells us, had an\nimportant influence on English costume.--_The Truth of Masks_.\n\n\n\n\nHEROD SUPPLIANT\n\n\nNon, non, vous ne voulez pas cela. Vous me dites cela seulement pour me\nfaire de la peine, parce que je vous ai regardee pendant toute la soiree.\nEh! bien, oui. Je vous ai regardee pendant toute la soiree. Votre\nbeaute m\'a trouble. Votre beaute m\'a terriblement trouble, et je vous ai\ntrop regardee. Mais je ne le ferai plus. Il ne faut regarder ni les\nchoses ni les personnes. Il ne faut regarder que dans les miroirs. Car\nles miroirs ne nous montrent que des masques . . . Oh! Oh! du vin! j\'ai\nsoif . . . Salome, Salome, soyons amis. Enfin, voyez . . . Qu\'est-ce que\nje voulais dire? Qu\'est-ce que c\'etait? Ah! je m\'en souviens! . . .\nSalome! Non, venez plus pres de moi. J\'ai peur que vous ne m\'entendiez\npas . . . Salome, vous connaissez mes paons blancs, mes beaux paons\nblancs, qui se promenent dans le jardin entre les myrtes et les grands\ncypres. Leurs becs sont dores, et les grains qu\'ils mangent sont dores\naussi, et leurs pieds sont teints de pourpre. La pluie vient quand ils\ncrient, et quand ils se pavanent la lune se montre au ciel. Ils vont\ndeux a deux entre les cypres et les myrtes noirs et chacun a son esclave\npour le soigner. Quelquefois ils volent a travers les arbres, et\nquelquefois ils couchent sur le gazon et autour de l\'etang. Il n\'y a pas\ndans le monde d\'oiseaux si merveilleux. Il n\'y a aucun roi du monde qui\npossede des oiseaux aussi merveilleux. Je suis sur que meme Cesar ne\npossede pas d\'oiseaux aussi beaux. Eh bien! je vous donnerai cinquante\nde mes paons. Ils vous suivront partout, et au milieu d\'eux vous serez\ncomme la lune dans un grand nuage blanc . . . Je vous les donnerai tous.\nJe n\'en ai que cent, et il n\'y a aucun roi du monde qui possede des paons\ncomme les miens, mais je vous les donnerai tous. Seulement, il faut me\ndelier de ma parole et ne pas me demander ce que vous m\'avez\ndemande.--_Salome_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TETRARCH\'S REMORSE\n\n\nSalome, pensez a ce que vous faites. Cet homme vient peut-etre de Dieu.\nJe suis sur qu\'il vient de Dieu. C\'est un saint homme. Le doigt de Dieu\nl\'a touche. Dieu a mis dans sa bouche des mots terribles. Dans le\npalais, comme dans le desert, Dieu est toujours avec lui . . . Au moins,\nc\'est possible. On ne sait pas, mais il est possible que Dieu soit pour\nlui et avec lui. Aussi peut-etre que s\'il mourrait, il m\'arriverait un\nmalheur. Enfin, il a dit que le jour ou il mourrait il arriverait un\nmalheur a quelqu\'un. Ce ne peut etre qu\'a moi. Souvenez-vous, j\'ai\nglisse dans le sang quand je suis entre ici. Aussi j\'ai entendu un\nbattement d\'ailes dans l\'air, un battement d\'ailes gigantesques. Ce sont\nde tres mauvais presages. Et il y en avait d\'autres. Je suis sur qu\'il\ny en avait d\'autres, quoique je ne les aie pas vus. Eh bien! Salome,\nvous ne voulez pas qu\'un malheur m\'arrive? Vous ne voulez pas\ncela.--_Salome_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TETRARCH\'S TREASURE\n\n\nMoi, je suis tres calme. Je suis tout a fait calme. Ecoutez. J\'ai des\nbijoux caches ici que meme votre mere n\'a jamais vus, des bijoux tout a\nfait extraordinaires. J\'ai un collier de perles a quatre rangs. On\ndirait des lunes enchainees de rayons d\'argent. On dirait cinquante\nlunes captives dans un filet d\'or. Une reine l\'a porte sur l\'ivoire de\nses seins. Toi, quand tu le porteras, tu seras aussi belle qu\'une reine.\nJ\'ai des amethystes de deux especes. Une qui est noire comme le vin.\nL\'autre qui est rouge comme du vin qu\'on a colore avec de l\'eau. J\'ai\ndes topazes jaunes comme les yeux des tigres, et des topazes roses comme\nles yeux des pigeons, et des topazes vertes comme les yeux des chats.\nJ\'ai des opales qui brulent toujours avec une flamme qui est tres froide,\ndes opales qui attristent les esprits et ont peur des tenebres. J\'ai des\nonyx semblables aux prunelles d\'une morte. J\'ai des selenites qui\nchangent quand la lune change et deviennent pales quand elles voient le\nsoleil. J\'ai des saphirs grands comme des oeufs et bleus comme des\nfleurs bleues. La mer erre dedans, et la lune ne vient jamais troubler\nle bleu de ses flots. J\'ai des chrysolithes et des beryls, j\'ai des\nchrysoprases et des rubis, j\'ai des sardonyx et des hyacinthes, et des\ncalcedoines et je vous les donnerai tous, mais tous, et j\'ajouterai\nd\'autres choses. Le roi des Indes vient justement de m\'envoyer quatre\neventails faits de plumes de perroquets, et le roi de Numidie une robe\nfaite de plumes d\'autruche. J\'ai un cristal qu\'il n\'est pas permis aux\nfemmes de voir et que meme les jeunes hommes ne doivent regarder qu\'apres\navoir ete flagelles de verges. Dans un coffret de nacre j\'ai trois\nturquoises merveilleuses. Quand on les porte sur le front on peut\nimaginer des choses qui n\'existent pas, et quand on les porte dans la\nmain on peut rendre les femmes steriles. Ce sont des tresors de grande\nvaleur. Ce sont des tresors sans prix. Et ce n\'est pas tout. Dans un\ncoffret d\'ebene j\'ai deux coupes d\'ambre qui ressemblent a des pommes\nd\'or. Si un ennemi verse du poison dans ces coupes elles deviennent\ncomme des pommes d\'argent. Dans un coffret incruste d\'ambre j\'ai des\nsandales incrustees de verre. J\'ai des manteaux qui viennent du pays des\nSeres et des bracelets garnis d\'escarboucles et de jade qui viennent de\nla ville d\'Euphrate. . . Enfin, que veux-tu, Salome? Dis-moi ce que tu\ndesires et je te le donnerai. Je te donnerai tout ce que tu demanderas,\nsauf une chose. Je te donnerai tout ce que je possede, sauf une vie. Je\nte donnerai le manteau du grand pretre. Je te donnerai le voile du\nsanctuaire.--_Salome_.\n\n\n\n\nSALOME ANTICIPATES DR. STRAUSS\n\n\nAh! tu n\'as pas voulu me laisser baiser ta bouche, Iokanaan. Eh bien! je\nla baiserai maintenant. Je la mordrai avec mes dents comme on mord un\nfruit mur. Oui, je baiserai ta bouche, Iokanaan. Je te l\'ai dit, n\'est-\nce pas? je te l\'ai dit. Eh bien! je la baiserai maintenant . . . Mais\npourquoi ne me regardes-tu pas, Iokanaan? Tes yeux qui etaient si\nterribles, qui etaient si pleins de colere et de mepris, ils sont fermes\nmaintenant. Pourquoi sont-ils fermes? Ouvre tes yeux! Souleve tes\npaupieres, Iokanaan. Pourquoi ne me regardes-tu pas? As-tu peur de moi,\nIokanaan, que tu ne veux pas me regarder? . . . Et ta langue qui etait\ncomme un serpent rouge dardant des poisons, elle ne remue plus, elle ne\ndit rien maintenant, Iokanaan, cette vipere rouge qui a vomi son venin\nsur moi. C\'est etrange, n\'est-ce pas? Comment se fait-il que la vipere\nrouge ne remue plus? . . . Tu n\'as pas voulu de moi, Iokanaan. Tu m\'as\nrejetee. Tu m\'as dit des choses infames. Tu m\'as traitee comme une\ncourtisane, comme une prostituee, moi, Salome, fille d\'Herodias,\nPrincesse de Judee! Eh bien, Iokanaan, moi je vis encore, mais toi tu es\nmort et ta tete m\'appartient. Je puis en faire ce que je veux. Je puis\nla jeter aux chiens et aux oiseaux de l\'air. Ce que laisseront les\nchiens, les oiseaux de l\'air le mangeront . . . Ah! Iokanaan, Iokanaan,\ntu as ete le seul homme que j\'ai aime. Tous les autres hommes\nm\'inspirent du degout. Mais, toi, tu etais beau. Ton corps etait une\ncolonne d\'ivoire sur un socle d\'argent. C\'etait un jardin plein de\ncolombes et de lis d\'argent. C\'etait une tour d\'argent ornee de\nboucliers d\'ivoire. Il n\'y avait rien au monde d\'aussi blanc que ton\ncorps. Il n\'y avait rien au monde d\'aussi noir que tes cheveux. Dans le\nmonde tout entier il n\'y avait rien d\'aussi rouge que ta bouche. Ta voix\netait un encensoir qui repandait d\'etranges parfums, et quand je te\nregardais j\'entendais une musique etrange! Ah! pourquoi ne m\'as-tu pas\nregardee, Iokanaan? Derriere tes mains et tes blasphemes tu as cache ton\nvisage. Tu as mis sur tes yeux le bandeau de celui qui veut voir son\nDieu. Eh bien, tu l\'as vu, ton Dieu, Iokanaan, mais moi, moi . . . tu ne\nm\'as jamais vue. Si tu m\'avais vue, tu m\'aurais aimee. Moi, je t\'ai vu,\nIokanaan, et je t\'ai aime. Oh! comme je t\'ai aime. Je t\'aime encore,\nIokanaan. Je n\'aime que toi . . . J\'ai soif de ta beaute. J\'ai faim de\nton corps. Et ni le vin, ni les fruits ne peuvent apaiser mon desir. Que\nferai-je, Iokanaan, maintenant? Ni les fleuves ni les grandes eaux, ne\npourraient eteindre ma passion. J\'etais une Princesse, tu m\'as\ndedaignee. J\'etais une vierge, tu m\'as defloree. J\'etais chaste, tu as\nrempli mes veines de feu . . . Ah! Ah! pourquoi ne m\'as-tu pas regardee,\nIokanaan? Si tu m\'avais regardee tu m\'aurais aimee. Je sais bien que tu\nm\'aurais aimee, et le mystere de l\'amour est plus grand que le mystere de\nla mort. Il ne faut regarder que l\'amour.--_Salome_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG KING\n\n\nAll rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him,\nand in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants,\nsome to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of the north seas,\nsome to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found\nonly in the tombs of kings, and is said to possess magical properties,\nsome to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to\nIndia to buy gauze and stained ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade,\nsandal-wood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool.\n\nBut what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his\ncoronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown, and the\nsceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was of this that\nhe was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching\nthe great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth.\nThe designs, which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the\ntime, had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given\norders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out,\nand that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be\nworthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar\nof the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and\nlingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his dark\nwoodland eyes.\n\nAfter some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the carved\npenthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit room. The walls\nwere hung with rich tapestries representing the Triumph of Beauty. A\nlarge press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and\nfacing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels\nof powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets\nof Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were\nbroidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from\nthe tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the\nvelvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like\nwhite foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing\nNarcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the\ntable stood a flat bowl of amethyst.\n\nOutside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a\nbubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and\ndown on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a\nnightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the\nopen window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and\ntaking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy\neyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had\nhe felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery\nof beautiful things.\n\nWhen midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and his\npages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose-water\nover his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after\nthat they had left the room, he fell asleep.--_The Young King_.\n\n\n\n\nA CORONATION\n\n\nAnd when the Bishop had heard them he knit his brows, and said, \'My son,\nI am an old man, and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil\nthings are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the\nmountains, and carry off the little children, and sell them to the Moors.\nThe lions lie in wait for the caravans, and leap upon the camels. The\nwild boar roots up the corn in the valley, and the foxes gnaw the vines\nupon the hill. The pirates lay waste the sea-coast and burn the ships of\nthe fishermen, and take their nets from them. In the salt-marshes live\nthe lepers; they have houses of wattled reeds, and none may come nigh\nthem. The beggars wander through the cities, and eat their food with the\ndogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper\nfor thy bedfellow, and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do\nthy bidding, and the wild boar obey thee? Is not He who made misery\nwiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou hast\ndone, but I bid thee ride back to the Palace and make thy face glad, and\nput on the raiment that beseemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I\nwill crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl will I place in thy hand. And\nas for thy dreams, think no more of them. The burden of this world is\ntoo great for one man to bear, and the world\'s sorrow too heavy for one\nheart to suffer.\'\n\n\'Sayest thou that in this house?\' said the young King, and he strode past\nthe Bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the\nimage of Christ.\n\nHe stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his\nleft were the marvellous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow\nwine, and the vial with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of\nChrist, and the great candles burned brightly by the jewelled shrine, and\nthe smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome. He\nbowed his head in prayer, and the priests in their stiff copes crept away\nfrom the altar.\n\nAnd suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered\nthe nobles with drawn swords and nodding plumes, and shields of polished\nsteel. \'Where is this dreamer of dreams?\' they cried. \'Where is this\nKing who is apparelled like a beggar--this boy who brings shame upon our\nstate? Surely we will slay him, for he is unworthy to rule over us.\'\n\nAnd the young King bowed his head again, and prayed, and when he had\nfinished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them\nsadly.\n\nAnd lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him,\nand the sun-beams wove round him a tissued robe that was fairer than the\nrobe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed,\nand bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed,\nand bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls\nwere the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than male\nrubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold.\n\nHe stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jewelled\nshrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-rayed monstrance shone\na marvellous and mystical light. He stood there in a king\'s raiment, and\nthe Glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches\nseemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and\nthe organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their\ntrumpets, and the singing boys sang.\n\nAnd the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed\ntheir swords and did homage, and the Bishop\'s face grew pale, and his\nhands trembled. \'A greater than I hath crowned thee,\' he cried, and he\nknelt before him.\n\nAnd the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through\nthe midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was\nlike the face of an angel.--_The Young King_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING OF SPAIN\n\n\nFrom a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind\nhim stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his\nconfessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even\nthan usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with\nchildish gravity to the assembling counters, or laughing behind her fan\nat the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought\nof the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before--so it seemed\nto him--had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in\nthe sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after\nthe birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice\nin the orchard, or plucked the second year\'s fruit from the old gnarled\nfig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So\ngreat had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave\nto hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who\nin return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy\nand suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said,\nto the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier\nin the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her\nin on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month\nthe King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand,\nwent in and knelt by her side calling out, \'_Mi reina_! _Mi reina_!\' and\nsometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs\nevery separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a\nKing, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of\ngrief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.\n\nTo-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle\nof Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still\nyounger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal\nNuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had\nreturned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow\nhair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand\nas he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage,\nhastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two\ncountries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary\ncelebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than\nusually solemn _auto-da-fe_, in which nearly three hundred heretics,\namongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular\narm to be burned.\n\nCertainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his\ncountry, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the\nNew World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for\nher, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of\nState; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its\nservants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which\nhe sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which\nshe suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of\nreason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally\nabdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of\nwhich he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the\nlittle Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain,\nwas notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen\'s\ndeath by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her\non the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the\nexpiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained\nthroughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his\nministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself\nsent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of\nBohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their\nmaster that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that\nthough she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an\nanswer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which\nsoon after, at the Emperor\'s instigation, revolted against him under the\nleadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.--_The Birthday of the\nInfranta_.\n\n\n\n\nA BULL FIGHT\n\n\nA procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as _toreadors_, came\nout to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully\nhandsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all\nthe grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to\na little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the\narena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big\nfans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor\nstood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess--the Camerera-Mayor as\nshe was called--a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not\nlook quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile\nflitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.\n\nIt certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta\nthought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at\nSeville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father.\nSome of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses\nbrandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached\nto them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull,\nand vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for\nthe bull himself, he was just like a live bull, though he was only made\nof wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running\nround the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of\ndoing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so\nexcited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace\nhandkerchiefs and cried out: _Bravo toro_! _Bravo toro_! just as\nsensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a\nprolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored\nthrough and through, and, their riders dismounted, the young Count of\nTierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained\npermission from the Infanta to give the _coup de grace_, he plunged his\nwooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head\ncame right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de\nLorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.\n\nThe arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead\nhobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and\nblack liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French\nposture-master performed upon the tightrope, some Italian puppets\nappeared in the semi-classical tragedy of _Sophonisba_ on the stage of a\nsmall theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so\nwell, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of\nthe play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some\nof the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats,\nand the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help\nsaying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made\nsimply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires,\nshould be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes.--_The\nBirthday of the Infanta_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THRONE ROOM\n\n\nIt was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when\nthe King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a\npersonal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had\nappeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their\nQueen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor\'s\neldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt\nchandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the\nblack and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on\nwhich the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls,\nstood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded\nwith silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On\nthe second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the\nInfanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that\nagain, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal\nNuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King\'s presence on\nthe occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal\'s hat, with its\ntangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple _tabouret_ in front. On the\nwall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in\nhunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip\nII. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the\nother wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with\nplates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein\'s Dance of Death had\nbeen graved--by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.\n\nBut the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would\nnot have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white\npetal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the\nInfanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away\nwith him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air\nwas close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the\nsunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside.\nThere were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the\nflowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths\nin early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and\ngrassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the\ngnarled roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and\nirises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the\nfoxgloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The\nchestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid moons\nof beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her! She\nwould come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance\nfor her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he passed\ninto the next room.\n\nOf all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The\nwalls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with\nbirds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of\nmassive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in\nfront of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with\nparrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed\nto stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under\nthe shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a\nlittle figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from\nhis lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure\nmoved out also, and he saw it plainly.--_The Birthday of the Infanta_.\n\n\n\n\nA PROTECTED COUNTRY\n\n\n\'The kings of each city levied tolls on us, but would not suffer us to\nenter their gates. They threw us bread over the walls, little\nmaize-cakes baked in honey and cakes of fine flour filled with dates. For\nevery hundred baskets we gave them a bead of amber.\n\n\'When the dwellers in the villages saw us coming, they poisoned the wells\nand fled to the hill-summits. We fought with the Magadae who are born\nold, and grow younger and younger every year, and die when they are\nlittle children; and with the Laktroi who say that they are the sons of\ntigers, and paint themselves yellow and black; and with the Aurantes who\nbury their dead on the tops of trees, and themselves live in dark caverns\nlest the Sun, who is their god, should slay them; and with the Krimnians\nwho worship a crocodile, and give it earrings of green glass, and feed it\nwith butter and fresh fowls; and with the Agazonbae, who are dog-faced;\nand with the Sibans, who have horses\' feet, and run more swiftly than\nhorses. A third of our company died in battle, and a third died of want.\nThe rest murmured against me, and said that I had brought them an evil\nfortune. I took a horned adder from beneath a stone and let it sting me.\nWhen they saw that I did not sicken they grew afraid.\n\n\'In the fourth month we reached the city of Illel. It was night-time\nwhen we came to the grove that is outside the walls, and the air was\nsultry, for the Moon was travelling in Scorpion. We took the ripe\npomegranates from the trees, and brake them, and drank their sweet\njuices. Then we lay down on our carpets, and waited for the dawn.\n\n\'And at dawn we rose and knocked at the gate of the city. It was wrought\nout of red bronze, and carved with sea-dragons and dragons that have\nwings. The guards looked down from the battlements and asked us our\nbusiness. The interpreter of the caravan answered that we had come from\nthe island of Syria with much merchandise. They took hostages, and told\nus that they would open the gate to us at noon, and bade us tarry till\nthen.\n\n\'When it was noon they opened the gate, and as we entered in the people\ncame crowding out of the houses to look at us, and a crier went round the\ncity crying through a shell. We stood in the market-place, and the\nnegroes uncorded the bales of figured cloths and opened the carved chests\nof sycamore. And when they had ended their task, the merchants set forth\ntheir strange wares, the waxed linen from Egypt and the painted linen\nfrom the country of the Ethiops, the purple sponges from Tyre and the\nblue hangings from Sidon, the cups of cold amber and the fine vessels of\nglass and the curious vessels of burnt clay. From the roof of a house a\ncompany of women watched us. One of them wore a mask of gilded leather.\n\n\'And on the first day the priests came and bartered with us, and on the\nsecond day came the nobles, and on the third day came the craftsmen and\nthe slaves. And this is their custom with all merchants as long as they\ntarry in the city.\n\n\'And we tarried for a moon, and when the moon was waning, I wearied and\nwandered away through the streets of the city and came to the garden of\nits god. The priests in their yellow robes moved silently through the\ngreen trees, and on a pavement of black marble stood the rose-red house\nin which the god had his dwelling. Its doors were of powdered lacquer,\nand bulls and peacocks were wrought on them in raised and polished gold.\nThe tilted roof was of sea-green porcelain, and the jutting eaves were\nfestooned with little bells. When the white doves flew past, they struck\nthe bells with their wings and made them tinkle.\n\n\'In front of the temple was a pool of clear water paved with veined onyx.\nI lay down beside it, and with my pale fingers I touched the broad\nleaves. One of the priests came towards me and stood behind me. He had\nsandals on his feet, one of soft serpent-skin and the other of birds\'\nplumage. On his head was a mitre of black felt decorated with silver\ncrescents. Seven yellows were woven into his robe, and his frizzed hair\nwas stained with antimony.\n\n\'After a little while he spake to me, and asked me my desire.\n\n\'I told him that my desire was to see the god.\'--_The Fisherman and His\nSoul_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACKMAILING OF THE EMPEROR\n\n\n\'As soon as the man was dead the Emperor turned to me, and when he had\nwiped away the bright sweat from his brow with a little napkin of purfled\nand purple silk, he said to me, "Art thou a prophet, that I may not harm\nthee, or the son of a prophet, that I can do thee no hurt? I pray thee\nleave my city to-night, for while thou art in it I am no longer its\nlord."\n\n\'And I answered him, "I will go for half of thy treasure. Give me half\nof thy treasure, and I will go away."\n\n\'He took me by the hand, and led me out into the garden. When the\ncaptain of the guard saw me, he wondered. When the eunuchs saw me, their\nknees shook and they fell upon the ground in fear.\n\n\'There is a chamber in the palace that has eight walls of red porphyry,\nand a brass-sealed ceiling hung with lamps. The Emperor touched one of\nthe walls and it opened, and we passed down a corridor that was lit with\nmany torches. In niches upon each side stood great wine-jars filled to\nthe brim with silver pieces. When we reached the centre of the corridor\nthe Emperor spake the word that may not be spoken, and a granite door\nswung back on a secret spring, and he put his hands before his face lest\nhis eyes should be dazzled.\n\n\'Thou couldst not believe how marvellous a place it was. There were huge\ntortoise-shells full of pearls, and hollowed moonstones of great size\npiled up with red rubies. The gold was stored in coffers of elephant-\nhide, and the gold-dust in leather bottles. There were opals and\nsapphires, the former in cups of crystal, and the latter in cups of jade.\nRound green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of ivory, and\nin one corner were silk bags filled, some with turquoise-stones, and\nothers with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped with purple amethysts,\nand the horns of brass with chalcedonies and sards. The pillars, which\nwere of cedar, were hung with strings of yellow lynx-stones. In the flat\noval shields there were carbuncles, both wine-coloured and coloured like\ngrass. And yet I have told thee but a tithe of what was there.\n\n\'And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face he\nsaid to me: "This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is\nthine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel\ndrivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure\nto whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall\nbe done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should\nsee that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay."\n\n\'But I answered him, "The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also\nis thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As\nfor me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but\nthat little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand."\n\n\'And the Emperor frowned. "It is but a ring of lead," he cried, "nor has\nit any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my\ncity."\n\n\'"Nay," I answered, "but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I\nknow what is written within it, and for what purpose."\n\n\'And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, "Take all the\ntreasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine\nalso."\n\n\'And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave\nthat is but a day\'s journey from this place have, I hidden the Ring of\nRiches. It is but a day\'s journey from this place, and it waits for thy\ncoming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world.\nCome therefore and take it, and the world\'s riches shall be thine.\'--_The\nFisherman and His Soul_.\n\n\n\n\nCOVENT GARDEN\n\n\nWhere he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a\nlabyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web of sombre\nstreets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at last in\nPiccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square, he met\nthe great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The white-smocked\ncarters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode\nsturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each\nother; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling team,\nsat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping\ntight hold of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great\npiles of vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky,\nlike masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous\nrose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There\nwas something in the dawn\'s delicate loveliness that seemed to him\ninexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in\nbeauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with their rough,\ngood-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange London\nthey saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a\npallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they\nthought of it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its\nshame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of\nall it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a\nmart where they brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for\na few hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still\nasleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as\nthey were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait,\nthey brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived\nwith Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He envied them all that\nthey did not know.\n\nBy the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and\nthe birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens.--_Lord Arthur\nSavile\'s Crime_.\n\n\n\n\nA LETTER FROM MISS JANE PERCY TO HER AUNT\n\n\nTHE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,\n\n27_th May_.\n\nMy Dearest Aunt,\n\nThank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also for\nthe gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their wanting to\nwear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and irreligious nowadays,\nthat it is difficult to make them see that they should not try and dress\nlike the upper classes. I am sure I don\'t know what we are coming to. As\npapa has often said in his sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.\n\nWe have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa last\nThursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage paid, and\npapa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read his remarkable\nsermon, \'Is Licence Liberty?\' for on the top of the clock was a figure of\na woman, with what papa said was the cap of Liberty on her head. I\ndidn\'t think it very becoming myself, but papa said it was historical, so\nI suppose it is all right. Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the\nmantelpiece in the library, and we were all sitting there on Friday\nmorning, when just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise,\na little puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure, and the\ngoddess of Liberty fell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was\nquite alarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off\ninto fits of laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we\nfound it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a\nparticular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer,\nit went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the\nlibrary, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away to the schoolroom,\nand does nothing but have small explosions all day long. Do you think\nArthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose they are quite\nfashionable in London. Papa says they should do a great deal of good, as\nthey show that Liberty can\'t last, but must fall down. Papa says Liberty\nwas invented at the time of the French Revolution. How awful it seems!\n\nI have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most\ninstructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in their\nrank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is\nabsurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more important\nthings in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your flowered poplin\nturned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing my\nyellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the Bishop\'s on Wednesday,\nand think it will look all right. Would you have bows or not? Jennings\nsays that every one wears bows now, and that the underskirt should be\nfrilled. Reggie has just had another explosion, and papa has ordered the\nclock to be sent to the stables. I don\'t think papa likes it so much as\nhe did at first, though he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty\nand ingenious toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and profit by\nthem.\n\nPapa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite,\nand, hoping that Uncle Cecil\'s gout is better, believe me, dear aunt,\never your affectionate niece,\n\nJANE PERCY.\n\nPS.--Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the\nfashion.--_Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRIUMPH OF AMERICAN \'HUMOR\'\n\n\nAt half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was\ndisturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-\nhearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before\nthey retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still, and, as\nmidnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window\npanes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered\nmoaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept\nunconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could\nhear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He\nstepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his\ncruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole\npast the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered\nwife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil\nshadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he\nthought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying\nof a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-\ncentury curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the\nmidnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to\nluckless Washington\'s room. For a moment he paused there, the wind\nblowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque\nand fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man\'s shroud. Then\nthe clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled\nto himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than,\nwith a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in\nhis long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible\nspectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman\'s dream!\nIts head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and\nhideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal\ngrin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide\nwell of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its\nsilent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange\nwriting in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some\nrecord of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right\nhand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.\n\nNever having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,\nand, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to\nhis room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the\ncorridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister\'s jack-\nboots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the\nprivacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-\nbed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the\nbrave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and\nspeak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just\nas the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the\nspot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that,\nafter all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his\nnew friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the\nspot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently\nhappened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow\neyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning\nup against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed\nforward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped\noff and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he\nfound himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush,\na kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet!--_The\nCanterville Ghost_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GARDEN OF DEATH\n\n\n\'Far away beyond the pine-woods,\' he answered, in a low dreamy voice,\n\'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there\nare the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale\nsings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal\nmoon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the\nsleepers.\'\n\nVirginia\'s eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.\n\n\'You mean the Garden of Death,\' she whispered.\n\n\'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown\nearth, with the grasses waving above one\'s head, and listen to silence.\nTo have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life,\nto be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of\nDeath\'s house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than\nDeath is.\'\n\nVirginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments\nthere was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.\n\nThen the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the\nwind.\n\n\'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?\'\n\n\'Oh, often,\' cried the little girl, looking up; \'I know it quite well. It\nis painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read. There\nare only six lines:\n\n When a golden girl can win\n Prayer from out the lips of sin,\n When the barren almond bears,\n And a little child gives away its tears,\n Then shall all the house be still\n And peace come to Canterville.\n\nBut I don\'t know what they mean.\'\n\n\'They mean,\' he said sadly, \'that you must weep for me for my sins,\nbecause I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no\nfaith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the\nAngel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in\ndarkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not\nharm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell\ncannot prevail.\'\n\nVirginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as\nhe looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very\npale, and with a strange light in her eyes. \'I am not afraid,\' she said\nfirmly, \'and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.\'\n\nHe rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent\nover it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold\nas ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he\nled her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were\nbroidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with\ntheir tiny hands waved to her to go back. \'Go back! little Virginia,\'\nthey cried, \'go back!\' but the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and\nshe shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails, and\ngoggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured\n\'Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,\' but the\nGhost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they\nreached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could\nnot understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away\nlike a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold\nwind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress.\n\'Quick, quick,\' cried the Ghost, \'or it will be too late,\' and, in a\nmoment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber\nwas empty.--_The Canterville Ghost_.\n\n\n\n\nAN ETON KIT-CAT\n\n\n"Well," said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, "I must begin by telling you\nabout Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same house at Eton. I\nwas a year or two older than he was, but we were immense friends, and did\nall our work and all our play together. There was, of course, a good\ndeal more play than work, but I cannot say that I am sorry for that. It\nis always an advantage not to have received a sound commercial education,\nand what I learned in the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful\nto me as anything I was taught at Cambridge. I should tell you that\nCyril\'s father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a\nhorrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in\nthe diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in\nfact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril\'s guardian after the death\nof his parents. I don\'t think that Lord Crediton cared very much for\nCyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying a man who\nhad not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like\na costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him\nonce on Speech-day. He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me\nnot to grow up \'a damned Radical\' like my father. Cyril had very little\naffection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his holidays\nwith us in Scotland. They never really got on together at all. Cyril\nthought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate,\nI suppose, in some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital\nfencer. In fact he got the foils before he left Eton. But he was very\nlanguid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a\nstrong objection to football. The two things that really gave him\npleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and\nreciting Shakespeare, and when he went up to Trinity he became a member\nof the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of\nhis acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we were so\ndifferent in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge\nfeet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as\ngout does in English families. Cyril used to say that of the two he\npreferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on personal\nappearance, and once read a paper before our debating society to prove\nthat it was better to be good-looking than to be good. He certainly was\nwonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines and\ncollege tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to say that he\nwas merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere\nprettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and\nnothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of his manner.\nHe fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and a great many\npeople who were not. He was often wilful and petulant, and I used to\nthink him dreadfully insincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his\ninordinate desire to please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was\ncontented with very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly\nspoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of\ntheir attraction.\n\n"However, I must tell you about Cyril\'s acting. You know that no\nactresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not in my\ntime. I don\'t know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril was always\ncast for the girls\' parts, and when _As You Like It_ was produced he\nplayed Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In fact, Cyril Graham\nwas the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible\nto describe to you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole\nthing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid little theatre, as\nit was then, was crowded every night. Even when I read the play now I\ncan\'t help thinking of Cyril. It might have been written for him. The\nnext term he took his degree, and came to London to read for the\ndiplomatic. But he never did any work. He spent his days in reading\nShakespeare\'s Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of\ncourse, wild to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton\ncould do to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be\nalive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good\nadvice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error.\nIf you do, you will be sorry for it."--_The Portrait of Mr. W. H_.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE EXERCISES THE PREROGATIVE OF A GRANDMOTHER\n\n\nLady Windermere, before Heaven your husband is guiltless of all offence\ntowards you! And I--I tell you that had it ever occurred to me that such\na monstrous suspicion would have entered your mind, I would have died\nrather than have crossed your life or his--oh! died, gladly died! Believe\nwhat you choose about me. I am not worth a moment\'s sorrow. But don\'t\nspoil your beautiful young life on my account! You don\'t know what may\nbe in store for you, unless you leave this house at once. You don\'t know\nwhat it is to fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned,\nsneered at--to be an outcast! to find the door shut against one, to have\nto creep in by hideous byways, afraid every moment lest the mask should\nbe stripped from one\'s face, and all the while to hear the laughter, the\nhorrible laughter of the world, a thing more tragic than all the tears\nthe world has ever shed. You don\'t know what it is. One pays for one\'s\nsin, and then one pays again, and all one\'s life one pays. You must\nnever know that.--As for me, if suffering be an expiation, then at this\nmoment I have expiated all my faults, whatever they have been; for to-\nnight you have made a heart in one who had it not, made it and broken\nit.--But let that pass. I may have wrecked my own life, but I will not\nlet you wreck yours. You--why, you are a mere girl, you would be lost.\nYou haven\'t got the kind of brains that enables a woman to get back. You\nhave neither the wit nor the courage. You couldn\'t stand dishonour! No!\nGo back, Lady Windermere, to the husband who loves you, whom you love.\nYou have a child, Lady Windermere. Go back to that child who even now,\nin pain or in joy, may be calling to you. God gave you that child. He\nwill require from you that you make his life fine, that you watch over\nhim. What answer will you make to God if his life is ruined through you?\nBack to your house, Lady Windermere--your husband loves you! He has\nnever swerved for a moment from the love he bears you. But even if he\nhad a thousand loves, you must stay with your child. If he was harsh to\nyou, you must stay with your child. If he ill-treated you, you must stay\nwith your child. If he abandoned you, your place is with your\nchild.--_Lady Windermere\'s Fan_.\n\n\n\n\nMOTHERHOOD MORE THAN MARRIAGE\n\n\nMen don\'t understand what mothers are. I am no different from other\nwomen except in the wrong done me and the wrong I did, and my very heavy\npunishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear you I had to look on\ndeath. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it. Death fought with me\nfor you. All women have to fight with death to keep their children.\nDeath, being childless, wants our children from us. Gerald, when you\nwere naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave you food. Night\nand day all that long winter I tended you. No office is too mean, no\ncare too lowly for the thing we women love--and oh! how _I_ loved _you_.\nNot Hannah, Samuel more. And you needed love, for you were weakly, and\nonly love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep any one alive.\nAnd boys are careless often and without thinking give pain, and we always\nfancy that when they come to man\'s estate and know us better they will\nrepay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from our side, and\nthey make friends with whom they are happier than they are with us, and\nhave amusements from which we are barred, and interests that are not\nours: and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life bitter\nthey blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste its\nsweetness with them . . . You made many friends and went into their\nhouses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to\nfollow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat\nin darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was\never with me. . . . And you thought I didn\'t care for the pleasant things\nof life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them,\nfeeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the\npoor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was\nI to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is\npure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the\nkiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the\nlove you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .\nAnd you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in\nChurch duties. But where else could I turn? God\'s house is the only\nhouse where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart,\nGerald, too much in my heart. For, though day after day, at morn or\nevensong, I have knelt in God\'s house, I have never repented of my sin.\nHow could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit! Even now\nthat you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me\nthan innocence. I would rather be your mother--oh! much rather!--than\nhave been always pure . . . Oh, don\'t you see? don\'t you understand? It\nis my dishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that\nhas bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you--the\nprice of soul and body--that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don\'t ask me\nto do this horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still the child of my\nshame!--_A Woman of No Importance_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DAMNABLE IDEAL\n\n\nWhy can\'t you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on\nmonstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but\nwhen we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their\nfollies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that\nreason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love.\nIt is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others,\nthat love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All\nsins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save\nloveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man\'s love is like that. It\nis wider, larger, more human than a woman\'s. Women think that they are\nmaking ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely.\nYou made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down,\nshow you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might\nlose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my\nlife for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing\ncompared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace,\nstability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up\nin front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could\nhave killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its\nrecord, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but\nyou, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace,\nruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured\nlife, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no\nmore ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them,\nor they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so\nwildly loved--have ruined mine!--_An Ideal Husband_.\n\n\n\n\nFROM A REJECTED PRIZE-ESSAY\n\n\nNations may not have missions but they certainly have functions. And the\nfunction of ancient Italy was not merely to give us what is statical in\nour institutions and rational in our law, but to blend into one elemental\ncreed the spiritual aspirations of Aryan and of Semite. Italy was not a\npioneer in intellectual progress, nor a motive power in the evolution of\nthought. The owl of the goddess of Wisdom traversed over the whole land\nand found nowhere a resting-place. The dove, which is the bird of\nChrist, flew straight to the city of Rome and the new reign began. It\nwas the fashion of early Italian painters to represent in mediaeval\ncostume the soldiers who watched over the tomb of Christ, and this, which\nwas the result of the frank anachronism of all true art, may serve to us\nas an allegory. For it was in vain that the Middle Ages strove to guard\nthe buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose,\nthe sepulchre was empty, the grave-clothes laid aside. Humanity had\nrisen from the dead.\n\nThe study of Greek, it has been well said, implies the birth of\ncriticism, comparison and research. At the opening of that education of\nmodern by ancient thought which we call the Renaissance, it was the words\nof Aristotle which sent Columbus sailing to the New World, while a\nfragment of Pythagorean astronomy set Copernicus thinking on that train\nof reasoning which has revolutionised the whole position of our planet in\nthe universe. Then it was seen that the only meaning of progress is a\nreturn to Greek modes of thought. The monkish hymns which obscured the\npages of Greek manuscripts were blotted out, the splendours of a new\nmethod were unfolded to the world, and out of the melancholy sea of\nmediaevalism rose the free spirit of man in all that splendour of glad\nadolescence, when the bodily powers seem quickened by a new vitality,\nwhen the eye sees more clearly than its wont and the mind apprehends what\nwas beforetime hidden from it. To herald the opening of the sixteenth\ncentury, from the little Venetian printing press came forth all the great\nauthors of antiquity, each bearing on the title-page the words [Greek\ntext]; words which may serve to remind us with what wondrous prescience\nPolybius saw the world\'s fate when he foretold the material sovereignty\nof Roman institutions and exemplified in himself the intellectual empire\nof Greece.\n\nThe course of the study of the spirit of historical criticism has not\nbeen a profitless investigation into modes and forms of thought now\nantiquated and of no account. The only spirit which is entirely removed\nfrom us is the mediaeval; the Greek spirit is essentially modern. The\nintroduction of the comparative method of research which has forced\nhistory to disclose its secrets belongs in a measure to us. Ours, too,\nis a more scientific knowledge of philology and the method of survival.\nNor did the ancients know anything of the doctrine of averages or of\ncrucial instances, both of which methods have proved of such importance\nin modern criticism, the one adding a most important proof of the\nstatical elements of history, and exemplifying the influences of all\nphysical surroundings on the life of man; the other, as in the single\ninstance of the Moulin Quignon skull, serving to create a whole new\nscience of prehistoric archaeology and to bring us back to a time when\nman was coeval with the stone age, the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros.\nBut, except these, we have added no new canon or method to the science of\nhistorical criticism. Across the drear waste of a thousand years the\nGreek and the modern spirit join hands.\n\nIn the torch race which the Greek boys ran from the Cerameician field of\ndeath to the home of the goddess of Wisdom, not merely he who first\nreached the goal but he also who first started with the torch aflame\nreceived a prize. In the Lampadephoria of civilisation and free thought\nlet us not forget to render due meed of honour to those who first lit\nthat sacred flame, the increasing splendour of which lights our footsteps\nto the far-off divine event of the attainment of perfect truth.--_The\nRise of Historical Criticism_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POSSIBILITIES OF THE USEFUL\n\n\nThere are two kinds of men in the world, two great creeds, two different\nforms of natures: men to whom the end of life is action, and men to whom\nthe end of life is thought. As regards the latter, who seek for\nexperience itself and not for the fruits of experience, who must burn\nalways with one of the passions of this fiery-coloured world, who find\nlife interesting not for its secret but for its situations, for its\npulsations and not for its purpose; the passion for beauty engendered by\nthe decorative arts will be to them more satisfying than any political or\nreligious enthusiasm, any enthusiasm for humanity, any ecstasy or sorrow\nfor love. For art comes to one professing primarily to give nothing but\nthe highest quality to one\'s moments, and for those moments\' sake. So\nfar for those to whom the end of life is thought. As regards the others,\nwho hold that life is inseparable from labour, to them should this\nmovement be specially dear: for, if our days are barren without industry,\nindustry without art is barbarism.\n\nHewers of wood and drawers of water there must be always indeed among us.\nOur modern machinery has not much lightened the labour of man after all:\nbut at least let the pitcher that stands by the well be beautiful and\nsurely the labour of the day will be lightened: let the wood be made\nreceptive of some lovely form, some gracious design, and there will come\nno longer discontent but joy to the toiler. For what is decoration but\nthe worker\'s expression of joy in his work? And not joy merely--that is\na great thing yet not enough--but that opportunity of expressing his own\nindividuality which, as it is the essence of all life, is the source of\nall art. \'I have tried,\' I remember William Morris saying to me once, \'I\nhave tried to make each of my workers an artist, and when I say an artist\nI mean a man.\' For the worker then, handicraftsman of whatever kind he\nis, art is no longer to be a purple robe woven by a slave and thrown over\nthe whitened body of a leprous king to hide and to adorn the sin of his\nluxury, but rather the beautiful and noble expression of a life that has\nin it something beautiful and noble.--_The English Renaissance of Art_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ARTIST\n\n\nONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of\n_The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_. And he went forth into the\nworld to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.\n\nBut all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in\nthe whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of\nthe image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_.\n\nNow this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had\nset it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of\nthe dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own\nfashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth\nnot, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in\nthe whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.\n\nAnd he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace,\nand gave it to the fire.\n\nAnd out of the bronze of the image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_\nhe fashioned an image of _The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_.--_Poems\nin Prose_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOER OF GOOD\n\n\nIt was night-time and He was alone.\n\nAnd He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.\n\nAnd when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of\njoy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many\nlutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened\nto Him.\n\nAnd He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble\nbefore it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without\nthere were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.\n\nAnd when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of\njasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of\nsea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were\nred with wine.\n\nAnd He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him,\n\'Why do you live like this?\'\n\nAnd the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and\nsaid, \'But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I\nlive?\'\n\nAnd He passed out of the house and went again into the street.\n\nAnd after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted\nand whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a\nhunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the\nwoman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were\nbright with lust.\n\nAnd He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to\nhim, \'Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?\'\n\nAnd the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, \'But I was\nblind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?\'\n\nAnd He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said\nto her, \'Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?\'\n\nAnd the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, \'But\nyou forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.\'\n\nAnd He passed out of the city.\n\nAnd when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a\nyoung man who was weeping.\n\nAnd He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said\nto him, \'Why are you weeping?\'\n\nAnd the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, \'But I\nwas dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do\nbut weep?\'--_Poems in Prose_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISCIPLE\n\n\nWhen Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet\nwaters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the\nwoodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.\n\nAnd when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters\ninto a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair\nand cried to the pool and said, \'We do not wonder that you should mourn\nin this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.\'\n\n\'But was Narcissus beautiful?\' said the pool.\n\n\'Who should know that better than you?\' answered the Oreads. \'Us did he\never pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look\ndown at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own\nbeauty.\'\n\nAnd the pool answered, \'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my\nbanks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own\nbeauty mirrored.\'--_Poems in Prose_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MASTER\n\n\nNow when the darkness came over the earth Joseph of Arimathea, having\nlighted a torch of pinewood, passed down from the hill into the valley.\nFor he had business in his own home.\n\nAnd kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley of Desolation he saw a\nyoung man who was naked and weeping. His hair was the colour of honey,\nand his body was as a white flower, but he had wounded his body with\nthorns and on his hair had he set ashes as a crown.\n\nAnd he who had great possessions said to the young man who was naked and\nweeping, \'I do not wonder that your sorrow is so great, for surely He was\na just man.\'\n\nAnd the young man answered, \'It is not for Him that I am weeping, but for\nmyself. I too have changed water into wine, and I have healed the leper\nand given sight to the blind. I have walked upon the waters, and from\nthe dwellers in the tombs I have cast out devils. I have fed the hungry\nin the desert where there was no food, and I have raised the dead from\ntheir narrow houses, and at my bidding, and before a great multitude, of\npeople, a barren fig-tree withered away. All things that this man has\ndone I have done also. And yet they have not crucified me.\'--_Poems in\nProse_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF JUDGMENT\n\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked\nbefore God.\n\nAnd God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, \'Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown\ncruelty to those who were in need of succour, and to those who lacked\nhelp thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee\nand thou didst not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of My\nafflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou didst take unto\nthyself, and thou didst send the foxes into the vineyard of thy\nneighbour\'s field. Thou didst take the bread of the children and give it\nto the dogs to eat, and My lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at\npeace and praised Me, thou didst drive forth on to the highways, and on\nMine earth out of which I made thee thou didst spill innocent blood.\'\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, \'Even so did I.\'\n\nAnd again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, \'Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have\nshown thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden thou didst pass\nby. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed\nof thine abominations thou didst rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou\ndidst build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and didst eat of\nthe thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was\nbroidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of\ngold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou didst\nstain their hair with perfumes and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou\ndidst stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With\nantimony thou didst stain their eyelids and their bodies thou didst smear\nwith myrrh. Thou didst bow thyself to the ground before them, and the\nthrones of thine idols were set in the sun. Thou didst show to the sun\nthy shame and to the moon thy madness.\'\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, \'Even so did I.\'\n\nAnd a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.\n\nAnd God said to the Man, \'Evil hath been thy life, and with evil didst\nthou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee\nthou didst wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou didst despise.\nHe who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men\nwho hid thee in their tents at night thou didst betray before dawn. Thine\nenemy who spared thee thou didst snare in an ambush, and the friend who\nwalked with thee thou didst sell for a price, and to those who brought\nthee Love thou didst ever give Lust in thy turn.\'\n\nAnd the Man made answer and said, \'Even so did I.\'\n\nAnd God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, \'Surely I will\nsend thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee.\'\n\nAnd the Man cried out, \'Thou canst not.\'\n\nAnd God said to the Man, \'Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for\nwhat reason?\'\n\n\'Because in Hell have I always lived,\' answered the Man.\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment.\n\nAnd after a space God spake, and said to the Man, \'Seeing that I may not\nsend thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto\nHeaven will I send thee.\'\n\nAnd the Man cried out, \'Thou canst not.\'\n\nAnd God said to the Man, \'Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and\nfor what reason?\'\n\n\'Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,\'\nanswered the Man.\n\nAnd there was silence in the House of Judgment.--_Poems in Prose_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TEACHER OF WISDOM\n\n\nFrom his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge\nof God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well\nas certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been\nstirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.\n\nAnd when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he\nkissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might\nspeak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the\nworld who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge\nof Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care\nof their worshippers.\n\nAnd he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as\nhe had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet\nand a little water-bottle of burnt clay.\n\nAnd as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from\nthe perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without\nceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were\nmany cities.\n\nAnd he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in\nvalleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were\nset on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and\nfollowed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each\ncity, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the\nrulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were\nidols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon\ntheir drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with\nofferings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.\n\nYet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his\ndisciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow\nwas so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of the fulness of\nthat perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.\n\nAnd one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of\nArmenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after\nhim; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on\nthe mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt\nin the valley.\n\nAnd he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, \'Why\nis it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is\nan enemy that walks in the noonday?\' And his Soul answered him and said,\n\'God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast\ngiven this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast\ndivided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who\ngiveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure\nto a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away\nthe secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made\nme poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me.\'\n\nAnd he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that\nhe had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as\none clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by\nreason of the number of those who believed in him.\n\nAnd he said to himself, \'I will talk no more about God. He who giveth\naway wisdom robbeth himself.\'\n\nAnd after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed\nthemselves to the ground and said, \'Master, talk to us about God, for\nthou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this\nknowledge.\'\n\nAnd he answered them and said, \'I will talk to you about all other things\nthat are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you.\nNeither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God.\'\n\nAnd they were wroth with him and said to him, \'Thou hast led us into the\ndesert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and\nthe great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee?\'\n\nAnd he answered them and said, \'I will not talk to you about God.\'\n\nAnd the multitude murmured against him and said to him, \'Thou hast led us\ninto the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God\nand it will suffice us.\'\n\nBut he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them\nabout God he would give away his treasure.\n\nAnd his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned\nto their own homes. And many died on the way.\n\nAnd when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and\njourneyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And\nwhen the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the\ndesert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur\nhad once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a\nmat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the\nHermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him\nand of His wonderful greatness.\n\nNow, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he\nhad made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and\nbeautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every\nevening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he\nreturned with his hands full of purple and pearls. For he was a Robber\nand robbed the caravans of the merchants.\n\nAnd the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spake not a word.\nFor he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.\n\nAnd one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple\nand pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand,\nand said to the Hermit: \'Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I\npass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at\nme before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me.\'\n\nAnd the Hermit answered him and said, \'What you see in my eyes is pity.\nPity is what looks out at you from my eyes.\'\n\nAnd the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter\nvoice, and said to him, \'I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you\nhave but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for\nme? And for what reason have you this pity?\'\n\n\'I have pity for you,\' said the Hermit, \'because you have no knowledge of\nGod.\'\n\n\'Is this knowledge of God a precious thing?\' asked the young man, and he\ncame close to the mouth of the cavern.\n\n\'It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,\'\nanswered the Hermit.\n\n\'And have you got it?\' said the young Robber, and he came closer still.\n\n\'Once, indeed,\' answered the Hermit, \'I possessed the perfect knowledge\nof God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst\nothers. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious\nthan purple or pearls.\'\n\nAnd when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the\npearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of\ncurved steel he said to the Hermit, \'Give me, forthwith this knowledge of\nGod that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not\nslay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure?\'\n\nAnd the Hermit spread out his arms and said, \'Were it not better for me\nto go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in\nthe world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire.\nBut I will not give away my knowledge of God.\'\n\nAnd the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would\nnot talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young\nRobber rose up and said to the Hermit, \'Be it as you will. As for\nmyself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days\'\njourney from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure,\nand for my pearls they will sell me joy.\' And he took up the purple and\nthe pearls and went swiftly away.\n\nAnd the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the\nspace of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and\nentreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.\n\nAnd ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called\nto him, and said, \'Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more\nprecious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not\nenter the city.\'\n\nAnd ever did the Hermit answer, \'All things that I have I will give thee,\nsave that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give\naway.\'\n\nAnd in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet\ngates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the\nsound of much laughter.\n\nAnd the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate.\nAnd as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of\nhis raiment, and said to him: \'Stretch forth your hands, and set your\narms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give\nyou what remains to me of the knowledge of God.\' And the young Robber\nstopped.\n\nAnd when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the\nground and wept, and a great darkness hid from him the city and the young\nRobber, so that he saw them no more.\n\nAnd as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside\nhim; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like\nfine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: \'Before this\ntime thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the\nperfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping?\' And he kissed\nhim.--_Poems in Prose_.\n\n\n\n\nWILDE GIVES DIRECTIONS ABOUT \'DE PROFUNDIS\'\n\n\nH.M. PRISON, READING.\n\nApril 1st, 1897.\n\nMy Dear Robbie,--I send you a MS. separate from this, which I hope will\narrive safely. As soon as you have read it, I want you to have it\ncarefully copied for me. There are many causes why I wish this to be\ndone. One will suffice. I want you to be my literary executor in case\nof my death, and to have complete control of my plays, books, and papers.\nAs soon as I find I have a legal right to make a will, I will do so. My\nwife does not understand my art, nor could be expected to have any\ninterest in it, and Cyril is only a child. So I turn naturally to you,\nas indeed I do for everything, and would like you to have all my works.\nThe deficit that their sale will produce may be lodged to the credit of\nCyril and Vivian. Well, if you are my literary executor, you must be in\npossession of the only document that gives any explanation of my\nextraordinary behaviour . . . When you have read the letter, you will see\nthe psychological explanation of a course of conduct that from the\noutside seems a combination of absolute idiotcy with vulgar bravado. Some\nday the truth will have to be known--not necessarily in my lifetime . . .\nbut I am not prepared to sit in the grotesque pillory they put me into,\nfor all time; for the simple reason that I inherited from my father and\nmother a name of high distinction in literature and art, and I cannot for\neternity allow that name to be degraded. I don\'t defend my conduct. I\nexplain it. Also there are in my letter certain passages which deal with\nmy mental development in prison, and the inevitable evolution of my\ncharacter and intellectual attitude towards life that has taken place:\nand I want you and others who still stand by me and have affection for me\nto know exactly in what mood and manner I hope to face the world. Of\ncourse from one point of view I know that on the day of my release I\nshall be merely passing from one prison into another, and there are times\nwhen the whole world seems to me no larger than my cell and as full of\nterror for me. Still I believe that at the beginning God made a world\nfor each separate man, and in that world which is within us we should\nseek to live. At any rate you will read those parts of my letter with\nless pain than the others. Of course I need not remind you how fluid a\nthing thought is with me--with us all--and of what an evanescent\nsubstance are our emotions made. Still I do see a sort of possible goal\ntowards which, through art, I may progress. It is not unlikely that you\nmay help me.\n\nAs regards the mode of copying: of course it is too long for any\namanuensis to attempt: and your own handwriting, dear Robbie, in your\nlast letter seems specially designed to remind me that the task is not to\nbe yours. I think that the only thing to do is to be thoroughly modern\nand to have it typewritten. Of course the MS. should not pass out of\nyour control, but could you not get Mrs. Marshall to send down one of her\ntype-writing girls--women are the most reliable as they have no memory\nfor the important--to Hornton Street or Phillimore Gardens, to do it\nunder your supervision? I assure you that the typewriting machine, when\nplayed with expression, is not more annoying than the piano when played\nby a sister or near relation. Indeed many among those most devoted to\ndomesticity prefer it. I wish the copy to be done not on tissue paper\nbut on good paper such as is used for plays, and a wide rubricated margin\nshould be left for corrections . . . If the copy is done at Hornton\nStreet the lady typewriter might be fed through a lattice in the door,\nlike the Cardinals when they elect a Pope; till she comes out on the\nbalcony and can say to the world: "Habet Mundus Epistolam"; for indeed it\nis an Encyclical letter, and as the Bulls of the Holy Father are named\nfrom their opening words, it may be spoken of as the "_Epistola_: _in\nCarcere et Vinculis_." . . . In point of fact, Robbie, prison life makes\none see people and things as they really are. That is why it turns one\nto stone. It is the people outside who are deceived by the illusions of\na life in constant motion. They revolve with life and contribute to its\nunreality. We who are immobile both see and know. Whether or not the\nletter does good to narrow natures and hectic brains, to me it has done\ngood. I have "cleansed my bosom of much perilous stuff"; to borrow a\nphrase from the poet whom you and I once thought of rescuing from the\nPhilistines. I need not remind you that mere expression is to an artist\nthe supreme and only mode of life. It is by utterance that we live. Of\nthe many, many things for which I have to thank the Governor there is\nnone for which I am more grateful than for his permission to write fully\nand at as great a length as I desire. For nearly two years I had within\na growing burden of bitterness, of much of which I have now got rid. On\nthe other side of the prison wall there are some poor black\nsoot-besmirched trees that are just breaking out into buds of an almost\nshrill green. I know quite well what they are going through. They are\nfinding expression.\n\nEver yours,\n\nOSCAR.\n\n--_Letter from Reading Prison to Robert Ross_.\n\n\n\n\nCAREY STREET\n\n\nWhere there is sorrow there in holy ground. Some day people will realise\nwhat that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and\nnatures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison\nto the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long\ndreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and\nsimple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,\nhandcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven\nfor smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode\nof love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or\nstooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single\nword to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment\nwhether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a\nthing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it\nin the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that\nI am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept\nsweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been\nprofitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of\nthose who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my\nmouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed\nfor me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and\nbrought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the\nwounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to\nunderstand, not merely how beautiful ---\'s action was, but why it meant\nso much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will\nrealise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .\n\nThe poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we\nare. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man\'s life, a misfortune, a\ncasuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of\none who is in prison as of one who is \'in trouble\' simply. It is the\nphrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love\nin it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison\nmakes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air\nand sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome\nwhen we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our\nvery children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are\nbroken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are\ndenied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring\nbalm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain.--_De\nProfundis_.\n\n\n\n\nSORROW WEARS NO MASK\n\n\nSorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable, is at once the\ntype and test of all great art. What the artist is always looking for is\nthe mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in\nwhich the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals. Of\nsuch modes of existence there are not a few: youth and the arts\npreoccupied with youth may serve as a model for us at one moment: at\nanother we may like to think that, in its subtlety and sensitiveness of\nimpression, its suggestion of a spirit dwelling in external things and\nmaking its raiment of earth and air, of mist and city alike, and in its\nmorbid sympathy of its moods, and tones, and colours, modern landscape\nart is realising for us pictorially what was realised in such plastic\nperfection by the Greeks. Music, in which all subject is absorbed in\nexpression and cannot be separated from it, is a complex example, and a\nflower or a child a simple example, of what I mean; but sorrow is the\nultimate type both in life and art.\n\nBehind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and\ncallous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike\npleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between\nthe essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the\nresemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to\nthe form itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than\nit is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to the\nmoon and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a thing\nwith itself: the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made\nincarnate: the body instinct with spirit. For this reason there is no\ntruth comparable to sorrow. There are times when sorrow seems to me to\nbe the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the\nappetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow\nhave the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there\nis pain.\n\nMore than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary\nreality. I have said of myself that I was one who stood in symbolic\nrelations to the art and culture of my age. There is not a single\nwretched man in this wretched place along with me who does not stand in\nsymbolic relation to the very secret of life. For the secret of life is\nsuffering. It is what is hidden behind everything. When we begin to\nlive, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what is bitter so bitter, that\nwe inevitably direct all our desires towards pleasures, and seek not\nmerely for a \'month or twain to feed on honeycomb,\' but for all our years\nto taste no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be\nstarving the soul.--_De Profundis_.\n\n\n\n\nVITA NUOVA\n\n\nFar off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It is so\nwonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer\'s day.\nAnd so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different. One\ncan realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long\nhours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep \'heights\nthat the soul is competent to gain.\' We think in eternity, but we move\nslowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I\nneed not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back\ninto one\'s cell, and into the cell of one\'s heart, with such strange\ninsistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one\'s house for\ntheir coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave\nwhose slave it is one\'s chance or choice to be.\n\nAnd, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe, it\nis true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness and\ncomfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is for\nme, who begin the day by going down on my knees and washing the floor of\nmy cell. For prison life with its endless privations and restrictions\nmakes one rebellious. The most terrible thing about it is not that it\nbreaks one\'s heart--hearts are made to be broken--but that it turns one\'s\nheart to stone. One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of\nbrass and a lip of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And he\nwho is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of\nwhich the Church is so fond--so rightly fond, I dare say--for in life as\nin art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the soul, and\nshuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these lessons here, if I\nam to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet are on\nthe right road and my face set towards \'the gate which is called\nbeautiful,\' though I may fall many times in the mire and often in the\nmist go astray.\n\nThis New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call it,\nis of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by means of\ndevelopment, and evolution, of my former life. I remember when I was at\nOxford saying to one of my friends as we were strolling round Magdalen\'s\nnarrow bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before I took my\ndegree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden\nof the world, and that I was going out into the world with that passion\nin my soul. And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake\nwas that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to\nme the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its\nshadow and its gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair,\nsuffering, tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain,\nremorse that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns, self-\nabasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head, the\nanguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its own drink\nputs gall:--all these were things of which I was afraid. And as I had\ndetermined to know nothing of them, I was forced to taste each of them in\nturn, to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no other food at\nall.\n\nI don\'t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it\nto the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no\npleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup\nof wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived\non honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong\nbecause it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half\nof the garden had its secrets for me also.--_De Profundis_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GRAND ROMANTIC\n\n\nIt is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most romantic, in the\nsense of most real. The world had always loved the saint as being the\nnearest possible approach to the perfection of God. Christ, through some\ndivine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being\nthe nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. His primary\ndesire was not to reform people, any more than his primary desire was to\na relieve suffering. To turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest\nman was not his aim. He would have thought little of the Prisoners\' Aid\nSociety and other modern movements of the kind. The conversion of a\npublican into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a great\nachievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the world he regarded\nsin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy things and modes\nof perfection.\n\nIt seems a very dangerous idea. It is--all great ideas are dangerous.\nThat it was Christ\'s creed admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed\nI don\'t doubt myself.\n\nOf course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he\nwould be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is\nthe moment of initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one\nalters one\'s past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say\nin their Gnomic aphorisms, \'Even the Gods cannot alter the past.\' Christ\nshowed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing\nhe could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said--I feel quite\ncertain about it--that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and\nwept, he made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-\nherding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments\nin his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. I dare\nsay one has to go to prison to understand it. If so, it may be worth\nwhile going to prison.\n\nThere is something so unique about Christ. Of course just as there are\nfalse dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of sudden\nsunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into squandering its gold\nbefore its time, and make some foolish bird call to its mate to build on\nbarren boughs, so there were Christians before Christ. For that we\nshould be grateful. The unfortunate thing is that there have been none\nsince. I make one exception, St. Francis of Assisi. But then God had\ngiven him at his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite young\nhad in mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the soul of\na poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not\ndifficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like him. We do not\nrequire the Liber Conformitatum to teach us that the life of St. Francis\nwas the true _Imitatio Christi_, a poem compared to which the book of\nthat name is merely prose.\n\nIndeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is just like\na work of art. He does not really teach one anything, but by being\nbrought into his presence one becomes something. And everybody is\npredestined to his presence. Once at least in his life each man walks\nwith Christ to Emmaus.--_De Profundis_.\n\n\n\n\nCLAPHAM JUNCTION\n\n\nMy lot has been one of public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of\nruin, of disgrace, but I am not worthy of it--not yet, at any rate. I\nremember that I used to say that I thought I could bear a real tragedy if\nit came to me with purple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the\ndreadful thing about modernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment\nof comedy, so that the great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or\nlacking in style. It is quite true about modernity. It has probably\nalways been true about actual life. It is said that all martyrdoms\nseemed mean to the looker on. The nineteenth century is no exception to\nthe rule.\n\nEverything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in\nstyle; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow.\nWe are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to\nappeal to the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought\ndown here from London. From two o\'clock till half-past two on that day I\nhad to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress,\nand handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the\nhospital ward without a moment\'s notice being given to me. Of all\npossible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they\nlaughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could\nexceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was.\nAs soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an\nhour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering\nmob.--_De Profundis_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROKEN RESOLUTION\n\n\nWe call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any single\nthing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire purify, and\nthat the Earth is mother to us all. As a consequence our art is of the\nmoon and plays with shadows, while Greek art is of the sun and deals\ndirectly with things. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is\npurification, and I want to go back to them and live in their presence.\n\nOf course to one so modern as I am, \'Enfant de mon siecle,\' merely to\nlook at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I\nthink that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the\nlilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind stir\ninto restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss\nthe pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for\nme. Linnaeus fell on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the\nfirst time the long heath of some English upland made yellow with the\ntawny aromatic brooms of the common furze; and I know that for me, to\nwhom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of\nsome rose. It has always been so with me from my boyhood. There is not\na single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or the curve of a\nshell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very soul of things, my\nnature does not answer. Like Gautier, I have always been one of those\n\'pour qui le monde visible existe.\'\n\nStill, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though\nit may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and\nshapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I\ndesire to become in harmony. I have grown tired of the articulate\nutterances of men and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life,\nthe Mystical in Nature this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely\nnecessary for me to find it somewhere.\n\nAll trials are trials for one\'s life, just as all sentences are sentences\nof death; and three times have I been tried. The first time I left the\nbox to be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house of\ndetention, the third time to pass into a prison for two years. Society,\nas we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer;\nbut Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have\nclefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence\nI may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may\nwalk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my\nfootprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in\ngreat waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.--_De Profundis_.\n\n\n\n\nDOMESTICITY AT BERNEVAL\n\n\nDIEPPE,\n\nJune 1st, 1897.\n\nMy Dear Robbie,--I propose to live at Berneval. I will _not_ live in\nParis, nor in Algiers, nor in Southern Italy. Surely a house for a year,\nif I choose to continue there, at 32 pounds is absurdly cheap. I could\nnot live cheaper at a hotel. You are penny foolish, and pound foolish--a\ndreadful state for my financier to be in. I told M. Bonnet that my\nbankers were MM. Ross et Cie, banquiers celebres de Londres--and now you\nsuddenly show me that you have no place among the great financial people,\nand are afraid of any investment over 31 pounds, 10s. It is merely the\nextra ten shillings that baffles you. As regards people living on me,\nand the extra bedrooms: dear boy, there is no one who would stay with me\nbut you, and you will pay your own bill at the hotel for meals; and as\nfor your room, the charge will be nominally 2 francs 50 centimes a night,\nbut there will be lots of extras such as _bougie, bain_ and hot water,\nand all cigarettes smoked in the bedrooms are charged extra. And if any\none does not take the extras, of course he is charged more:--\n\n Bain, 25 C.\n\n Pas de bain, 50 C.\n\n Cigarette dans la chambre a coucher, 10 C. pour chaque cigarette.\n\n Pas de cigarette dans la chambre a coucher, 20 C. pour chaque\n cigarette.\n\nThis is the system at all good hotels. If Reggie comes, of course he\nwill pay a little more: I cannot forget that he gave me a dressing-case.\nSphinxes pay a hundred per cent more than any one else--they always did\nin Ancient Egypt.\n\nBut seriously, Robbie, if people stayed with me, of course they would pay\ntheir _pension_ at the hotel. They would have to: except architects. A\nmodern architect, like modern architecture, doesn\'t pay. But then I know\nonly one architect and you are hiding him somewhere from me. I believe\nthat he is as extinct as the dado, of which now only fossil remains are\nfound, chiefly in the vicinity of Brompton, where they are sometimes\ndiscovered by workmen excavating. They are usually embedded in the old\nLincrusta Walton strata, and are rare consequently.\n\nI visited M. le Cure {4} to-day. He has a charming house and a _jardin\npotager_. He showed me over the church. To-morrow I sit in the choir by\nhis special invitation. He showed me all his vestments. To-morrow he\nreally will be charming in red. He knows I am a heretic, and believes\nPusey is still alive. He says that God will convert England on account\nof England\'s kindness to _les pretres exiles_ at the time of the\nRevolution. It is to be the reward of that sea-lashed island.\n\nStained glass windows are wanted in the church; he has only six; fourteen\nmore are needed. He gets them at 300 francs--12 pounds--a window in\nParis. I was nearly offering half a dozen, but remembered you, and so\nonly gave him something _pour les pauvres_. You had a narrow escape,\nRobbie. You should be thankful.\n\nI hope the 40 pounds is on its way, and that the 60 pounds will follow. I\nam going to hire a boat. It will save walking and so be an economy in\nthe end. Dear Robbie, I must start well. If the life of St. Francis of\nAssissi awaits me I shall not be angry. Worse things might happen.\n\nYours,\n\nOSCAR.\n\n--_Letter to Robert Ross_.\n\n\n\n\nA VISIT TO THE POPE\n\n\nc/o COOK & SON, PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROME,\n\nApril 16th, 1900.\n\nMy dear Robbie,--I simply cannot write. It is too horrid, not of me, but\nto me. It is a mode of paralysis--a _cacoethes tacendi_--the one form\nthat malady takes in me.\n\nWell, all passed over very successfully. Palermo, where we stayed eight\ndays, was lovely. The most beautifully situated town in the world--it\ndreams away its life in the _concha d\'oro_, the exquisite valley that\nlies between two seas. The lemon groves and the orange gardens were so\nentirely perfect that I became quite a Pre-Raphaelite, and loathed the\nordinary impressionists whose muddly souls and blurred intelligences\nwould have rendered, but by mud and blur, those "golden lamps hung in a\ngreen night" that filled me with such joy. The elaborate and exquisite\ndetail of the true Pre-Raphaelite is the compensation they offer us for\nthe absence of motion; literature and motion being the only arts that are\nnot immobile.\n\nThen nowhere, not even at Ravenna, have I seen such mosaics as in the\nCapella Palatine, which from pavement to domed ceiling is all gold: one\nreally feels as if one was sitting in the heart of a great honey-comb\nlooking at angels singing: and _looking_ at angels, or indeed at people,\nsinging, is much nicer than listening to them, for this reason: the great\nartists always give to their angels lutes without strings, pipes without\nvent-holes, and reeds through which no wind can wander or make\nwhistlings.\n\nMonreale you have heard of--with its cloisters and cathedral: we often\ndrove there.\n\nI also made great friends with a young seminarist, who lived in the\ncathedral of Palermo--he and eleven others, in little rooms beneath the\nroof, like birds.\n\nEvery day he showed me all over the cathedral, I knelt before the huge\nporphyry sarcophagus in which Frederick the Second lies: it is a sublime\nbare monstrous thing--blood-coloured, and held up by lions who have\ncaught some of the rage of the great Emperor\'s restless soul. At first\nmy young friend, Giuseppe Loverdi, gave me information; but on the third\nday I gave information to him, and re-wrote history as usual, and told\nhim all about the supreme King and his Court of Poets, and the terrible\nbook that he never wrote. His reason for entering the church was\nsingularly mediaeval. I asked him why he thought of becoming a\n_clerico_, and how. He answered: "My father is a cook and most poor; and\nwe are many at home, so it seemed to me a good thing that there should be\nin so small a house as ours, one mouth less to feed; for though I am\nslim, I eat much, too much, alas! I fear."\n\nI told him to be comforted, because God used poverty often as a means of\nbringing people to Him, and used riches never, or rarely; so Giuseppe was\ncomforted, and I gave him a little book of devotion, very pretty, and\nwith far more pictures than prayers in it--so of great service to\nGiuseppe whose eyes are beautiful. I also gave him many _lire_, and\nprophesied for him a Cardinal\'s hat, if he remained very good and never\nforgot me.\n\nAt Naples we stopped three days: most of my friends are, as you know, in\nprison, but I met some of nice memory.\n\nWe came to Rome on Holy Thursday. H--- left on Saturday for Gland--and\nyesterday, to the terror of Grissell {5} and all the Papal Court, I\nappeared in the front rank of the pilgrims in the Vatican, and got the\nblessing of the Holy Father--a blessing they would have denied me.\n\nHe was wonderful as he was carried past me on his throne--not of flesh\nand blood, but a white soul robed in white and an artist as well as a\nsaint--the only instance in history, if the newspapers are to be\nbelieved. I have seen nothing like the extraordinary grace of his\ngestures as he rose, from moment to moment, to bless--possibly the\npilgrims, but certainly me.\n\nTree should see him. It is his only chance.\n\nI was deeply impressed, and my walking-stick showed signs of budding,\nwould have budded, indeed, only at the door of the Chapel it was taken\nfrom me by the Knave of Spades. This strange prohibition is, of course,\nin honour of Tannhauser.\n\nHow did I get the ticket? By a miracle, of course. I thought it was\nhopeless and made no effort of any kind. On Saturday afternoon at five\no\'clock H--- and I went to have tea at the Hotel de l\'Europe. Suddenly,\nas I was eating buttered toast, a man--or what seemed to be one--dressed\nlike a hotel porter entered and asked me would I like to see the Pope on\nEaster Day. I bowed my head humbly and said "Non sum dignus," or words\nto that effect. He at once produced a ticket!\n\nWhen I tell you that his countenance was of supernatural ugliness, and\nthat the price of the ticket was thirty pieces of silver, I need say no\nmore.\n\nAn equally curious thing is that whenever I pass the hotel, which I do\nconstantly, I see the same man. Scientists call that phenomenon an\nobsession of the visual nerve. You and I know better.\n\nOn the afternoon of Easter Day I heard Vespers at the Lateran: music\nquite lovely. At the close, a Bishop in red, and with red gloves--such\nas Pater talks of in _Gaston de Latour_--came out on the balcony and\nshowed us the Relics. He was swarthy, and wore a yellow mitre. A\nsinister mediaeval man, but superbly Gothic, just like the bishops carved\non stalls or on portals: and when one thinks that once people mocked at\nstained-glass attitudes! they are the only attitudes for the clothes. The\nsight of the Bishop, whom I watched with fascination, filled me with the\ngreat sense of the realism of Gothic art. Neither in Greek art nor in\nGothic art is there any pose. Posing was invented by bad\nportrait-painters; and the first person who posed was a stock-broker, and\nhe has gone on posing ever since.\n\nI send you a photograph I took on Palm Sunday at Palermo. Do send me\nsome of yours, and love me always, and try to read this letter.\n\nKindest regards to your dear mother.\n\nAlways,\n\nOSCAR.\n\n--_Letter to Robert Ross_.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n{1} "The Influence of Pater and Matthew Arnold in the Prose-Writings of\nOscar Wilde," by Ernst Bendz. London: H. Grevel & Co., 1914.\n\n{2} "The Eighteen Nineties: A Review of Art and Idea at the Close of the\nNineteenth Century," by Holbrook Jackson. London: Grant Richards Ltd.,\n1913.\n\n{3} Mortimer Menpes.\n\n{4} M. Constant Trop-Hardy, died at Berneval, March 2, 1898.\n\n{5} Hartwell de la Garde Grissell, a Papal Chamberlain.\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED PROSE OF OSCAR WILDE***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 1338.txt or 1338.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/3/3/1338\n\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,\nset forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to\ncopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to\nprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, The Soul of Man, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: The Soul of Man\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: September 26, 2014 [eBook #1017]\n[This file was first posted on August 10, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUL OF MAN***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1909 Arthur L. Humphreys edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n [Picture: Book cover]\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nSOUL OF MAN\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n LONDON\n ARTHUR L. HUMPREYS\n 1900\n\n * * * * *\n\n _Second Impression_\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUL OF MAN\n\n\nTHE chief advantage that would result from the establishment of Socialism\nis, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from that\nsordid necessity of living for others which, in the present condition of\nthings, presses so hardly upon almost everybody. In fact, scarcely\nanyone at all escapes.\n\nNow and then, in the course of the century, a great man of science, like\nDarwin; a great poet, like Keats; a fine critical spirit, like M. Renan;\na supreme artist, like Flaubert, has been able to isolate himself, to\nkeep himself out of reach of the clamorous claims of others, to stand\n‘under the shelter of the wall,’ as Plato puts it, and so to realise the\nperfection of what was in him, to his own incomparable gain, and to the\nincomparable and lasting gain of the whole world. These, however, are\nexceptions. The majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and\nexaggerated altruism—are forced, indeed, so to spoil them. They find\nthemselves surrounded by hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by hideous\nstarvation. It is inevitable that they should be strongly moved by all\nthis. The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man’s\nintelligence; and, as I pointed out some time ago in an article on the\nfunction of criticism, it is much more easy to have sympathy with\nsuffering than it is to have sympathy with thought. Accordingly, with\nadmirable, though misdirected intentions, they very seriously and very\nsentimentally set themselves to the task of remedying the evils that they\nsee. But their remedies do not cure the disease: they merely prolong it.\nIndeed, their remedies are part of the disease.\n\nThey try to solve the problem of poverty, for instance, by keeping the\npoor alive; or, in the case of a very advanced school, by amusing the\npoor.\n\nBut this is not a solution: it is an aggravation of the difficulty. The\nproper aim is to try and reconstruct society on such a basis that poverty\nwill be impossible. And the altruistic virtues have really prevented the\ncarrying out of this aim. Just as the worst slave-owners were those who\nwere kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of the system\nbeing realised by those who suffered from it, and understood by those who\ncontemplated it, so, in the present state of things in England, the\npeople who do most harm are the people who try to do most good; and at\nlast we have had the spectacle of men who have really studied the problem\nand know the life—educated men who live in the East End—coming forward\nand imploring the community to restrain its altruistic impulses of\ncharity, benevolence, and the like. They do so on the ground that such\ncharity degrades and demoralises. They are perfectly right. Charity\ncreates a multitude of sins.\n\nThere is also this to be said. It is immoral to use private property in\norder to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of\nprivate property. It is both immoral and unfair.\n\nUnder Socialism all this will, of course, be altered. There will be no\npeople living in fetid dens and fetid rags, and bringing up unhealthy,\nhunger-pinched children in the midst of impossible and absolutely\nrepulsive surroundings. The security of society will not depend, as it\ndoes now, on the state of the weather. If a frost comes we shall not\nhave a hundred thousand men out of work, tramping about the streets in a\nstate of disgusting misery, or whining to their neighbours for alms, or\ncrowding round the doors of loathsome shelters to try and secure a hunch\nof bread and a night’s unclean lodging. Each member of the society will\nshare in the general prosperity and happiness of the society, and if a\nfrost comes no one will practically be anything the worse.\n\nUpon the other hand, Socialism itself will be of value simply because it\nwill lead to Individualism.\n\nSocialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting\nprivate property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for\ncompetition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly\nhealthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of\nthe community. It will, in fact, give Life its proper basis and its\nproper environment. But for the full development of Life to its highest\nmode of perfection, something more is needed. What is needed is\nIndividualism. If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are\nGovernments armed with economic power as they are now with political\npower; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last\nstate of man will be worse than the first. At present, in consequence of\nthe existence of private property, a great many people are enabled to\ndevelop a certain very limited amount of Individualism. They are either\nunder no necessity to work for their living, or are enabled to choose the\nsphere of activity that is really congenial to them, and gives them\npleasure. These are the poets, the philosophers, the men of science, the\nmen of culture—in a word, the real men, the men who have realised\nthemselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation. Upon\nthe other hand, there are a great many people who, having no private\nproperty of their own, and being always on the brink of sheer starvation,\nare compelled to do the work of beasts of burden, to do work that is\nquite uncongenial to them, and to which they are forced by the\nperemptory, unreasonable, degrading Tyranny of want. These are the poor,\nand amongst them there is no grace of manner, or charm of speech, or\ncivilisation, or culture, or refinement in pleasures, or joy of life.\nFrom their collective force Humanity gains much in material prosperity.\nBut it is only the material result that it gains, and the man who is poor\nis in himself absolutely of no importance. He is merely the\ninfinitesimal atom of a force that, so far from regarding him, crushes\nhim: indeed, prefers him crushed, as in that case he is far more\nobedient.\n\nOf course, it might be said that the Individualism generated under\nconditions of private property is not always, or even as a rule, of a\nfine or wonderful type, and that the poor, if they have not culture and\ncharm, have still many virtues. Both these statements would be quite\ntrue. The possession of private property is very often extremely\ndemoralising, and that is, of course, one of the reasons why Socialism\nwants to get rid of the institution. In fact, property is really a\nnuisance. Some years ago people went about the country saying that\nproperty has duties. They said it so often and so tediously that, at\nlast, the Church has begun to say it. One hears it now from every\npulpit. It is perfectly true. Property not merely has duties, but has\nso many duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore. It\ninvolves endless claims upon one, endless attention to business, endless\nbother. If property had simply pleasures, we could stand it; but its\nduties make it unbearable. In the interest of the rich we must get rid\nof it. The virtues of the poor may be readily admitted, and are much to\nbe regretted. We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity.\nSome of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never\ngrateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and\nrebellious. They are quite right to be so. Charity they feel to be a\nridiculously inadequate mode of partial restitution, or a sentimental\ndole, usually accompanied by some impertinent attempt on the part of the\nsentimentalist to tyrannise over their private lives. Why should they be\ngrateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table? They should\nbe seated at the board, and are beginning to know it. As for being\ndiscontented, a man who would not be discontented with such surroundings\nand such a low mode of life would be a perfect brute. Disobedience, in\nthe eyes of anyone who has read history, is man’s original virtue. It is\nthrough disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience\nand through rebellion. Sometimes the poor are praised for being thrifty.\nBut to recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It\nis like advising a man who is starving to eat less. For a town or\ncountry labourer to practise thrift would be absolutely immoral. Man\nshould not be ready to show that he can live like a badly-fed animal. He\nshould decline to live like that, and should either steal or go on the\nrates, which is considered by many to be a form of stealing. As for\nbegging, it is safer to beg than to take, but it is finer to take than to\nbeg. No: a poor man who is ungrateful, unthrifty, discontented, and\nrebellious, is probably a real personality, and has much in him. He is\nat any rate a healthy protest. As for the virtuous poor, one can pity\nthem, of course, but one cannot possibly admire them. They have made\nprivate terms with the enemy, and sold their birthright for very bad\npottage. They must also be extraordinarily stupid. I can quite\nunderstand a man accepting laws that protect private property, and admit\nof its accumulation, as long as he himself is able under those conditions\nto realise some form of beautiful and intellectual life. But it is\nalmost incredible to me how a man whose life is marred and made hideous\nby such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.\n\nHowever, the explanation is not really difficult to find. It is simply\nthis. Misery and poverty are so absolutely degrading, and exercise such\na paralysing effect over the nature of men, that no class is ever really\nconscious of its own suffering. They have to be told of it by other\npeople, and they often entirely disbelieve them. What is said by great\nemployers of labour against agitators is unquestionably true. Agitators\nare a set of interfering, meddling people, who come down to some\nperfectly contented class of the community, and sow the seeds of\ndiscontent amongst them. That is the reason why agitators are so\nabsolutely necessary. Without them, in our incomplete state, there would\nbe no advance towards civilisation. Slavery was put down in America, not\nin consequence of any action on the part of the slaves, or even any\nexpress desire on their part that they should be free. It was put down\nentirely through the grossly illegal conduct of certain agitators in\nBoston and elsewhere, who were not slaves themselves, nor owners of\nslaves, nor had anything to do with the question really. It was,\nundoubtedly, the Abolitionists who set the torch alight, who began the\nwhole thing. And it is curious to note that from the slaves themselves\nthey received, not merely very little assistance, but hardly any sympathy\neven; and when at the close of the war the slaves found themselves free,\nfound themselves indeed so absolutely free that they were free to starve,\nmany of them bitterly regretted the new state of things. To the thinker,\nthe most tragic fact in the whole of the French Revolution is not that\nMarie Antoinette was killed for being a queen, but that the starved\npeasant of the Vendée voluntarily went out to die for the hideous cause\nof feudalism.\n\nIt is clear, then, that no Authoritarian Socialism will do. For while\nunder the present system a very large number of people can lead lives of\na certain amount of freedom and expression and happiness, under an\nindustrial-barrack system, or a system of economic tyranny, nobody would\nbe able to have any such freedom at all. It is to be regretted that a\nportion of our community should be practically in slavery, but to propose\nto solve the problem by enslaving the entire community is childish.\nEvery man must be left quite free to choose his own work. No form of\ncompulsion must be exercised over him. If there is, his work will not be\ngood for him, will not be good in itself, and will not be good for\nothers. And by work I simply mean activity of any kind.\n\nI hardly think that any Socialist, nowadays, would seriously propose that\nan inspector should call every morning at each house to see that each\ncitizen rose up and did manual labour for eight hours. Humanity has got\nbeyond that stage, and reserves such a form of life for the people whom,\nin a very arbitrary manner, it chooses to call criminals. But I confess\nthat many of the socialistic views that I have come across seem to me to\nbe tainted with ideas of authority, if not of actual compulsion. Of\ncourse, authority and compulsion are out of the question. All\nassociation must be quite voluntary. It is only in voluntary\nassociations that man is fine.\n\nBut it may be asked how Individualism, which is now more or less\ndependent on the existence of private property for its development, will\nbenefit by the abolition of such private property. The answer is very\nsimple. It is true that, under existing conditions, a few men who have\nhad private means of their own, such as Byron, Shelley, Browning, Victor\nHugo, Baudelaire, and others, have been able to realise their personality\nmore or less completely. Not one of these men ever did a single day’s\nwork for hire. They were relieved from poverty. They had an immense\nadvantage. The question is whether it would be for the good of\nIndividualism that such an advantage should be taken away. Let us\nsuppose that it is taken away. What happens then to Individualism? How\nwill it benefit?\n\nIt will benefit in this way. Under the new conditions Individualism will\nbe far freer, far finer, and far more intensified than it is now. I am\nnot talking of the great imaginatively-realised Individualism of such\npoets as I have mentioned, but of the great actual Individualism latent\nand potential in mankind generally. For the recognition of private\nproperty has really harmed Individualism, and obscured it, by confusing a\nman with what he possesses. It has led Individualism entirely astray.\nIt has made gain not growth its aim. So that man thought that the\nimportant thing was to have, and did not know that the important thing is\nto be. The true perfection of man lies, not in what man has, but in what\nman is. Private property has crushed true Individualism, and set up an\nIndividualism that is false. It has debarred one part of the community\nfrom being individual by starving them. It has debarred the other part\nof the community from being individual by putting them on the wrong road,\nand encumbering them. Indeed, so completely has man’s personality been\nabsorbed by his possessions that the English law has always treated\noffences against a man’s property with far more severity than offences\nagainst his person, and property is still the test of complete\ncitizenship. The industry necessary for the making money is also very\ndemoralising. In a community like ours, where property confers immense\ndistinction, social position, honour, respect, titles, and other pleasant\nthings of the kind, man, being naturally ambitious, makes it his aim to\naccumulate this property, and goes on wearily and tediously accumulating\nit long after he has got far more than he wants, or can use, or enjoy, or\nperhaps even know of. Man will kill himself by overwork in order to\nsecure property, and really, considering the enormous advantages that\nproperty brings, one is hardly surprised. One’s regret is that society\nshould be constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a\ngroove in which he cannot freely develop what is wonderful, and\nfascinating, and delightful in him—in which, in fact, he misses the true\npleasure and joy of living. He is also, under existing conditions, very\ninsecure. An enormously wealthy merchant may be—often is—at every moment\nof his life at the mercy of things that are not under his control. If\nthe wind blows an extra point or so, or the weather suddenly changes, or\nsome trivial thing happens, his ship may go down, his speculations may go\nwrong, and he finds himself a poor man, with his social position quite\ngone. Now, nothing should be able to harm a man except himself. Nothing\nshould be able to rob a man at all. What a man really has, is what is in\nhim. What is outside of him should be a matter of no importance.\n\nWith the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true,\nbeautiful, healthy Individualism. Nobody will waste his life in\naccumulating things, and the symbols for things. One will live. To live\nis the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.\n\nIt is a question whether we have ever seen the full expression of a\npersonality, except on the imaginative plane of art. In action, we never\nhave. Cæsar, says Mommsen, was the complete and perfect man. But how\ntragically insecure was Cæsar! Wherever there is a man who exercises\nauthority, there is a man who resists authority. Cæsar was very perfect,\nbut his perfection travelled by too dangerous a road. Marcus Aurelius\nwas the perfect man, says Renan. Yes; the great emperor was a perfect\nman. But how intolerable were the endless claims upon him! He staggered\nunder the burden of the empire. He was conscious how inadequate one man\nwas to bear the weight of that Titan and too vast orb. What I mean by a\nperfect man is one who develops under perfect conditions; one who is not\nwounded, or worried or maimed, or in danger. Most personalities have\nbeen obliged to be rebels. Half their strength has been wasted in\nfriction. Byron’s personality, for instance, was terribly wasted in its\nbattle with the stupidity, and hypocrisy, and Philistinism of the\nEnglish. Such battles do not always intensify strength: they often\nexaggerate weakness. Byron was never able to give us what he might have\ngiven us. Shelley escaped better. Like Byron, he got out of England as\nsoon as possible. But he was not so well known. If the English had had\nany idea of what a great poet he really was, they would have fallen on\nhim with tooth and nail, and made his life as unbearable to him as they\npossibly could. But he was not a remarkable figure in society, and\nconsequently he escaped, to a certain degree. Still, even in Shelley the\nnote of rebellion is sometimes too strong. The note of the perfect\npersonality is not rebellion, but peace.\n\nIt will be a marvellous thing—the true personality of man—when we see it.\nIt will grow naturally and simply, flowerlike, or as a tree grows. It\nwill not be at discord. It will never argue or dispute. It will not\nprove things. It will know everything. And yet it will not busy itself\nabout knowledge. It will have wisdom. Its value will not be measured by\nmaterial things. It will have nothing. And yet it will have everything,\nand whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be.\nIt will not be always meddling with others, or asking them to be like\nitself. It will love them because they will be different. And yet while\nit will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing\nhelps us, by being what it is. The personality of man will be very\nwonderful. It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.\n\nIn its development it will be assisted by Christianity, if men desire\nthat; but if men do not desire that, it will develop none the less\nsurely. For it will not worry itself about the past, nor care whether\nthings happened or did not happen. Nor will it admit any laws but its\nown laws; nor any authority but its own authority. Yet it will love\nthose who sought to intensify it, and speak often of them. And of these\nChrist was one.\n\n‘Know thyself’ was written over the portal of the antique world. Over\nthe portal of the new world, ‘Be thyself’ shall be written. And the\nmessage of Christ to man was simply ‘Be thyself.’ That is the secret of\nChrist.\n\nWhen Jesus talks about the poor he simply means personalities, just as\nwhen he talks about the rich he simply means people who have not\ndeveloped their personalities. Jesus moved in a community that allowed\nthe accumulation of private property just as ours does, and the gospel\nthat he preached was not that in such a community it is an advantage for\na man to live on scanty, unwholesome food, to wear ragged, unwholesome\nclothes, to sleep in horrid, unwholesome dwellings, and a disadvantage\nfor a man to live under healthy, pleasant, and decent conditions. Such a\nview would have been wrong there and then, and would, of course, be still\nmore wrong now and in England; for as man moves northward the material\nnecessities of life become of more vital importance, and our society is\ninfinitely more complex, and displays far greater extremes of luxury and\npauperism than any society of the antique world. What Jesus meant, was\nthis. He said to man, ‘You have a wonderful personality. Develop it.\nBe yourself. Don’t imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or\npossessing external things. Your affection is inside of you. If only\nyou could realise that, you would not want to be rich. Ordinary riches\ncan be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of\nyour soul, there are infinitely precious things, that may not be taken\nfrom you. And so, try to so shape your life that external things will\nnot harm you. And try also to get rid of personal property. It involves\nsordid preoccupation, endless industry, continual wrong. Personal\nproperty hinders Individualism at every step.’ It is to be noted that\nJesus never says that impoverished people are necessarily good, or\nwealthy people necessarily bad. That would not have been true. Wealthy\npeople are, as a class, better than impoverished people, more moral, more\nintellectual, more well-behaved. There is only one class in the\ncommunity that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the\npoor. The poor can think of nothing else. That is the misery of being\npoor. What Jesus does say is that man reaches his perfection, not\nthrough what he has, not even through what he does, but entirely through\nwhat he is. And so the wealthy young man who comes to Jesus is\nrepresented as a thoroughly good citizen, who has broken none of the laws\nof his state, none of the commandments of his religion. He is quite\nrespectable, in the ordinary sense of that extraordinary word. Jesus\nsays to him, ‘You should give up private property. It hinders you from\nrealising your perfection. It is a drag upon you. It is a burden. Your\npersonality does not need it. It is within you, and not outside of you,\nthat you will find what you really are, and what you really want.’ To\nhis own friends he says the same thing. He tells them to be themselves,\nand not to be always worrying about other things. What do other things\nmatter? Man is complete in himself. When they go into the world, the\nworld will disagree with them. That is inevitable. The world hates\nIndividualism. But that is not to trouble them. They are to be calm and\nself-centred. If a man takes their cloak, they are to give him their\ncoat, just to show that material things are of no importance. If people\nabuse them, they are not to answer back. What does it signify? The\nthings people say of a man do not alter a man. He is what he is. Public\nopinion is of no value whatsoever. Even if people employ actual\nviolence, they are not to be violent in turn. That would be to fall to\nthe same low level. After all, even in prison, a man can be quite free.\nHis soul can be free. His personality can be untroubled. He can be at\npeace. And, above all things, they are not to interfere with other\npeople or judge them in any way. Personality is a very mysterious thing.\nA man cannot always be estimated by what he does. He may keep the law,\nand yet be worthless. He may break the law, and yet be fine. He may be\nbad, without ever doing anything bad. He may commit a sin against\nsociety, and yet realise through that sin his true perfection.\n\nThere was a woman who was taken in adultery. We are not told the history\nof her love, but that love must have been very great; for Jesus said that\nher sins were forgiven her, not because she repented, but because her\nlove was so intense and wonderful. Later on, a short time before his\ndeath, as he sat at a feast, the woman came in and poured costly perfumes\non his hair. His friends tried to interfere with her, and said that it\nwas an extravagance, and that the money that the perfume cost should have\nbeen expended on charitable relief of people in want, or something of\nthat kind. Jesus did not accept that view. He pointed out that the\nmaterial needs of Man were great and very permanent, but that the\nspiritual needs of Man were greater still, and that in one divine moment,\nand by selecting its own mode of expression, a personality might make\nitself perfect. The world worships the woman, even now, as a saint.\n\nYes; there are suggestive things in Individualism. Socialism annihilates\nfamily life, for instance. With the abolition of private property,\nmarriage in its present form must disappear. This is part of the\nprogramme. Individualism accepts this and makes it fine. It converts\nthe abolition of legal restraint into a form of freedom that will help\nthe full development of personality, and make the love of man and woman\nmore wonderful, more beautiful, and more ennobling. Jesus knew this. He\nrejected the claims of family life, although they existed in his day and\ncommunity in a very marked form. ‘Who is my mother? Who are my\nbrothers?’ he said, when he was told that they wished to speak to him.\nWhen one of his followers asked leave to go and bury his father, ‘Let the\ndead bury the dead,’ was his terrible answer. He would allow no claim\nwhatsoever to be made on personality.\n\nAnd so he who would lead a Christlike life is he who is perfectly and\nabsolutely himself. He may be a great poet, or a great man of science;\nor a young student at a University, or one who watches sheep upon a moor;\nor a maker of dramas, like Shakespeare, or a thinker about God, like\nSpinoza; or a child who plays in a garden, or a fisherman who throws his\nnet into the sea. It does not matter what he is, as long as he realises\nthe perfection of the soul that is within him. All imitation in morals\nand in life is wrong. Through the streets of Jerusalem at the present\nday crawls one who is mad and carries a wooden cross on his shoulders.\nHe is a symbol of the lives that are marred by imitation. Father Damien\nwas Christlike when he went out to live with the lepers, because in such\nservice he realised fully what was best in him. But he was not more\nChristlike than Wagner when he realised his soul in music; or than\nShelley, when he realised his soul in song. There is no one type for\nman. There are as many perfections as there are imperfect men. And\nwhile to the claims of charity a man may yield and yet be free, to the\nclaims of conformity no man may yield and remain free at all.\n\nIndividualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to. As a\nnatural result the State must give up all idea of government. It must\ngive it up because, as a wise man once said many centuries before Christ,\nthere is such a thing as leaving mankind alone; there is no such thing as\ngoverning mankind. All modes of government are failures. Despotism is\nunjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably made for\nbetter things. Oligarchies are unjust to the many, and ochlocracies are\nunjust to the few. High hopes were once formed of democracy; but\ndemocracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for\nthe people. It has been found out. I must say that it was high time,\nfor all authority is quite degrading. It degrades those who exercise it,\nand degrades those over whom it is exercised. When it is violently,\ngrossly, and cruelly used, it produces a good effect, by creating, or at\nany rate bringing out, the spirit of revolt and Individualism that is to\nkill it. When it is used with a certain amount of kindness, and\naccompanied by prizes and rewards, it is dreadfully demoralising.\nPeople, in that case, are less conscious of the horrible pressure that is\nbeing put on them, and so go through their lives in a sort of coarse\ncomfort, like petted animals, without ever realising that they are\nprobably thinking other people’s thoughts, living by other people’s\nstandards, wearing practically what one may call other people’s\nsecond-hand clothes, and never being themselves for a single moment. ‘He\nwho would be free,’ says a fine thinker, ‘must not conform.’ And\nauthority, by bribing people to conform, produces a very gross kind of\nover-fed barbarism amongst us.\n\nWith authority, punishment will pass away. This will be a great gain—a\ngain, in fact, of incalculable value. As one reads history, not in the\nexpurgated editions written for school-boys and passmen, but in the\noriginal authorities of each time, one is absolutely sickened, not by the\ncrimes that the wicked have committed, but by the punishments that the\ngood have inflicted; and a community is infinitely more brutalised by the\nhabitual employment of punishment, than it is by the occurrence of crime.\nIt obviously follows that the more punishment is inflicted the more crime\nis produced, and most modern legislation has clearly recognised this, and\nhas made it its task to diminish punishment as far as it thinks it can.\nWherever it has really diminished it, the results have always been\nextremely good. The less punishment, the less crime. When there is no\npunishment at all, crime will either cease to exist, or, if it occurs,\nwill be treated by physicians as a very distressing form of dementia, to\nbe cured by care and kindness. For what are called criminals nowadays\nare not criminals at all. Starvation, and not sin, is the parent of\nmodern crime. That indeed is the reason why our criminals are, as a\nclass, so absolutely uninteresting from any psychological point of view.\nThey are not marvellous Macbeths and terrible Vautrins. They are merely\nwhat ordinary, respectable, commonplace people would be if they had not\ngot enough to eat. When private property is abolished there will be no\nnecessity for crime, no demand for it; it will cease to exist. Of\ncourse, all crimes are not crimes against property, though such are the\ncrimes that the English law, valuing what a man has more than what a man\nis, punishes with the harshest and most horrible severity, if we except\nthe crime of murder, and regard death as worse than penal servitude, a\npoint on which our criminals, I believe, disagree. But though a crime\nmay not be against property, it may spring from the misery and rage and\ndepression produced by our wrong system of property-holding, and so, when\nthat system is abolished, will disappear. When each member of the\ncommunity has sufficient for his wants, and is not interfered with by his\nneighbour, it will not be an object of any interest to him to interfere\nwith anyone else. Jealousy, which is an extraordinary source of crime in\nmodern life, is an emotion closely bound up with our conceptions of\nproperty, and under Socialism and Individualism will die out. It is\nremarkable that in communistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.\n\nNow as the State is not to govern, it may be asked what the State is to\ndo. The State is to be a voluntary association that will organise\nlabour, and be the manufacturer and distributor of necessary commodities.\nThe State is to make what is useful. The individual is to make what is\nbeautiful. And as I have mentioned the word labour, I cannot help saying\nthat a great deal of nonsense is being written and talked nowadays about\nthe dignity of manual labour. There is nothing necessarily dignified\nabout manual labour at all, and most of it is absolutely degrading. It\nis mentally and morally injurious to man to do anything in which he does\nnot find pleasure, and many forms of labour are quite pleasureless\nactivities, and should be regarded as such. To sweep a slushy crossing\nfor eight hours, on a day when the east wind is blowing is a disgusting\noccupation. To sweep it with mental, moral, or physical dignity seems to\nme to be impossible. To sweep it with joy would be appalling. Man is\nmade for something better than disturbing dirt. All work of that kind\nshould be done by a machine.\n\nAnd I have no doubt that it will be so. Up to the present, man has been,\nto a certain extent, the slave of machinery, and there is something\ntragic in the fact that as soon as man had invented a machine to do his\nwork he began to starve. This, however, is, of course, the result of our\nproperty system and our system of competition. One man owns a machine\nwhich does the work of five hundred men. Five hundred men are, in\nconsequence, thrown out of employment, and, having no work to do, become\nhungry and take to thieving. The one man secures the produce of the\nmachine and keeps it, and has five hundred times as much as he should\nhave, and probably, which is of much more importance, a great deal more\nthan he really wants. Were that machine the property of all, every one\nwould benefit by it. It would be an immense advantage to the community.\nAll unintellectual labour, all monotonous, dull labour, all labour that\ndeals with dreadful things, and involves unpleasant conditions, must be\ndone by machinery. Machinery must work for us in coal mines, and do all\nsanitary services, and be the stoker of steamers, and clean the streets,\nand run messages on wet days, and do anything that is tedious or\ndistressing. At present machinery competes against man. Under proper\nconditions machinery will serve man. There is no doubt at all that this\nis the future of machinery, and just as trees grow while the country\ngentleman is asleep, so while Humanity will be amusing itself, or\nenjoying cultivated leisure—which, and not labour, is the aim of man—or\nmaking beautiful things, or reading beautiful things, or simply\ncontemplating the world with admiration and delight, machinery will be\ndoing all the necessary and unpleasant work. The fact is, that\ncivilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless\nthere are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture\nand contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong,\ninsecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the\nmachine, the future of the world depends. And when scientific men are no\nlonger called upon to go down to a depressing East End and distribute bad\ncocoa and worse blankets to starving people, they will have delightful\nleisure in which to devise wonderful and marvellous things for their own\njoy and the joy of everyone else. There will be great storages of force\nfor every city, and for every house if required, and this force man will\nconvert into heat, light, or motion, according to his needs. Is this\nUtopian? A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth\neven glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is\nalways landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing\na better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.\n\nNow, I have said that the community by means of organisation of machinery\nwill supply the useful things, and that the beautiful things will be made\nby the individual. This is not merely necessary, but it is the only\npossible way by which we can get either the one or the other. An\nindividual who has to make things for the use of others, and with\nreference to their wants and their wishes, does not work with interest,\nand consequently cannot put into his work what is best in him. Upon the\nother hand, whenever a community or a powerful section of a community, or\na government of any kind, attempts to dictate to the artist what he is to\ndo, Art either entirely vanishes, or becomes stereotyped, or degenerates\ninto a low and ignoble form of craft. A work of art is the unique result\nof a unique temperament. Its beauty comes from the fact that the author\nis what he is. It has nothing to do with the fact that other people want\nwhat they want. Indeed, the moment that an artist takes notice of what\nother people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an\nartist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman, an honest or a\ndishonest tradesman. He has no further claim to be considered as an\nartist. Art is the most intense mode of Individualism that the world has\nknown. I am inclined to say that it is the only real mode of\nIndividualism that the world has known. Crime, which, under certain\nconditions, may seem to have created Individualism, must take cognisance\nof other people and interfere with them. It belongs to the sphere of\naction. But alone, without any reference to his neighbours, without any\ninterference, the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and if he does\nnot do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all.\n\nAnd it is to be noted that it is the fact that Art is this intense form\nof Individualism that makes the public try to exercise over it in an\nauthority that is as immoral as it is ridiculous, and as corrupting as it\nis contemptible. It is not quite their fault. The public has always,\nand in every age, been badly brought up. They are continually asking Art\nto be popular, to please their want of taste, to flatter their absurd\nvanity, to tell them what they have been told before, to show them what\nthey ought to be tired of seeing, to amuse them when they feel heavy\nafter eating too much, and to distract their thoughts when they are\nwearied of their own stupidity. Now Art should never try to be popular.\nThe public should try to make itself artistic. There is a very wide\ndifference. If a man of science were told that the results of his\nexperiments, and the conclusions that he arrived at, should be of such a\ncharacter that they would not upset the received popular notions on the\nsubject, or disturb popular prejudice, or hurt the sensibilities of\npeople who knew nothing about science; if a philosopher were told that he\nhad a perfect right to speculate in the highest spheres of thought,\nprovided that he arrived at the same conclusions as were held by those\nwho had never thought in any sphere at all—well, nowadays the man of\nscience and the philosopher would be considerably amused. Yet it is\nreally a very few years since both philosophy and science were subjected\nto brutal popular control, to authority in fact—the authority of either\nthe general ignorance of the community, or the terror and greed for power\nof an ecclesiastical or governmental class. Of course, we have to a very\ngreat extent got rid of any attempt on the part of the community, or the\nChurch, or the Government, to interfere with the individualism of\nspeculative thought, but the attempt to interfere with the individualism\nof imaginative art still lingers. In fact, it does more than linger; it\nis aggressive, offensive, and brutalising.\n\nIn England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the\npublic take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have\nbeen able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read\nit, and consequently do not influence it. The public like to insult\npoets because they are individual, but once they have insulted them, they\nleave them alone. In the case of the novel and the drama, arts in which\nthe public do take an interest, the result of the exercise of popular\nauthority has been absolutely ridiculous. No country produces such\nbadly-written fiction, such tedious, common work in the novel form, such\nsilly, vulgar plays as England. It must necessarily be so. The popular\nstandard is of such a character that no artist can get to it. It is at\nonce too easy and too difficult to be a popular novelist. It is too\neasy, because the requirements of the public as far as plot, style,\npsychology, treatment of life, and treatment of literature are concerned\nare within the reach of the very meanest capacity and the most\nuncultivated mind. It is too difficult, because to meet such\nrequirements the artist would have to do violence to his temperament,\nwould have to write not for the artistic joy of writing, but for the\namusement of half-educated people, and so would have to suppress his\nindividualism, forget his culture, annihilate his style, and surrender\neverything that is valuable in him. In the case of the drama, things are\na little better: the theatre-going public like the obvious, it is true,\nbut they do not like the tedious; and burlesque and farcical comedy, the\ntwo most popular forms, are distinct forms of art. Delightful work may\nbe produced under burlesque and farcical conditions, and in work of this\nkind the artist in England is allowed very great freedom. It is when one\ncomes to the higher forms of the drama that the result of popular control\nis seen. The one thing that the public dislike is novelty. Any attempt\nto extend the subject-matter of art is extremely distasteful to the\npublic; and yet the vitality and progress of art depend in a large\nmeasure on the continual extension of subject-matter. The public dislike\nnovelty because they are afraid of it. It represents to them a mode of\nIndividualism, an assertion on the part of the artist that he selects his\nown subject, and treats it as he chooses. The public are quite right in\ntheir attitude. Art is Individualism, and Individualism is a disturbing\nand disintegrating force. Therein lies its immense value. For what it\nseeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny of\nhabit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine. In Art, the\npublic accept what has been, because they cannot alter it, not because\nthey appreciate it. They swallow their classics whole, and never taste\nthem. They endure them as the inevitable, and as they cannot mar them,\nthey mouth about them. Strangely enough, or not strangely, according to\none’s own views, this acceptance of the classics does a great deal of\nharm. The uncritical admiration of the Bible and Shakespeare in England\nis an instance of what I mean. With regard to the Bible, considerations\nof ecclesiastical authority enter into the matter, so that I need not\ndwell upon the point.\n\nBut in the case of Shakespeare it is quite obvious that the public really\nsee neither the beauties nor the defects of his plays. If they saw the\nbeauties, they would not object to the development of the drama; and if\nthey saw the defects, they would not object to the development of the\ndrama either. The fact is, the public make use of the classics of a\ncountry as a means of checking the progress of Art. They degrade the\nclassics into authorities. They use them as bludgeons for preventing the\nfree expression of Beauty in new forms. They are always asking a writer\nwhy he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not\npaint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of\nthem did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist. A fresh\nmode of Beauty is absolutely distasteful to them, and whenever it appears\nthey get so angry, and bewildered that they always use two stupid\nexpressions—one is that the work of art is grossly unintelligible; the\nother, that the work of art is grossly immoral. What they mean by these\nwords seems to me to be this. When they say a work is grossly\nunintelligible, they mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful\nthing that is new; when they describe a work as grossly immoral, they\nmean that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing that is true.\nThe former expression has reference to style; the latter to\nsubject-matter. But they probably use the words very vaguely, as an\nordinary mob will use ready-made paving-stones. There is not a single\nreal poet or prose-writer of this century, for instance, on whom the\nBritish public have not solemnly conferred diplomas of immorality, and\nthese diplomas practically take the place, with us, of what in France, is\nthe formal recognition of an Academy of Letters, and fortunately make the\nestablishment of such an institution quite unnecessary in England. Of\ncourse, the public are very reckless in their use of the word. That they\nshould have called Wordsworth an immoral poet, was only to be expected.\nWordsworth was a poet. But that they should have called Charles Kingsley\nan immoral novelist is extraordinary. Kingsley’s prose was not of a very\nfine quality. Still, there is the word, and they use it as best they\ncan. An artist is, of course, not disturbed by it. The true artist is a\nman who believes absolutely in himself, because he is absolutely himself.\nBut I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of art in England that\nimmediately on its appearance was recognised by the public, through their\nmedium, which is the public press, as a work that was quite intelligible\nand highly moral, he would begin to seriously question whether in its\ncreation he had really been himself at all, and consequently whether the\nwork was not quite unworthy of him, and either of a thoroughly\nsecond-rate order, or of no artistic value whatsoever.\n\nPerhaps, however, I have wronged the public in limiting them to such\nwords as ‘immoral,’ ‘unintelligible,’ ‘exotic,’ and ‘unhealthy.’ There\nis one other word that they use. That word is ‘morbid.’ They do not use\nit often. The meaning of the word is so simple that they are afraid of\nusing it. Still, they use it sometimes, and, now and then, one comes\nacross it in popular newspapers. It is, of course, a ridiculous word to\napply to a work of art. For what is morbidity but a mood of emotion or a\nmode of thought that one cannot express? The public are all morbid,\nbecause the public can never find expression for anything. The artist is\nnever morbid. He expresses everything. He stands outside his subject,\nand through its medium produces incomparable and artistic effects. To\ncall an artist morbid because he deals with morbidity as his\nsubject-matter is as silly as if one called Shakespeare mad because he\nwrote ‘King Lear.’\n\nOn the whole, an artist in England gains something by being attacked.\nHis individuality is intensified. He becomes more completely himself.\nOf course, the attacks are very gross, very impertinent, and very\ncontemptible. But then no artist expects grace from the vulgar mind, or\nstyle from the suburban intellect. Vulgarity and stupidity are two very\nvivid facts in modern life. One regrets them, naturally. But there they\nare. They are subjects for study, like everything else. And it is only\nfair to state, with regard to modern journalists, that they always\napologise to one in private for what they have written against one in\npublic.\n\nWithin the last few years two other adjectives, it may be mentioned, have\nbeen added to the very limited vocabulary of art-abuse that is at the\ndisposal of the public. One is the word ‘unhealthy,’ the other is the\nword ‘exotic.’ The latter merely expresses the rage of the momentary\nmushroom against the immortal, entrancing, and exquisitely lovely orchid.\nIt is a tribute, but a tribute of no importance. The word ‘unhealthy,’\nhowever, admits of analysis. It is a rather interesting word. In fact,\nit is so interesting that the people who use it do not know what it\nmeans.\n\nWhat does it mean? What is a healthy, or an unhealthy work of art? All\nterms that one applies to a work of art, provided that one applies them\nrationally, have reference to either its style or its subject, or to both\ntogether. From the point of view of style, a healthy work of art is one\nwhose style recognises the beauty of the material it employs, be that\nmaterial one of words or of bronze, of colour or of ivory, and uses that\nbeauty as a factor in producing the æsthetic effect. From the point of\nview of subject, a healthy work of art is one the choice of whose subject\nis conditioned by the temperament of the artist, and comes directly out\nof it. In fine, a healthy work of art is one that has both perfection\nand personality. Of course, form and substance cannot be separated in a\nwork of art; they are always one. But for purposes of analysis, and\nsetting the wholeness of æsthetic impression aside for a moment, we can\nintellectually so separate them. An unhealthy work of art, on the other\nhand, is a work whose style is obvious, old-fashioned, and common, and\nwhose subject is deliberately chosen, not because the artist has any\npleasure in it, but because he thinks that the public will pay him for\nit. In fact, the popular novel that the public calls healthy is always a\nthoroughly unhealthy production; and what the public call an unhealthy\nnovel is always a beautiful and healthy work of art.\n\nI need hardly say that I am not, for a single moment, complaining that\nthe public and the public press misuse these words. I do not see how,\nwith their lack of comprehension of what Art is, they could possibly use\nthem in the proper sense. I am merely pointing out the misuse; and as\nfor the origin of the misuse and the meaning that lies behind it all, the\nexplanation is very simple. It comes from the barbarous conception of\nauthority. It comes from the natural inability of a community corrupted\nby authority to understand or appreciate Individualism. In a word, it\ncomes from that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called Public\nOpinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to control\naction, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control Thought\nor Art.\n\nIndeed, there is much more to be said in favour of the physical force of\nthe public than there is in favour of the public’s opinion. The former\nmay be fine. The latter must be foolish. It is often said that force is\nno argument. That, however, entirely depends on what one wants to prove.\nMany of the most important problems of the last few centuries, such as\nthe continuance of personal government in England, or of feudalism in\nFrance, have been solved entirely by means of physical force. The very\nviolence of a revolution may make the public grand and splendid for a\nmoment. It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is\nmightier than the paving-stone, and can be made as offensive as the\nbrickbat. They at once sought for the journalist, found him, developed\nhim, and made him their industrious and well-paid servant. It is greatly\nto be regretted, for both their sakes. Behind the barricade there may be\nmuch that is noble and heroic. But what is there behind the\nleading-article but prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle? And when\nthese four are joined together they make a terrible force, and constitute\nthe new authority.\n\nIn old days men had the rack. Now they have the press. That is an\nimprovement certainly. But still it is very bad, and wrong, and\ndemoralising. Somebody—was it Burke?—called journalism the fourth\nestate. That was true at the time, no doubt. But at the present moment\nit really is the only estate. It has eaten up the other three. The\nLords Temporal say nothing, the Lords Spiritual have nothing to say, and\nthe House of Commons has nothing to say and says it. We are dominated by\nJournalism. In America the President reigns for four years, and\nJournalism governs for ever and ever. Fortunately in America Journalism\nhas carried its authority to the grossest and most brutal extreme. As a\nnatural consequence it has begun to create a spirit of revolt. People\nare amused by it, or disgusted by it, according to their temperaments.\nBut it is no longer the real force it was. It is not seriously treated.\nIn England, Journalism, not, except in a few well-known instances, having\nbeen carried to such excesses of brutality, is still a great factor, a\nreally remarkable power. The tyranny that it proposes to exercise over\npeople’s private lives seems to me to be quite extraordinary. The fact\nis, that the public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything,\nexcept what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having\ntradesman-like habits, supplies their demands. In centuries before ours\nthe public nailed the ears of journalists to the pump. That was quite\nhideous. In this century journalists have nailed their own ears to the\nkeyhole. That is much worse. And what aggravates the mischief is that\nthe journalists who are most to blame are not the amusing journalists who\nwrite for what are called Society papers. The harm is done by the\nserious, thoughtful, earnest journalists, who solemnly, as they are doing\nat present, will drag before the eyes of the public some incident in the\nprivate life of a great statesman, of a man who is a leader of political\nthought as he is a creator of political force, and invite the public to\ndiscuss the incident, to exercise authority in the matter, to give their\nviews, and not merely to give their views, but to carry them into action,\nto dictate to the man upon all other points, to dictate to his party, to\ndictate to his country; in fact, to make themselves ridiculous,\noffensive, and harmful. The private lives of men and women should not be\ntold to the public. The public have nothing to do with them at all. In\nFrance they manage these things better. There they do not allow the\ndetails of the trials that take place in the divorce courts to be\npublished for the amusement or criticism of the public. All that the\npublic are allowed to know is that the divorce has taken place and was\ngranted on petition of one or other or both of the married parties\nconcerned. In France, in fact, they limit the journalist, and allow the\nartist almost perfect freedom. Here we allow absolute freedom to the\njournalist, and entirely limit the artist. English public opinion, that\nis to say, tries to constrain and impede and warp the man who makes\nthings that are beautiful in effect, and compels the journalist to retail\nthings that are ugly, or disgusting, or revolting in fact, so that we\nhave the most serious journalists in the world, and the most indecent\nnewspapers. It is no exaggeration to talk of compulsion. There are\npossibly some journalists who take a real pleasure in publishing horrible\nthings, or who, being poor, look to scandals as forming a sort of\npermanent basis for an income. But there are other journalists, I feel\ncertain, men of education and cultivation, who really dislike publishing\nthese things, who know that it is wrong to do so, and only do it because\nthe unhealthy conditions under which their occupation is carried on\noblige them to supply the public with what the public wants, and to\ncompete with other journalists in making that supply as full and\nsatisfying to the gross popular appetite as possible. It is a very\ndegrading position for any body of educated men to be placed in, and I\nhave no doubt that most of them feel it acutely.\n\nHowever, let us leave what is really a very sordid side of the subject,\nand return to the question of popular control in the matter of Art, by\nwhich I mean Public Opinion dictating to the artist the form which he is\nto use, the mode in which he is to use it, and the materials with which\nhe is to work. I have pointed out that the arts which have escaped best\nin England are the arts in which the public have not been interested.\nThey are, however, interested in the drama, and as a certain advance has\nbeen made in the drama within the last ten or fifteen years, it is\nimportant to point out that this advance is entirely due to a few\nindividual artists refusing to accept the popular want of taste as their\nstandard, and refusing to regard Art as a mere matter of demand and\nsupply. With his marvellous and vivid personality, with a style that has\nreally a true colour-element in it, with his extraordinary power, not\nover mere mimicry but over imaginative and intellectual creation, Mr\nIrving, had his sole object been to give the public what they wanted,\ncould have produced the commonest plays in the commonest manner, and made\nas much success and money as a man could possibly desire. But his object\nwas not that. His object was to realise his own perfection as an artist,\nunder certain conditions, and in certain forms of Art. At first he\nappealed to the few: now he has educated the many. He has created in the\npublic both taste and temperament. The public appreciate his artistic\nsuccess immensely. I often wonder, however, whether the public\nunderstand that that success is entirely due to the fact that he did not\naccept their standard, but realised his own. With their standard the\nLyceum would have been a sort of second-rate booth, as some of the\npopular theatres in London are at present. Whether they understand it or\nnot the fact however remains, that taste and temperament have, to a\ncertain extent been created in the public, and that the public is capable\nof developing these qualities. The problem then is, why do not the\npublic become more civilised? They have the capacity. What stops them?\n\nThe thing that stops them, it must be said again, is their desire to\nexercise authority over the artist and over works of art. To certain\ntheatres, such as the Lyceum and the Haymarket, the public seem to come\nin a proper mood. In both of these theatres there have been individual\nartists, who have succeeded in creating in their audiences—and every\ntheatre in London has its own audience—the temperament to which Art\nappeals. And what is that temperament? It is the temperament of\nreceptivity. That is all.\n\nIf a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority\nover it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot\nreceive any artistic impression from it at all. The work of art is to\ndominate the spectator: the spectator is not to dominate the work of art.\nThe spectator is to be receptive. He is to be the violin on which the\nmaster is to play. And the more completely he can suppress his own silly\nviews, his own foolish prejudices, his own absurd ideas of what Art\nshould be, or should not be, the more likely he is to understand and\nappreciate the work of art in question. This is, of course, quite\nobvious in the case of the vulgar theatre-going public of English men and\nwomen. But it is equally true of what are called educated people. For\nan educated person’s ideas of Art are drawn naturally from what Art has\nbeen, whereas the new work of art is beautiful by being what Art has\nnever been; and to measure it by the standard of the past is to measure\nit by a standard on the rejection of which its real perfection depends.\nA temperament capable of receiving, through an imaginative medium, and\nunder imaginative conditions, new and beautiful impressions, is the only\ntemperament that can appreciate a work of art. And true as this is in\nthe case of the appreciation of sculpture and painting, it is still more\ntrue of the appreciation of such arts as the drama. For a picture and a\nstatue are not at war with Time. They take no count of its succession.\nIn one moment their unity may be apprehended. In the case of literature\nit is different. Time must be traversed before the unity of effect is\nrealised. And so, in the drama, there may occur in the first act of the\nplay something whose real artistic value may not be evident to the\nspectator till the third or fourth act is reached. Is the silly fellow\nto get angry and call out, and disturb the play, and annoy the artists?\nNo. The honest man is to sit quietly, and know the delightful emotions\nof wonder, curiosity, and suspense. He is not to go to the play to lose\na vulgar temper. He is to go to the play to realise an artistic\ntemperament. He is to go to the play to gain an artistic temperament.\nHe is not the arbiter of the work of art. He is one who is admitted to\ncontemplate the work of art, and, if the work be fine, to forget in its\ncontemplation and the egotism that mars him—the egotism of his ignorance,\nor the egotism of his information. This point about the drama is hardly,\nI think, sufficiently recognised. I can quite understand that were\n‘Macbeth’ produced for the first time before a modern London audience,\nmany of the people present would strongly and vigorously object to the\nintroduction of the witches in the first act, with their grotesque\nphrases and their ridiculous words. But when the play is over one\nrealises that the laughter of the witches in ‘Macbeth’ is as terrible as\nthe laughter of madness in ‘Lear,’ more terrible than the laughter of\nIago in the tragedy of the Moor. No spectator of art needs a more\nperfect mood of receptivity than the spectator of a play. The moment he\nseeks to exercise authority he becomes the avowed enemy of Art and of\nhimself. Art does not mind. It is he who suffers.\n\nWith the novel it is the same thing. Popular authority and the\nrecognition of popular authority are fatal. Thackeray’s ‘Esmond’ is a\nbeautiful work of art because he wrote it to please himself. In his\nother novels, in ‘Pendennis,’ in ‘Philip,’ in ‘Vanity Fair’ even, at\ntimes, he is too conscious of the public, and spoils his work by\nappealing directly to the sympathies of the public, or by directly\nmocking at them. A true artist takes no notice whatever of the public.\nThe public are to him non-existent. He has no poppied or honeyed cakes\nthrough which to give the monster sleep or sustenance. He leaves that to\nthe popular novelist. One incomparable novelist we have now in England,\nMr George Meredith. There are better artists in France, but France has\nno one whose view of life is so large, so varied, so imaginatively true.\nThere are tellers of stories in Russia who have a more vivid sense of\nwhat pain in fiction may be. But to him belongs philosophy in fiction.\nHis people not merely live, but they live in thought. One can see them\nfrom myriad points of view. They are suggestive. There is soul in them\nand around them. They are interpretative and symbolic. And he who made\nthem, those wonderful quickly-moving figures, made them for his own\npleasure, and has never asked the public what they wanted, has never\ncared to know what they wanted, has never allowed the public to dictate\nto him or influence him in any way but has gone on intensifying his own\npersonality, and producing his own individual work. At first none came\nto him. That did not matter. Then the few came to him. That did not\nchange him. The many have come now. He is still the same. He is an\nincomparable novelist.\n\nWith the decorative arts it is not different. The public clung with\nreally pathetic tenacity to what I believe were the direct traditions of\nthe Great Exhibition of international vulgarity, traditions that were so\nappalling that the houses in which people lived were only fit for blind\npeople to live in. Beautiful things began to be made, beautiful colours\ncame from the dyer’s hand, beautiful patterns from the artist’s brain,\nand the use of beautiful things and their value and importance were set\nforth. The public were really very indignant. They lost their temper.\nThey said silly things. No one minded. No one was a whit the worse. No\none accepted the authority of public opinion. And now it is almost\nimpossible to enter any modern house without seeing some recognition of\ngood taste, some recognition of the value of lovely surroundings, some\nsign of appreciation of beauty. In fact, people’s houses are, as a rule,\nquite charming nowadays. People have been to a very great extent\ncivilised. It is only fair to state, however, that the extraordinary\nsuccess of the revolution in house-decoration and furniture and the like\nhas not really been due to the majority of the public developing a very\nfine taste in such matters. It has been chiefly due to the fact that the\ncraftsmen of things so appreciated the pleasure of making what was\nbeautiful, and woke to such a vivid consciousness of the hideousness and\nvulgarity of what the public had previously wanted, that they simply\nstarved the public out. It would be quite impossible at the present\nmoment to furnish a room as rooms were furnished a few years ago, without\ngoing for everything to an auction of second-hand furniture from some\nthird-rate lodging-house. The things are no longer made. However they\nmay object to it, people must nowadays have something charming in their\nsurroundings. Fortunately for them, their assumption of authority in\nthese art-matters came to entire grief.\n\nIt is evident, then, that all authority in such things is bad. People\nsometimes inquire what form of government is most suitable for an artist\nto live under. To this question there is only one answer. The form of\ngovernment that is most suitable to the artist is no government at all.\nAuthority over him and his art is ridiculous. It has been stated that\nunder despotisms artists have produced lovely work. This is not quite\nso. Artists have visited despots, not as subjects to be tyrannised over,\nbut as wandering wonder-makers, as fascinating vagrant personalities, to\nbe entertained and charmed and suffered to be at peace, and allowed to\ncreate. There is this to be said in favour of the despot, that he, being\nan individual, may have culture, while the mob, being a monster, has\nnone. One who is an Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush\nfor a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw\nmud. And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the emperor. In\nfact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all. But\nthere is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all authority\nis equally bad.\n\nThere are three kinds of despots. There is the despot who tyrannises\nover the body. There is the despot who tyrannises over the soul. There\nis the despot who tyrannises over the soul and body alike. The first is\ncalled the Prince. The second is called the Pope. The third is called\nthe People. The Prince may be cultivated. Many Princes have been. Yet\nin the Prince there is danger. One thinks of Dante at the bitter feast\nin Verona, of Tasso in Ferrara’s madman’s cell. It is better for the\nartist not to live with Princes. The Pope may be cultivated. Many Popes\nhave been; the bad Popes have been. The bad Popes loved Beauty, almost\nas passionately, nay, with as much passion as the good Popes hated\nThought. To the wickedness of the Papacy humanity owes much. The\ngoodness of the Papacy owes a terrible debt to humanity. Yet, though the\nVatican has kept the rhetoric of its thunders, and lost the rod of its\nlightning, it is better for the artist not to live with Popes. It was a\nPope who said of Cellini to a conclave of Cardinals that common laws and\ncommon authority were not made for men such as he; but it was a Pope who\nthrust Cellini into prison, and kept him there till he sickened with\nrage, and created unreal visions for himself, and saw the gilded sun\nenter his room, and grew so enamoured of it that he sought to escape, and\ncrept out from tower to tower, and falling through dizzy air at dawn,\nmaimed himself, and was by a vine-dresser covered with vine leaves, and\ncarried in a cart to one who, loving beautiful things, had care of him.\nThere is danger in Popes. And as for the People, what of them and their\nauthority? Perhaps of them and their authority one has spoken enough.\nTheir authority is a thing blind, deaf, hideous, grotesque, tragic,\namusing, serious, and obscene. It is impossible for the artist to live\nwith the People. All despots bribe. The people bribe and brutalise.\nWho told them to exercise authority? They were made to live, to listen,\nand to love. Someone has done them a great wrong. They have marred\nthemselves by imitation of their inferiors. They have taken the sceptre\nof the Prince. How should they use it? They have taken the triple tiara\nof the Pope. How should they carry its burden? They are as a clown\nwhose heart is broken. They are as a priest whose soul is not yet born.\nLet all who love Beauty pity them. Though they themselves love not\nBeauty, yet let them pity themselves. Who taught them the trick of\ntyranny?\n\nThere are many other things that one might point out. One might point\nout how the Renaissance was great, because it sought to solve no social\nproblem, and busied itself not about such things, but suffered the\nindividual to develop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had\ngreat and individual artists, and great and individual men. One might\npoint out how Louis XIV., by creating the modern state, destroyed the\nindividualism of the artist, and made things monstrous in their monotony\nof repetition, and contemptible in their conformity to rule, and\ndestroyed throughout all France all those fine freedoms of expression\nthat had made tradition new in beauty, and new modes one with antique\nform. But the past is of no importance. The present is of no\nimportance. It is with the future that we have to deal. For the past is\nwhat man should not have been. The present is what man ought not to be.\nThe future is what artists are.\n\nIt will, of course, be said that such a scheme as is set forth here is\nquite unpractical, and goes against human nature. This is perfectly\ntrue. It is unpractical, and it goes against human nature. This is why\nit is worth carrying out, and that is why one proposes it. For what is a\npractical scheme? A practical scheme is either a scheme that is already\nin existence, or a scheme that could be carried out under existing\nconditions. But it is exactly the existing conditions that one objects\nto; and any scheme that could accept these conditions is wrong and\nfoolish. The conditions will be done away with, and human nature will\nchange. The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that\nit changes. Change is the one quality we can predicate of it. The\nsystems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human nature,\nand not on its growth and development. The error of Louis XIV. was that\nhe thought human nature would always be the same. The result of his\nerror was the French Revolution. It was an admirable result. All the\nresults of the mistakes of governments are quite admirable.\n\nIt is to be noted also that Individualism does not come to man with any\nsickly cant about duty, which merely means doing what other people want\nbecause they want it; or any hideous cant about self-sacrifice, which is\nmerely a survival of savage mutilation. In fact, it does not come to man\nwith any claims upon him at all. It comes naturally and inevitably out\nof man. It is the point to which all development tends. It is the\ndifferentiation to which all organisms grow. It is the perfection that\nis inherent in every mode of life, and towards which every mode of life\nquickens. And so Individualism exercises no compulsion over man. On the\ncontrary, it says to man that he should suffer no compulsion to be\nexercised over him. It does not try to force people to be good. It\nknows that people are good when they are let alone. Man will develop\nIndividualism out of himself. Man is now so developing Individualism.\nTo ask whether Individualism is practical is like asking whether\nEvolution is practical. Evolution is the law of life, and there is no\nevolution except towards Individualism. Where this tendency is not\nexpressed, it is a case of artificially-arrested growth, or of disease,\nor of death.\n\nIndividualism will also be unselfish and unaffected. It has been pointed\nout that one of the results of the extraordinary tyranny of authority is\nthat words are absolutely distorted from their proper and simple meaning,\nand are used to express the obverse of their right signification. What\nis true about Art is true about Life. A man is called affected,\nnowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress. But in doing that he is\nacting in a perfectly natural manner. Affectation, in such matters,\nconsists in dressing according to the views of one’s neighbour, whose\nviews, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely\nstupid. Or a man is called selfish if he lives in the manner that seems\nto him most suitable for the full realisation of his own personality; if,\nin fact, the primary aim of his life is self-development. But this is\nthe way in which everyone should live. Selfishness is not living as one\nwishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And\nunselfishness is letting other people’s lives alone, not interfering with\nthem. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute\nuniformity of type. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as\na delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not\nselfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does\nnot think at all. It is grossly selfish to require of ones neighbour\nthat he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions. Why\nshould he? If he can think, he will probably think differently. If he\ncannot think, it is monstrous to require thought of any kind from him. A\nred rose is not selfish because it wants to be a red rose. It would be\nhorribly selfish if it wanted all the other flowers in the garden to be\nboth red and roses. Under Individualism people will be quite natural and\nabsolutely unselfish, and will know the meanings of the words, and\nrealise them in their free, beautiful lives. Nor will men be egotistic\nas they are now. For the egotist is he who makes claims upon others, and\nthe Individualist will not desire to do that. It will not give him\npleasure. When man has realised Individualism, he will also realise\nsympathy and exercise it freely and spontaneously. Up to the present man\nhas hardly cultivated sympathy at all. He has merely sympathy with pain,\nand sympathy with pain is not the highest form of sympathy. All sympathy\nis fine, but sympathy with suffering is the least fine mode. It is\ntainted with egotism. It is apt to become morbid. There is in it a\ncertain element of terror for our own safety. We become afraid that we\nourselves might be as the leper or as the blind, and that no man would\nhave care of us. It is curiously limiting, too. One should sympathise\nwith the entirety of life, not with life’s sores and maladies merely, but\nwith life’s joy and beauty and energy and health and freedom. The wider\nsympathy is, of course, the more difficult. It requires more\nunselfishness. Anybody can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend,\nbut it requires a very fine nature—it requires, in fact, the nature of a\ntrue Individualist—to sympathise with a friend’s success.\n\nIn the modern stress of competition and struggle for place, such sympathy\nis naturally rare, and is also very much stifled by the immoral ideal of\nuniformity of type and conformity to rule which is so prevalent\neverywhere, and is perhaps most obnoxious in England.\n\nSympathy with pain there will, of course, always be. It is one of the\nfirst instincts of man. The animals which are individual, the higher\nanimals, that is to say, share it with us. But it must be remembered\nthat while sympathy with joy intensifies the sum of joy in the world,\nsympathy with pain does not really diminish the amount of pain. It may\nmake man better able to endure evil, but the evil remains. Sympathy with\nconsumption does not cure consumption; that is what Science does. And\nwhen Socialism has solved the problem of poverty, and Science solved the\nproblem of disease, the area of the sentimentalists will be lessened, and\nthe sympathy of man will be large, healthy, and spontaneous. Man will\nhave joy in the contemplation of the joyous life of others.\n\nFor it is through joy that the Individualism of the future will develop\nitself. Christ made no attempt to reconstruct society, and consequently\nthe Individualism that he preached to man could be realised only through\npain or in solitude. The ideals that we owe to Christ are the ideals of\nthe man who abandons society entirely, or of the man who resists society\nabsolutely. But man is naturally social. Even the Thebaid became\npeopled at last. And though the cenobite realises his personality, it is\noften an impoverished personality that he so realises. Upon the other\nhand, the terrible truth that pain is a mode through which man may\nrealise himself exercises a wonderful fascination over the world.\nShallow speakers and shallow thinkers in pulpits and on platforms often\ntalk about the world’s worship of pleasure, and whine against it. But it\nis rarely in the world’s history that its ideal has been one of joy and\nbeauty. The worship of pain has far more often dominated the world.\nMediævalism, with its saints and martyrs, its love of self-torture, its\nwild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its\nwhipping with rods—Mediævalism is real Christianity, and the mediæval\nChrist is the real Christ. When the Renaissance dawned upon the world,\nand brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of\nliving, men could not understand Christ. Even Art shows us that. The\npainters of the Renaissance drew Christ as a little boy playing with\nanother boy in a palace or a garden, or lying back in his mother’s arms,\nsmiling at her, or at a flower, or at a bright bird; or as a noble,\nstately figure moving nobly through the world; or as a wonderful figure\nrising in a sort of ecstasy from death to life. Even when they drew him\ncrucified they drew him as a beautiful God on whom evil men had inflicted\nsuffering. But he did not preoccupy them much. What delighted them was\nto paint the men and women whom they admired, and to show the loveliness\nof this lovely earth. They painted many religious pictures—in fact, they\npainted far too many, and the monotony of type and motive is wearisome,\nand was bad for art. It was the result of the authority of the public in\nart-matters, and is to be deplored. But their soul was not in the\nsubject. Raphael was a great artist when he painted his portrait of the\nPope. When he painted his Madonnas and infant Christs, he is not a great\nartist at all. Christ had no message for the Renaissance, which was\nwonderful because it brought an ideal at variance with his, and to find\nthe presentation of the real Christ we must go to mediæval art. There he\nis one maimed and marred; one who is not comely to look on, because\nBeauty is a joy; one who is not in fair raiment, because that may be a\njoy also: he is a beggar who has a marvellous soul; he is a leper whose\nsoul is divine; he needs neither property nor health; he is a God\nrealising his perfection through pain.\n\nThe evolution of man is slow. The injustice of men is great. It was\nnecessary that pain should be put forward as a mode of self-realisation.\nEven now, in some places in the world, the message of Christ is\nnecessary. No one who lived in modern Russia could possibly realise his\nperfection except by pain. A few Russian artists have realised\nthemselves in Art; in a fiction that is mediæval in character, because\nits dominant note is the realisation of men through suffering. But for\nthose who are not artists, and to whom there is no mode of life but the\nactual life of fact, pain is the only door to perfection. A Russian who\nlives happily under the present system of government in Russia must\neither believe that man has no soul, or that, if he has, it is not worth\ndeveloping. A Nihilist who rejects all authority, because he knows\nauthority to be evil, and welcomes all pain, because through that he\nrealises his personality, is a real Christian. To him the Christian\nideal is a true thing.\n\nAnd yet, Christ did not revolt against authority. He accepted the\nimperial authority of the Roman Empire and paid tribute. He endured the\necclesiastical authority of the Jewish Church, and would not repel its\nviolence by any violence of his own. He had, as I said before, no scheme\nfor the reconstruction of society. But the modern world has schemes. It\nproposes to do away with poverty and the suffering that it entails. It\ndesires to get rid of pain, and the suffering that pain entails. It\ntrusts to Socialism and to Science as its methods. What it aims at is an\nIndividualism expressing itself through joy. This Individualism will be\nlarger, fuller, lovelier than any Individualism has ever been. Pain is\nnot the ultimate mode of perfection. It is merely provisional and a\nprotest. It has reference to wrong, unhealthy, unjust surroundings.\nWhen the wrong, and the disease, and the injustice are removed, it will\nhave no further place. It will have done its work. It was a great work,\nbut it is almost over. Its sphere lessens every day.\n\nNor will man miss it. For what man has sought for is, indeed, neither\npain nor pleasure, but simply Life. Man has sought to live intensely,\nfully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on\nothers, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to\nhim, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure\nis Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When man is happy, he is in\nharmony with himself and his environment. The new Individualism, for\nwhose service Socialism, whether it wills it or not, is working, will be\nperfect harmony. It will be what the Greeks sought for, but could not,\nexcept in Thought, realise completely, because they had slaves, and fed\nthem; it will be what the Renaissance sought for, but could not realise\ncompletely except in Art, because they had slaves, and starved them. It\nwill be complete, and through it each man will attain to his perfection.\nThe new Individualism is the new Hellenism.\n\n * * * * *\n\n _Reprinted from the_ ‘_Fortnightly Review_,’\n _by permission of Messrs Chapman and Hall_.\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUL OF MAN***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 1017-0.txt or 1017-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/1/1017\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Lady Windermere\'s Fan, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Lady Windermere\'s Fan\n A Play about a Good Woman\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: October 26, 2014 [eBook #790]\n[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1917 Methuen & Co. Ltd edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN\n\n\n A PLAY\n ABOUT A GOOD WOMAN\n\n BY\n\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n _Sixteenth Edition_\n\n_First Published_ _1893_\n_First Issued by Methuen & Co. Ltd._ (_Limited Editions on _1908_\nHand-made Paper and Japanese Vellum_) _February_\n_Third Edition_ (_F’cap_ 8_vo_, 5_s._ _net_) _September_ _1909_\n_Fourth Edition_ (5_s._ _net_) _June_ _1910_\n_Fifth Edition_ (_F’cap_ 8_vo_, 1_s._ _net_) _November 3rd_ _1911_\n_Sixth Edition_ (1_s._ _net_) _November_ _1911_\n_Eighth Edition_ (1_s._ _net_) _1912_, _Ninth and Tenth\nEditions_ (1_s._ _net_) _1913_, _Eleventh Edition_ (1_s._\n_net_) _1914_, _Twelfth Edition_ (1_s._ _net_) _1915_,\n_Thirteenth Edition_ (1_s._ _net_) _1916_, _Fourteenth and\nFifteenth Edition_ (1_s._ _net_) _1917_\n_Sixteenth Edition_ (5_s._ _net_) _1917_\n\n_The literary and dramatic rights of_ “_Lady Windermere’s Fan_” _belong\nto Sir George Alexander_, _by arrangement with whom this play is included\nin this edition_. _The acting version_ (_Samuel French_) _does not\ncontain the complete text_.\n\n * * * * *\n\n TO\n THE DEAR MEMORY\n OF\n ROBERT EARL OF LYTTON\n IN AFFECTION\n AND\n ADMIRATION\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTHE PERSONS OF THE PLAY\n\n\nLord Windermere\n\nLord Darlington\n\nLord Augustus Lorton\n\nMr. Dumby\n\nMr. Cecil Graham\n\nMr. Hopper\n\nParker, Butler\n\n * * * * *\n\nLady Windermere\n\nThe Duchess of Berwick\n\nLady Agatha Carlisle\n\nLady Plymdale\n\nLady Stutfield\n\nLady Jedburgh\n\nMrs. Cowper-Cowper\n\nMrs. Erlynne\n\nRosalie, Maid\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCENES OF THE PLAY\n\nACT I. _Morning-room in Lord Windermere’s\n house_.\nACT II. _Drawing-room in Lord Windermere’s\n house_.\nACT III. _Lord Darlington’s rooms_.\nACT IV. _Same as Act I._\nTIME: _The Present_.\nPLACE: _London_.\n\n_The action of the play takes place within twenty-four hours_, _beginning\non a Tuesday afternoon at five o’clock_, _and ending the next day at_\n1.30 _p.m._\n\n\n\n\nLONDON: ST. JAMES’S THEATRE\n\n\n _Lessee and Manager_: _Mr. George Alexander_\n _February_ 22_nd_, 1892.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE _Mr. George Alexander_.\nLORD DARLINGTON _Mr. Nutcombe Gould_.\nLORD AUGUSTUS LORTON _Mr. H. H. Vincent_.\nMR. CECIL GRAHAM _Mr. Ben Webster_.\nMR. DUMBY _Mr. Vane-Tempest_.\nMR. HOPPER _Mr. Alfred Holles_.\nPARKER (_Butler_) _Mr. V. Sansbury_.\nLADY WINDERMERE _Miss Lily Hanbury_.\nTHE DUCHESS OF BERWICK _Miss Fanny Coleman_.\nLADY AGATHA CARLISLE _Miss Laura Graves_.\nLADY PLYMDALE _Miss Granville_.\nLADY JEDBURGH _Miss B. Page_.\nLADY STUTFIELD _Miss Madge Girdlestone_.\nMRS. COWPER-COWPER _Miss A. de Winton_.\nMRS. ERLYNNE _Miss Marion Terry_.\nROSALIE (_Maid_) _Miss Winifred Dolan_.\n\n\n\n\nFIRST ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_Morning-room of Lord Windermere’s house in Carlton House Terrace_.\n_Doors C. and R. Bureau with books and papers R._ _Sofa with small\ntea-table L._ _Window opening on to terrace L._ _Table R._\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _is at table R._, _arranging roses in a blue bowl_.]\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER.]\n\nPARKER. Is your ladyship at home this afternoon?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes—who has called?\n\nPARKER. Lord Darlington, my lady.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Hesitates for a moment_.] Show him up—and I’m at\nhome to any one who calls.\n\nPARKER. Yes, my lady.\n\n [_Exit C._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. It’s best for me to see him before to-night. I’m glad\nhe’s come.\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER _C._]\n\nPARKER. Lord Darlington,\n\n[_Enter_ LORD DARLINGTON _C._]\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. How do you do, Lady Windermere?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How do you do, Lord Darlington? No, I can’t shake\nhands with you. My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren’t they\nlovely? They came up from Selby this morning.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. They are quite perfect. [_Sees a fan lying on the\ntable_.] And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Do. Pretty, isn’t it! It’s got my name on it, and\neverything. I have only just seen it myself. It’s my husband’s birthday\npresent to me. You know to-day is my birthday?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. No? Is it really?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes, I’m of age to-day. Quite an important day in my\nlife, isn’t it? That is why I am giving this party to-night. Do sit\ndown. [_Still arranging flowers_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Sitting down_.] I wish I had known it was your\nbirthday, Lady Windermere. I would have covered the whole street in\nfront of your house with flowers for you to walk on. They are made for\nyou.\n\n [_A short pause_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington, you annoyed me last night at the\nForeign Office. I am afraid you are going to annoy me again.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I, Lady Windermere?\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER _and_ FOOTMAN _C._, _with tray and tea things_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Put it there, Parker. That will do. [_Wipes her hands\nwith her pocket-handkerchief_, _goes to tea-table_, _and sits down_.]\nWon’t you come over, Lord Darlington?\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER _C._]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Takes chair and goes across L.C._] I am quite\nmiserable, Lady Windermere. You must tell me what I did. [_Sits down at\ntable L._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Well, you kept paying me elaborate compliments the\nwhole evening.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Smiling_.] Ah, nowadays we are all of us so hard up,\nthat the only pleasant things to pay _are_ compliments. They’re the only\nthings we _can_ pay.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Shaking her head_.] No, I am talking very seriously.\nYou mustn’t laugh, I am quite serious. I don’t like compliments, and I\ndon’t see why a man should think he is pleasing a woman enormously when\nhe says to her a whole heap of things that he doesn’t mean.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Ah, but I did mean them. [_Takes tea which she offers\nhim_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Gravely_.] I hope not. I should be sorry to have to\nquarrel with you, Lord Darlington. I like you very much, you know that.\nBut I shouldn’t like you at all if I thought you were what most other men\nare. Believe me, you are better than most other men, and I sometimes\nthink you pretend to be worse.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. We all have our little vanities, Lady Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why do you make that your special one? [_Still seated\nat table L._]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Still seated L.C._] Oh, nowadays so many conceited\npeople go about Society pretending to be good, that I think it shows\nrather a sweet and modest disposition to pretend to be bad. Besides,\nthere is this to be said. If you pretend to be good, the world takes you\nvery seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn’t. Such is the\nastounding stupidity of optimism.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Don’t you _want_ the world to take you seriously then,\nLord Darlington?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. No, not the world. Who are the people the world takes\nseriously? All the dull people one can think of, from the Bishops down\nto the bores. I should like _you_ to take me very seriously, Lady\nWindermere, _you_ more than any one else in life.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why—why me?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_After a slight hesitation_.] Because I think we\nmight be great friends. Let us be great friends. You may want a friend\nsome day.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why do you say that?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Oh!—we all want friends at times.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I think we’re very good friends already, Lord\nDarlington. We can always remain so as long as you don’t—\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Don’t what?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Don’t spoil it by saying extravagant silly things to\nme. You think I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I have something of the\nPuritan in me. I was brought up like that. I am glad of it. My mother\ndied when I was a mere child. I lived always with Lady Julia, my\nfather’s elder sister, you know. She was stern to me, but she taught me\nwhat the world is forgetting, the difference that there is between what\nis right and what is wrong. _She_ allowed of no compromise. _I_ allow\nof none.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. My dear Lady Windermere!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Leaning back on the sofa_.] You look on me as being\nbehind the age.—Well, I am! I should be sorry to be on the same level as\nan age like this.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You think the age very bad?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. Nowadays people seem to look on life as a\nspeculation. It is not a speculation. It is a sacrament. Its ideal is\nLove. Its purification is sacrifice.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Smiling_.] Oh, anything is better than being\nsacrificed!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Leaning forward_.] Don’t say that.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I do say it. I feel it—I know it.\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER _C._]\n\nPARKER. The men want to know if they are to put the carpets on the\nterrace for to-night, my lady?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You don’t think it will rain, Lord Darlington, do you?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I won’t hear of its raining on your birthday!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Tell them to do it at once, Parker.\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER _C._]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Still seated_.] Do you think then—of course I am\nonly putting an imaginary instance—do you think that in the case of a\nyoung married couple, say about two years married, if the husband\nsuddenly becomes the intimate friend of a woman of—well, more than\ndoubtful character—is always calling upon her, lunching with her, and\nprobably paying her bills—do you think that the wife should not console\nherself?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Frowning_.] Console herself?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Yes, I think she should—I think she has the right.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Because the husband is vile—should the wife be vile\nalso?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Vileness is a terrible word, Lady Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. It is a terrible thing, Lord Darlington.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Do you know I am afraid that good people do a great\ndeal of harm in this world. Certainly the greatest harm they do is that\nthey make badness of such extraordinary importance. It is absurd to\ndivide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.\nI take the side of the charming, and you, Lady Windermere, can’t help\nbelonging to them.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Now, Lord Darlington. [_Rising and crossing R._,\n_front of him_.] Don’t stir, I am merely going to finish my flowers.\n[_Goes to table R.C._]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Rising and moving chair_.] And I must say I think\nyou are very hard on modern life, Lady Windermere. Of course there is\nmuch against it, I admit. Most women, for instance, nowadays, are rather\nmercenary.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Don’t talk about such people.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Well then, setting aside mercenary people, who, of\ncourse, are dreadful, do you think seriously that women who have\ncommitted what the world calls a fault should never be forgiven?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Standing at table_.] I think they should never be\nforgiven.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. And men? Do you think that there should be the same\nlaws for men as there are for women?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Certainly!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I think life too complex a thing to be settled by these\nhard and fast rules.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. If we had ‘these hard and fast rules,’ we should find\nlife much more simple.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You allow of no exceptions?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. None!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are, Lady\nWindermere!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. The adjective was unnecessary, Lord Darlington.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I couldn’t help it. I can resist everything except\ntemptation.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You have the modern affectation of weakness.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Looking at her_.] It’s only an affectation, Lady\nWindermere.\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER _C._]\n\nPARKER. The Duchess of Berwick and Lady Agatha Carlisle.\n\n[_Enter the_ DUCHESS OF BERWICK and LADY AGATHA CARLISLE _C._]\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER _C._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Coming down C._, _and shaking hands_.] Dear\nMargaret, I am so pleased to see you. You remember Agatha, don’t you?\n[_Crossing L.C._] How do you do, Lord Darlington? I won’t let you know\nmy daughter, you are far too wicked.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Don’t say that, Duchess. As a wicked man I am a\ncomplete failure. Why, there are lots of people who say I have never\nreally done anything wrong in the whole course of my life. Of course\nthey only say it behind my back.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Isn’t he dreadful? Agatha, this is Lord Darlington.\nMind you don’t believe a word he says. [LORD DARLINGTON _crosses R.C._]\nNo, no tea, thank you, dear. [_Crosses and sits on sofa_.] We have just\nhad tea at Lady Markby’s. Such bad tea, too. It was quite undrinkable.\nI wasn’t at all surprised. Her own son-in-law supplies it. Agatha is\nlooking forward so much to your ball to-night, dear Margaret.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Seated L.C._] Oh, you mustn’t think it is going to\nbe a ball, Duchess. It is only a dance in honour of my birthday. A\nsmall and early.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Standing L.C._] Very small, very early, and very\nselect, Duchess.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_On sofa L._] Of course it’s going to be select.\nBut we know _that_, dear Margaret, about _your_ house. It is really one\nof the few houses in London where I can take Agatha, and where I feel\nperfectly secure about dear Berwick. I don’t know what society is coming\nto. The most dreadful people seem to go everywhere. They certainly come\nto my parties—the men get quite furious if one doesn’t ask them. Really,\nsome one should make a stand against it.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. _I_ will, Duchess. I will have no one in my house\nabout whom there is any scandal.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_R.C._] Oh, don’t say that, Lady Windermere. I\nshould never be admitted! [_Sitting_.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Oh, men don’t matter. With women it is different.\nWe’re good. Some of us are, at least. But we are positively getting\nelbowed into the corner. Our husbands would really forget our existence\nif we didn’t nag at them from time to time, just to remind them that we\nhave a perfect legal right to do so.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. It’s a curious thing, Duchess, about the game of\nmarriage—a game, by the way, that is going out of fashion—the wives hold\nall the honours, and invariably lose the odd trick.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. The odd trick? Is that the husband, Lord\nDarlington?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. It would be rather a good name for the modern husband.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Dear Lord Darlington, how thoroughly depraved you\nare!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington is trivial.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Ah, don’t say that, Lady Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why do you _talk_ so trivially about life, then?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Because I think that life is far too important a thing\never to talk seriously about it. [_Moves up C._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. What does he mean? Do, as a concession to my poor\nwits, Lord Darlington, just explain to me what you really mean.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Coming down back of table_.] I think I had better\nnot, Duchess. Nowadays to be intelligible is to be found out. Good-bye!\n[_Shakes hands with_ DUCHESS.] And now—[_goes up stage_] Lady\nWindermere, good-bye. I may come to-night, mayn’t I? Do let me come.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Standing up stage with_ LORD DARLINGTON.] Yes,\ncertainly. But you are not to say foolish, insincere things to people.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Smiling_.] Ah! you are beginning to reform me. It\nis a dangerous thing to reform any one, Lady Windermere. [_Bows_, _and\nexit C._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Who has risen_, _goes C._] What a charming,\nwicked creature! I like him so much. I’m quite delighted he’s gone!\nHow sweet you’re looking! Where _do_ you get your gowns? And now I must\ntell you how sorry I am for you, dear Margaret. [_Crosses to sofa and\nsits with_ LADY WINDERMERE.] Agatha, darling!\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma. [_Rises_.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Will you go and look over the photograph album that\nI see there?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma. [_Goes to table up L._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Dear girl! She is so fond of photographs of\nSwitzerland. Such a pure taste, I think. But I really am so sorry for\nyou, Margaret.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Smiling_.] Why, Duchess?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Oh, on account of that horrid woman. She dresses so\nwell, too, which makes it much worse, sets such a dreadful example.\nAugustus—you know my disreputable brother—such a trial to us all—well,\nAugustus is completely infatuated about her. It is quite scandalous, for\nshe is absolutely inadmissible into society. Many a woman has a past,\nbut I am told that she has at least a dozen, and that they all fit.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Whom are you talking about, Duchess?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. About Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne? I never heard of her, Duchess. And what\n_has_ she to do with me?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. My poor child! Agatha, darling!\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Will you go out on the terrace and look at the\nsunset?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\n [_Exit through window_, _L._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Sweet girl! So devoted to sunsets! Shows such\nrefinement of feeling, does it not? After all, there is nothing like\nNature, is there?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. But what is it, Duchess? Why do you talk to me about\nthis person?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Don’t you really know? I assure you we’re all so\ndistressed about it. Only last night at dear Lady Jansen’s every one was\nsaying how extraordinary it was that, of all men in London, Windermere\nshould behave in such a way.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. My husband—what has _he_ got to do with any woman of\nthat kind?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Ah, what indeed, dear? That is the point. He goes\nto see her continually, and stops for hours at a time, and while he is\nthere she is not at home to any one. Not that many ladies call on her,\ndear, but she has a great many disreputable men friends—my own brother\nparticularly, as I told you—and that is what makes it so dreadful about\nWindermere. We looked upon _him_ as being such a model husband, but I am\nafraid there is no doubt about it. My dear nieces—you know the Saville\ngirls, don’t you?—such nice domestic creatures—plain, dreadfully plain,\nbut so good—well, they’re always at the window doing fancy work, and\nmaking ugly things for the poor, which I think so useful of them in these\ndreadful socialistic days, and this terrible woman has taken a house in\nCurzon Street, right opposite them—such a respectable street, too! I\ndon’t know what we’re coming to! And they tell me that Windermere goes\nthere four and five times a week—they _see_ him. They can’t help it—and\nalthough they never talk scandal, they—well, of course—they remark on it\nto every one. And the worst of it all is that I have been told that this\nwoman has got a great deal of money out of somebody, for it seems that\nshe came to London six months ago without anything at all to speak of,\nand now she has this charming house in Mayfair, drives her ponies in the\nPark every afternoon and all—well, all—since she has known poor dear\nWindermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh, I can’t believe it!\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. But it’s quite true, my dear. The whole of London\nknows it. That is why I felt it was better to come and talk to you, and\nadvise you to take Windermere away at once to Homburg or to Aix, where\nhe’ll have something to amuse him, and where you can watch him all day\nlong. I assure you, my dear, that on several occasions after I was first\nmarried, I had to pretend to be very ill, and was obliged to drink the\nmost unpleasant mineral waters, merely to get Berwick out of town. He\nwas so extremely susceptible. Though I am bound to say he never gave\naway any large sums of money to anybody. He is far too high-principled\nfor that!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Interrupting_.] Duchess, Duchess, it’s impossible!\n[_Rising and crossing stage to C._] We are only married two years. Our\nchild is but six months old. [_Sits in chair R. of L. table_.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Ah, the dear pretty baby! How is the little\ndarling? Is it a boy or a girl? I hope a girl—Ah, no, I remember it’s a\nboy! I’m so sorry. Boys are so wicked. My boy is excessively immoral.\nYou wouldn’t believe at what hours he comes home. And he’s only left\nOxford a few months—I really don’t know what they teach them there.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Are _all_ men bad?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Oh, all of them, my dear, all of them, without any\nexception. And they never grow any better. Men become old, but they\nnever become good.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Windermere and I married for love.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Yes, we begin like that. It was only Berwick’s\nbrutal and incessant threats of suicide that made me accept him at all,\nand before the year was out, he was running after all kinds of\npetticoats, every colour, every shape, every material. In fact, before\nthe honeymoon was over, I caught him winking at my maid, a most pretty,\nrespectable girl. I dismissed her at once without a character.—No, I\nremember I passed her on to my sister; poor dear Sir George is so\nshort-sighted, I thought it wouldn’t matter. But it did, though—it was\nmost unfortunate. [_Rises_.] And now, my dear child, I must go, as we\nare dining out. And mind you don’t take this little aberration of\nWindermere’s too much to heart. Just take him abroad, and he’ll come\nback to you all right.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Come back to me? [_C._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_L.C._] Yes, dear, these wicked women get our\nhusbands away from us, but they always come back, slightly damaged, of\ncourse. And don’t make scenes, men hate them!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. It is very kind of you, Duchess, to come and tell me\nall this. But I can’t believe that my husband is untrue to me.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Pretty child! I was like that once. Now I know\nthat all men are monsters. [LADY WINDERMERE _rings bell_.] The only\nthing to do is to feed the wretches well. A good cook does wonders, and\nthat I know you have. My dear Margaret, you are not going to cry?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You needn’t be afraid, Duchess, I never cry.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. That’s quite right, dear. Crying is the refuge of\nplain women but the ruin of pretty ones. Agatha, darling!\n\nLADY AGATHA. [_Entering L._] Yes, mamma. [_Stands back of table L.C._]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Come and bid good-bye to Lady Windermere, and thank\nher for your charming visit. [_Coming down again_.] And by the way, I\nmust thank you for sending a card to Mr. Hopper—he’s that rich young\nAustralian people are taking such notice of just at present. His father\nmade a great fortune by selling some kind of food in circular tins—most\npalatable, I believe—I fancy it is the thing the servants always refuse\nto eat. But the son is quite interesting. I think he’s attracted by\ndear Agatha’s clever talk. Of course, we should be very sorry to lose\nher, but I think that a mother who doesn’t part with a daughter every\nseason has no real affection. We’re coming to-night, dear. [PARKER\n_opens C. doors_.] And remember my advice, take the poor fellow out of\ntown at once, it is the only thing to do. Good-bye, once more; come,\nAgatha.\n\n [_Exeunt_ DUCHESS _and_ LADY AGATHA _C._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How horrible! I understand now what Lord Darlington\nmeant by the imaginary instance of the couple not two years married. Oh!\nit can’t be true—she spoke of enormous sums of money paid to this woman.\nI know where Arthur keeps his bank book—in one of the drawers of that\ndesk. I might find out by that. I _will_ find out. [_Opens drawer_.]\nNo, it is some hideous mistake. [_Rises and goes C._] Some silly\nscandal! He loves _me_! He loves _me_! But why should I not look? I\nam his wife, I have a right to look! [_Returns to bureau_, _takes out\nbook and examines it page by page_, _smiles and gives a sigh of relief_.]\nI knew it! there is not a word of truth in this stupid story. [_Puts\nbook back in dranver_. _As the does so_, _starts and takes out another\nbook_.] A second book—private—locked! [_Tries to open it_, _but fails_.\n_Sees paper knife on bureau_, _and with it cuts cover from book_.\n_Begins to start at the first page_.] ‘Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs.\nErlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400.’ Oh! it is true! It is true! How\nhorrible! [_Throws book on floor_.]\n\n [_Enter_ LORD WINDERMERE _C._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Well, dear, has the fan been sent home yet? [_Going\nR.C._ _Sees book_.] Margaret, you have cut open my bank book. You have\nno right to do such a thing!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You think it wrong that you are found out, don’t you?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I think it wrong that a wife should spy on her husband.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I did not spy on you. I never knew of this woman’s\nexistence till half an hour ago. Some one who pitied me was kind enough\nto tell me what every one in London knows already—your daily visits to\nCurzon Street, your mad infatuation, the monstrous sums of money you\nsquander on this infamous woman! [_Crossing L._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret! don’t talk like that of Mrs. Erlynne, you\ndon’t know how unjust it is!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Turning to him_.] You are very jealous of Mrs.\nErlynne’s honour. I wish you had been as jealous of mine.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Your honour is untouched, Margaret. You don’t think\nfor a moment that—[_Puts book back into desk_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I think that you spend your money strangely. That is\nall. Oh, don’t imagine I mind about the money. As far as I am\nconcerned, you may squander everything we have. But what I _do_ mind is\nthat you who have loved me, you who have taught me to love you, should\npass from the love that is given to the love that is bought. Oh, it’s\nhorrible! [_Sits on sofa_.] And it is I who feel degraded! _you_ don’t\nfeel anything. I feel stained, utterly stained. You can’t realise how\nhideous the last six months seems to me now—every kiss you have given me\nis tainted in my memory.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Crossing to her_.] Don’t say that, Margaret. I\nnever loved any one in the whole world but you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rises_.] Who is this woman, then? Why do you take a\nhouse for her?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I did not take a house for her.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You gave her the money to do it, which is the same\nthing.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, as far as I have known Mrs. Erlynne—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Is there a Mr. Erlynne—or is he a myth?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Her husband died many years ago. She is alone in the\nworld.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. No relations? [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. None.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Rather curious, isn’t it? [_L._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_L.C._] Margaret, I was saying to you—and I beg you\nto listen to me—that as far as I have known Mrs. Erlynne, she has\nconducted herself well. If years ago—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh! [_Crossing R.C._] I don’t want details about her\nlife!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_C._] I am not going to give you any details about\nher life. I tell you simply this—Mrs. Erlynne was once honoured, loved,\nrespected. She was well born, she had position—she lost everything—threw\nit away, if you like. That makes it all the more bitter. Misfortunes\none can endure—they come from outside, they are accidents. But to suffer\nfor one’s own faults—ah!—there is the sting of life. It was twenty years\nago, too. She was little more than a girl then. She had been a wife for\neven less time than you have.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I am not interested in her—and—you should not mention\nthis woman and me in the same breath. It is an error of taste.\n[_Sitting R. at desk_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, you could save this woman. She wants to get\nback into society, and she wants you to help her. [_Crossing to her_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Me!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Yes, you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How impertinent of her! [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, I came to ask you a great favour, and I still\nask it of you, though you have discovered what I had intended you should\nnever have known that I have given Mrs. Erlynne a large sum of money. I\nwant you to send her an invitation for our party to-night. [_Standing L.\nof her_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You are mad! [_Rises_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I entreat you. People may chatter about her, do\nchatter about her, of course, but they don’t know anything definite\nagainst her. She has been to several houses—not to houses where you\nwould go, I admit, but still to houses where women who are in what is\ncalled Society nowadays do go. That does not content her. She wants you\nto receive her once.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. As a triumph for her, I suppose?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. No; but because she knows that you are a good woman—and\nthat if she comes here once she will have a chance of a happier, a surer\nlife than she has had. She will make no further effort to know you.\nWon’t you help a woman who is trying to get back?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. No! If a woman really repents, she never wishes to\nreturn to the society that has made or seen her ruin.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I beg of you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Crossing to door R._] I am going to dress for\ndinner, and don’t mention the subject again this evening. Arthur [_going\nto him C._], you fancy because I have no father or mother that I am alone\nin the world, and that you can treat me as you choose. You are wrong, I\nhave friends, many friends.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_L.C._] Margaret, you are talking foolishly,\nrecklessly. I won’t argue with you, but I insist upon your asking Mrs.\nErlynne to-night.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_R.C._] I shall do nothing of the kind. [_Crossing\nL.C._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You refuse? [_C._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Absolutely!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Ah, Margaret, do this for my sake; it is her last\nchance.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. What has that to do with me?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. How hard good women are!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How weak bad men are!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, none of us men may be good enough for the\nwomen we marry—that is quite true—but you don’t imagine I would ever—oh,\nthe suggestion is monstrous!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why should _you_ be different from other men? I am\ntold that there is hardly a husband in London who does not waste his life\nover _some_ shameful passion.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I am not one of them.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I am not sure of that!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You are sure in your heart. But don’t make chasm after\nchasm between us. God knows the last few minutes have thrust us wide\nenough apart. Sit down and write the card.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Nothing in the whole world would induce me.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Crossing to bureau_.] Then I will! [_Rings electric\nbell_, _sits and writes card_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You are going to invite this woman? [_Crossing to\nhim_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Yes. [_Pause_. _Enter_ PARKER.] Parker!\n\nPARKER. Yes, my lord. [_Comes down L.C._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Have this note sent to Mrs. Erlynne at No. 84A Curzon\nStreet. [_Crossing to L.C. and giving note to_ PARKER.] There is no\nanswer!\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER _C._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, if that woman comes here, I shall insult her.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, don’t say that.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I mean it.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Child, if you did such a thing, there’s not a woman in\nLondon who wouldn’t pity you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. There is not a _good_ woman in London who would not\napplaud me. We have been too lax. We must make an example. I propose\nto begin to-night. [_Picking up fan_.] Yes, you gave me this fan\nto-day; it was your birthday present. If that woman crosses my\nthreshold, I shall strike her across the face with it.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, you couldn’t do such a thing.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You don’t know me! [_Moves R._]\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER.]\n\nParker!\n\nPARKER. Yes, my lady.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I shall dine in my own room. I don’t want dinner, in\nfact. See that everything is ready by half-past ten. And, Parker, be\nsure you pronounce the names of the guests very distinctly to-night.\nSometimes you speak so fast that I miss them. I am particularly anxious\nto hear the names quite clearly, so as to make no mistake. You\nunderstand, Parker?\n\nPARKER. Yes, my lady.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. That will do!\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER _C._]\n\n[_Speaking to_ LORD WINDERMERE.] Arthur, if that woman comes here—I warn\nyou—\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, you’ll ruin us!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Us! From this moment my life is separate from yours.\nBut if you wish to avoid a public scandal, write at once to this woman,\nand tell her that I forbid her to come here!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I will not—I cannot—she must come!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Then I shall do exactly as I have said. [_Goes R._]\nYou leave me no choice.\n\n [_Exit R._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Calling after her_.] Margaret! Margaret! [_A\npause_.] My God! What shall I do? I dare not tell her who this woman\nreally is. The shame would kill her. [_Sinks down into a chair and\nburies his face in his hands_.]\n\n * * * * *\n\n ACT DROP\n\n\n\n\nSECOND ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_Drawing-room in Lord Windermere’s house_. _Door R.U. opening into\nball-room_, _where band is playing_. _Door L. through which guests are\nentering_. _Door L.U. opens on to illuminated terrace_. _Palms_,\n_flowers_, _and brilliant lights_. _Room crowded with guests_. _Lady\nWindermere is receiving them_.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Up C._] So strange Lord Windermere isn’t here.\nMr. Hopper is very late, too. You have kept those five dances for him,\nAgatha? [_Comes down_.]\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Sitting on sofa_.] Just let me see your card.\nI’m so glad Lady Windermere has revived cards.—They’re a mother’s only\nsafeguard. You dear simple little thing! [_Scratches out two names_.]\nNo nice girl should ever waltz with such particularly younger sons! It\nlooks so fast! The last two dances you might pass on the terrace with\nMr. Hopper.\n\n[_Enter_ MR. DUMBY _and_ LADY PLYMDALE _from the ball-room_.]\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Fanning herself_.] The air is so pleasant there.\n\nPARKER. Mrs. Cowper-Cowper. Lady Stutfield. Sir James Royston. Mr.\nGuy Berkeley.\n\n[_These people enter as announced_.]\n\nDUMBY. Good evening, Lady Stutfield. I suppose this will be the last\nball of the season?\n\nLADY STUTFIELD. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. It’s been a delightful season,\nhasn’t it?\n\nDUMBY. Quite delightful! Good evening, Duchess. I suppose this will be\nthe last ball of the season?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. It has been a very dull\nseason, hasn’t it?\n\nDUMBY. Dreadfully dull! Dreadfully dull!\n\nMR. COWPER-COWPER. Good evening, Mr. Dumby. I suppose this will be the\nlast ball of the season?\n\nDUMBY. Oh, I think not. There’ll probably be two more. [_Wanders back\nto_ LADY PLYMDALE.]\n\nPARKER. Mr. Rufford. Lady Jedburgh and Miss Graham. Mr. Hopper.\n\n[_These people enter as announced_.]\n\nHOPPER. How do you do, Lady Windermere? How do you do, Duchess? [_Bows\nto_ LADY AGATHA.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Dear Mr. Hopper, how nice of you to come so early.\nWe all know how you are run after in London.\n\nHOPPER. Capital place, London! They are not nearly so exclusive in\nLondon as they are in Sydney.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Ah! we know your value, Mr. Hopper. We wish there\nwere more like you. It would make life so much easier. Do you know, Mr.\nHopper, dear Agatha and I are so much interested in Australia. It must\nbe so pretty with all the dear little kangaroos flying about. Agatha has\nfound it on the map. What a curious shape it is! Just like a large\npacking case. However, it is a very young country, isn’t it?\n\nHOPPER. Wasn’t it made at the same time as the others, Duchess?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. How clever you are, Mr. Hopper. You have a\ncleverness quite of your own. Now I mustn’t keep you.\n\nHOPPER. But I should like to dance with Lady Agatha, Duchess.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Well, I hope she has a dance left. Have you a dance\nleft, Agatha?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. The next one?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nHOPPER. May I have the pleasure? [LADY AGATHA _bows_.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Mind you take great care of my little chatterbox,\nMr. Hopper.\n\n[LADY AGATHA _and_ MR. HOPPER _pass into ball-room_.]\n\n[_Enter_ LORD WINDERMERE.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Margaret, I want to speak to you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. In a moment. [_The music drops_.]\n\nPARKER. Lord Augustus Lorton.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD AUGUSTUS.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Good evening, Lady Windermere.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Sir James, will you take me into the ball-room?\nAugustus has been dining with us to-night. I really have had quite\nenough of dear Augustus for the moment.\n\n[SIR JAMES ROYSTON _gives the_ DUCHESS _his aim and escorts her into the\nball-room_.]\n\nPARKER. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bowden. Lord and Lady Paisley. Lord\nDarlington.\n\n[_These people enter as announced_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Coming up to_ LORD WINDERMERE.] Want to speak to you\nparticularly, dear boy. I’m worn to a shadow. Know I don’t look it.\nNone of us men do look what we really are. Demmed good thing, too. What\nI want to know is this. Who is she? Where does she come from? Why\nhasn’t she got any demmed relations? Demmed nuisance, relations! But\nthey make one so demmed respectable.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You are talking of Mrs. Erlynne, I suppose? I only met\nher six months ago. Till then, I never knew of her existence.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. You have seen a good deal of her since then.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Coldly_.] Yes, I have seen a good deal of her since\nthen. I have just seen her.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Egad! the women are very down on her. I have been dining\nwith Arabella this evening! By Jove! you should have heard what she said\nabout Mrs. Erlynne. She didn’t leave a rag on her. . . . [_Aside_.]\nBerwick and I told her that didn’t matter much, as the lady in question\nmust have an extremely fine figure. You should have seen Arabella’s\nexpression! . . . But, look here, dear boy. I don’t know what to do\nabout Mrs. Erlynne. Egad! I might be married to her; she treats me with\nsuch demmed indifference. She’s deuced clever, too! She explains\neverything. Egad! she explains you. She has got any amount of\nexplanations for you—and all of them different.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. No explanations are necessary about my friendship with\nMrs. Erlynne.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Hem! Well, look here, dear old fellow. Do you think she\nwill ever get into this demmed thing called Society? Would you introduce\nher to your wife? No use beating about the confounded bush. Would you\ndo that?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne is coming here to-night.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Your wife has sent her a card?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne has received a card.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Then she’s all right, dear boy. But why didn’t you tell\nme that before? It would have saved me a heap of worry and demmed\nmisunderstandings!\n\n[LADY AGATHA _and_ MR. HOPPER _cross and exit on terrace L.U.E._]\n\nPARKER. Mr. Cecil Graham!\n\n[_Enter_ MR. CECIL GRAHAM.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_Bows to_ LADY WINDERMERE, _passes over and shakes hands\nwith_ LORD WINDERMERE.] Good evening, Arthur. Why don’t you ask me how\nI am? I like people to ask me how I am. It shows a wide-spread interest\nin my health. Now, to-night I am not at all well. Been dining with my\npeople. Wonder why it is one’s people are always so tedious? My father\nwould talk morality after dinner. I told him he was old enough to know\nbetter. But my experience is that as soon as people are old enough to\nknow better, they don’t know anything at all. Hallo, Tuppy! Hear you’re\ngoing to be married again; thought you were tired of that game.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. You’re excessively trivial, my dear boy, excessively\ntrivial!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. By the way, Tuppy, which is it? Have you been twice\nmarried and once divorced, or twice divorced and once married? I say\nyou’ve been twice divorced and once married. It seems so much more\nprobable.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. I have a very bad memory. I really don’t remember which.\n[_Moves away R._]\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. Lord Windermere, I’ve something most particular to ask\nyou.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I am afraid—if you will excuse me—I must join my wife.\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. Oh, you mustn’t dream of such a thing. It’s most\ndangerous nowadays for a husband to pay any attention to his wife in\npublic. It always makes people think that he beats her when they’re\nalone. The world has grown so suspicious of anything that looks like a\nhappy married life. But I’ll tell you what it is at supper. [_Moves\ntowards door of ball-room_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_C._] Margaret! I _must_ speak to you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Will you hold my fan for me, Lord Darlington? Thanks.\n[_Comes down to him_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Crossing to her_.] Margaret, what you said before\ndinner was, of course, impossible?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. That woman is not coming here to-night!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_R.C._] Mrs. Erlynne is coming here, and if you in\nany way annoy or wound her, you will bring shame and sorrow on us both.\nRemember that! Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife should trust her\nhusband!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_C._] London is full of women who trust their\nhusbands. One can always recognise them. They look so thoroughly\nunhappy. I am not going to be one of them. [_Moves up_.] Lord\nDarlington, will you give me back my fan, please? Thanks. . . . A useful\nthing a fan, isn’t it? . . . I want a friend to-night, Lord Darlington: I\ndidn’t know I would want one so soon.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Lady Windermere! I knew the time would come some day;\nbut why to-night?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I _will_ tell her. I must. It would be terrible if\nthere were any scene. Margaret . . .\n\nPARKER. Mrs. Erlynne!\n\n[LORD WINDERMERE _starts_. MRS. ERLYNNE _enters_, _very beautifully\ndressed and very dignified_. LADY WINDERMERE _clutches at her fan_,\n_then lets it drop on the door_. _She bows coldly to_ MRS. ERLYNNE, _who\nbows to her sweetly in turn_, _and sails into the room_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You have dropped your fan, Lady Windermere. [_Picks it\nup and hands it to her_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_C._] How do you do, again, Lord Windermere? How\ncharming your sweet wife looks! Quite a picture!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_In a low voice_.] It was terribly rash of you to\ncome!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Smiling_.] The wisest thing I ever did in my life.\nAnd, by the way, you must pay me a good deal of attention this evening.\nI am afraid of the women. You must introduce me to some of them. The\nmen I can always manage. How do you do, Lord Augustus? You have quite\nneglected me lately. I have not seen you since yesterday. I am afraid\nyou’re faithless. Every one told me so.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_R._] Now really, Mrs. Erlynne, allow me to explain.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_R.C._] No, dear Lord Augustus, you can’t explain\nanything. It is your chief charm.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Ah! if you find charms in me, Mrs. Erlynne—\n\n[_They converse together_. LORD WINDERMERE _moves uneasily about the\nroom watching_ MRS. ERLYNNE.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_To_ LADY WINDERMERE.] How pale you are!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Cowards are always pale!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You look faint. Come out on the terrace.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. [_To_ PARKER.] Parker, send my cloak out.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Crossing to her_.] Lady Windermere, how beautifully\nyour terrace is illuminated. Reminds me of Prince Doria’s at Rome.\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _bows coldly_, _and goes off with_ LORD DARLINGTON.]\n\nOh, how do you do, Mr. Graham? Isn’t that your aunt, Lady Jedburgh? I\nshould so much like to know her.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_After a moment’s hesitation and embarrassment_.] Oh,\ncertainly, if you wish it. Aunt Caroline, allow me to introduce Mrs.\nErlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. So pleased to meet you, Lady Jedburgh. [_Sits beside her\non the sofa_.] Your nephew and I are great friends. I am so much\ninterested in his political career. I think he’s sure to be a wonderful\nsuccess. He thinks like a Tory, and talks like a Radical, and that’s so\nimportant nowadays. He’s such a brilliant talker, too. But we all know\nfrom whom he inherits that. Lord Allandale was saying to me only\nyesterday, in the Park, that Mr. Graham talks almost as well as his aunt.\n\nLADY JEDBURGH. [_R._] Most kind of you to say these charming things to\nme! [MRS. ERLYNNE _smiles_, _and continues conversation_.]\n\nDUMBY. [_To_ CECIL GRAHAM.] Did you introduce Mrs. Erlynne to Lady\nJedburgh?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Had to, my dear fellow. Couldn’t help it! That woman can\nmake one do anything she wants. How, I don’t know.\n\nDUMBY. Hope to goodness she won’t speak to me! [_Saunters towards_ LADY\nPLYMDALE.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_C._ _To_ LADY JEDBURGH.] On Thursday? With great\npleasure. [_Rises_, _and speaks to_ LORD WINDERMERE, _laughing_.] What\na bore it is to have to be civil to these old dowagers! But they always\ninsist on it!\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. [_To_ MR. DUMBY.] Who is that well-dressed woman talking\nto Windermere?\n\nDUMBY. Haven’t got the slightest idea! Looks like an _édition de luxe_\nof a wicked French novel, meant specially for the English market.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. So that is poor Dumby with Lady Plymdale? I hear she is\nfrightfully jealous of him. He doesn’t seem anxious to speak to me\nto-night. I suppose he is afraid of her. Those straw-coloured women\nhave dreadful tempers. Do you know, I think I’ll dance with you first,\nWindermere. [LORD WINDERMERE _bits his lip and frowns_.] It will make\nLord Augustus so jealous! Lord Augustus! [LORD AUGUSTUS _comes down_.]\nLord Windermere insists on my dancing with him first, and, as it’s his\nown house, I can’t well refuse. You know I would much sooner dance with\nyou.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_With a low bow_.] I wish I could think so, Mrs.\nErlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You know it far too well. I can fancy a person dancing\nthrough life with you and finding it charming.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Placing his hand on his white waistcoat_.] Oh, thank\nyou, thank you. You are the most adorable of all ladies!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. What a nice speech! So simple and so sincere! Just the\nsort of speech I like. Well, you shall hold my bouquet. [_Goes towards\nball-room on_ LORD WINDERMERE’S _arm_.] Ah, Mr. Dumby, how are you? I\nam so sorry I have been out the last three times you have called. Come\nand lunch on Friday.\n\nDUMBY. [_With perfect nonchalance_.] Delighted!\n\n[LADY PLYMDALE _glares with indignation at_ MR. DUMBY. LORD AUGUSTUS\n_follows_ MRS. ERLYNNE _and_ LORD WINDERMERE _into the ball-room holding\nbouquet_.]\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. [_To_ MR. DUMBY.] What an absolute brute you are! I\nnever can believe a word you say! Why did you tell me you didn’t know\nher? What do you mean by calling on her three times running? You are\nnot to go to lunch there; of course you understand that?\n\nDUMBY. My dear Laura, I wouldn’t dream of going!\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. You haven’t told me her name yet! Who is she?\n\nDUMBY. [_Coughs slightly and smooths his hair_.] She’s a Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. That woman!\n\nDUMBY. Yes; that is what every one calls her.\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. How very interesting! How intensely interesting! I\nreally must have a good stare at her. [_Goes to door of ball-room and\nlooks in_.] I have heard the most shocking things about her. They say\nshe is ruining poor Windermere. And Lady Windermere, who goes in for\nbeing so proper, invites her! How extremely amusing! It takes a\nthoroughly good woman to do a thoroughly stupid thing. You are to lunch\nthere on Friday!\n\nDUMBY. Why?\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. Because I want you to take my husband with you. He has\nbeen so attentive lately, that he has become a perfect nuisance. Now,\nthis woman is just the thing for him. He’ll dance attendance upon her as\nlong as she lets him, and won’t bother me. I assure you, women of that\nkind are most useful. They form the basis of other people’s marriages.\n\nDUMBY. What a mystery you are!\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. [_Looking at him_.] I wish _you_ were!\n\nDUMBY. I am—to myself. I am the only person in the world I should like\nto know thoroughly; but I don’t see any chance of it just at present.\n\n[_They pass into the ball-room_, _and_ LADY WINDERMERE _and_ LORD\nDARLINGTON _enter from the terrace_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. Her coming here is monstrous, unbearable. I know\nnow what you meant to-day at tea-time. Why didn’t you tell me right out?\nYou should have!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I couldn’t! A man can’t tell these things about\nanother man! But if I had known he was going to make you ask her here\nto-night, I think I would have told you. That insult, at any rate, you\nwould have been spared.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I did not ask her. He insisted on her coming—against\nmy entreaties—against my commands. Oh! the house is tainted for me! I\nfeel that every woman here sneers at me as she dances by with my husband.\nWhat have I done to deserve this? I gave him all my life. He took\nit—used it—spoiled it! I am degraded in my own eyes; and I lack\ncourage—I am a coward! [_Sits down on sofa_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. If I know you at all, I know that you can’t live with a\nman who treats you like this! What sort of life would you have with him?\nYou would feel that he was lying to you every moment of the day. You\nwould feel that the look in his eyes was false, his voice false, his\ntouch false, his passion false. He would come to you when he was weary\nof others; you would have to comfort him. He would come to you when he\nwas devoted to others; you would have to charm him. You would have to be\nto him the mask of his real life, the cloak to hide his secret.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You are right—you are terribly right. But where am I\nto turn? You said you would be my friend, Lord Darlington.—Tell me, what\nam I to do? Be my friend now.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Between men and women there is no friendship possible.\nThere is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. I love you—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. No, no! [_Rises_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Yes, I love you! You are more to me than anything in\nthe whole world. What does your husband give you? Nothing. Whatever is\nin him he gives to this wretched woman, whom he has thrust into your\nsociety, into your home, to shame you before every one. I offer you my\nlife—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. My life—my whole life. Take it, and do with it what\nyou will. . . . I love you—love you as I have never loved any living\nthing. From the moment I met you I loved you, loved you blindly,\nadoringly, madly! You did not know it then—you know it now! Leave this\nhouse to-night. I won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the\nworld’s voice, or the voice of society. They matter a great deal. They\nmatter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose\nbetween living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging\nout some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its\nhypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose! Oh, my love,\nchoose.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Moving slowly away from him_, _and looking at him\nwith startled eyes_.] I have not the courage.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Following her_.] Yes; you have the courage. There\nmay be six months of pain, of disgrace even, but when you no longer bear\nhis name, when you bear mine, all will be well. Margaret, my love, my\nwife that shall be some day—yes, my wife! You know it! What are you\nnow? This woman has the place that belongs by right to you. Oh! go—go\nout of this house, with head erect, with a smile upon your lips, with\ncourage in your eyes. All London will know why you did it; and who will\nblame you? No one. If they do, what matter? Wrong? What is wrong?\nIt’s wrong for a man to abandon his wife for a shameless woman. It is\nwrong for a wife to remain with a man who so dishonours her. You said\nonce you would make no compromise with things. Make none now. Be brave!\nBe yourself!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I am afraid of being myself. Let me think! Let me\nwait! My husband may return to me. [_Sits down on sofa_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. And you would take him back! You are not what I\nthought you were. You are just the same as every other woman. You would\nstand anything rather than face the censure of a world, whose praise you\nwould despise. In a week you will be driving with this woman in the\nPark. She will be your constant guest—your dearest friend. You would\nendure anything rather than break with one blow this monstrous tie. You\nare right. You have no courage; none!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Ah, give me time to think. I cannot answer you now.\n[_Passes her hand nervously over her brow_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. It must be now or not at all.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rising from the sofa_.] Then, not at all! [_A\npause_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You break my heart!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Mine is already broken. [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. To-morrow I leave England. This is the last time I\nshall ever look on you. You will never see me again. For one moment our\nlives met—our souls touched. They must never meet or touch again.\nGood-bye, Margaret. [_Exit_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How alone I am in life! How terribly alone!\n\n[_The music stops_. _Enter the_ DUCHESS OF BERWICK _and_ LORD PAISLEY\n_laughing and talking_. _Other guests come on from ball-room_.]\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Dear Margaret, I’ve just been having such a\ndelightful chat with Mrs. Erlynne. I am so sorry for what I said to you\nthis afternoon about her. Of course, she must be all right if _you_\ninvite her. A most attractive woman, and has such sensible views on\nlife. Told me she entirely disapproved of people marrying more than\nonce, so I feel quite safe about poor Augustus. Can’t imagine why people\nspeak against her. It’s those horrid nieces of mine—the Saville\ngirls—they’re always talking scandal. Still, I should go to Homburg,\ndear, I really should. She is just a little too attractive. But where\nis Agatha? Oh, there she is: [LADY AGATHA _and_ MR. HOPPER _enter from\nterrace L.U.E._] Mr. Hopper, I am very, very angry with you. You have\ntaken Agatha out on the terrace, and she is so delicate.\n\nHOPPER. Awfully sorry, Duchess. We went out for a moment and then got\nchatting together.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_C._] Ah, about dear Australia, I suppose?\n\nHOPPER. Yes!\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Agatha, darling! [_Beckons her over_.]\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma!\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Aside_.] Did Mr. Hopper definitely—\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. And what answer did you give him, dear child?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Affectionately_.] My dear one! You always say\nthe right thing. Mr. Hopper! James! Agatha has told me everything.\nHow cleverly you have both kept your secret.\n\nHOPPER. You don’t mind my taking Agatha off to Australia, then, Duchess?\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Indignantly_.] To Australia? Oh, don’t mention\nthat dreadful vulgar place.\n\nHOPPER. But she said she’d like to come with me.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Severely_.] Did you say that, Agatha?\n\nLADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. Agatha, you say the most silly things possible. I\nthink on the whole that Grosvenor Square would be a more healthy place to\nreside in. There are lots of vulgar people live in Grosvenor Square, but\nat any rate there are no horrid kangaroos crawling about. But we’ll talk\nabout that to-morrow. James, you can take Agatha down. You’ll come to\nlunch, of course, James. At half-past one, instead of two. The Duke\nwill wish to say a few words to you, I am sure.\n\nHOPPER. I should like to have a chat with the Duke, Duchess. He has not\nsaid a single word to me yet.\n\nDUCHESS OF BERWICK. I think you’ll find he will have a great deal to say\nto you to-morrow. [_Exit_ LADY AGATHA _with_ MR. HOPPER.] And now\ngood-night, Margaret. I’m afraid it’s the old, old story, dear.\nLove—well, not love at first sight, but love at the end of the season,\nwhich is so much more satisfactory.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Good-night, Duchess.\n\n[_Exit the_ DUCHESS OF BERWICK _on_ LORD PAISLEY’S _arm_.]\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. My dear Margaret, what a handsome woman your husband has\nbeen dancing with! I should be quite jealous if I were you! Is she a\ngreat friend of yours?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. No!\n\nLADY PLYMDALE. Really? Good-night, dear. [_Looks at_ MR. DUMBY _and\nexit_.]\n\nDUMBY. Awful manners young Hopper has!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Ah! Hopper is one of Nature’s gentlemen, the worst type\nof gentleman I know.\n\nDUMBY. Sensible woman, Lady Windermere. Lots of wives would have\nobjected to Mrs. Erlynne coming. But Lady Windermere has that uncommon\nthing called common sense.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. And Windermere knows that nothing looks so like innocence\nas an indiscretion.\n\nDUMBY. Yes; dear Windermere is becoming almost modern. Never thought he\nwould. [_Bows to_ LADY WINDERMERE _and exit_.]\n\nLADY JEDBURGH. Good night, Lady Windermere. What a fascinating woman\nMrs. Erlynne is! She is coming to lunch on Thursday, won’t you come too?\nI expect the Bishop and dear Lady Merton.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I am afraid I am engaged, Lady Jedburgh.\n\nLADY JEDBURGH. So sorry. Come, dear. [_Exeunt_ LADY JEDBURGH _and_\nMISS GRAHAM.]\n\n[_Enter_ MRS. ERLYNNE _and_ LORD WINDERMERE.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Charming ball it has been! Quite reminds me of old days.\n[_Sits on sofa_.] And I see that there are just as many fools in society\nas there used to be. So pleased to find that nothing has altered!\nExcept Margaret. She’s grown quite pretty. The last time I saw\nher—twenty years ago, she was a fright in flannel. Positive fright, I\nassure you. The dear Duchess! and that sweet Lady Agatha! Just the type\nof girl I like! Well, really, Windermere, if I am to be the Duchess’s\nsister-in-law—\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Sitting L. of her_.] But are you—?\n\n[_Exit_ MR. CECIL GRAHAM _with rest of guests_. LADY WINDERMERE\n_watches_, _with a look of scorn and pain_, MRS. ERLYNNE _and her\nhusband_. _They are unconscious of her presence_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh, yes! He’s to call to-morrow at twelve o’clock! He\nwanted to propose to-night. In fact he did. He kept on proposing. Poor\nAugustus, you know how he repeats himself. Such a bad habit! But I told\nhim I wouldn’t give him an answer till to-morrow. Of course I am going\nto take him. And I dare say I’ll make him an admirable wife, as wives\ngo. And there is a great deal of good in Lord Augustus. Fortunately it\nis all on the surface. Just where good qualities should be. Of course\nyou must help me in this matter.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I am not called on to encourage Lord Augustus, I\nsuppose?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh, no! I do the encouraging. But you will make me a\nhandsome settlement, Windermere, won’t you?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Frowning_.] Is that what you want to talk to me\nabout to-night?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_With a gesture of impatience_.] I will not talk of\nit here.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Laughing_.] Then we will talk of it on the terrace.\nEven business should have a picturesque background. Should it not,\nWindermere? With a proper background women can do anything.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Won’t to-morrow do as well?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. No; you see, to-morrow I am going to accept him. And I\nthink it would be a good thing if I was able to tell him that I had—well,\nwhat shall I say?—£2000 a year left to me by a third cousin—or a second\nhusband—or some distant relative of that kind. It would be an additional\nattraction, wouldn’t it? You have a delightful opportunity now of paying\nme a compliment, Windermere. But you are not very clever at paying\ncompliments. I am afraid Margaret doesn’t encourage you in that\nexcellent habit. It’s a great mistake on her part. When men give up\nsaying what is charming, they give up thinking what is charming. But\nseriously, what do you say to £2000? £2500, I think. In modern life\nmargin is everything. Windermere, don’t you think the world an intensely\namusing place? I do!\n\n[_Exit on terrace with_ LORD WINDERMERE. Music strikes up in ball-room.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. To stay in this house any longer is impossible.\nTo-night a man who loves me offered me his whole life. I refused it. It\nwas foolish of me. I will offer him mine now. I will give him mine. I\nwill go to him! [_Puts on cloak and goes to the door_, _then turns\nback_. _Sits down at table and writes a letter_, _puts it into an\nenvelope_, _and leaves it on table_.] Arthur has never understood me.\nWhen he reads this, he will. He may do as he chooses now with his life.\nI have done with mine as I think best, as I think right. It is he who\nhas broken the bond of marriage—not I. I only break its bondage.\n\n [_Exit_.]\n\n[_PARKER enters L. and crosses towards the ball-room R._ _Enter_ MRS.\nERLYNNE.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Is Lady Windermere in the ball-room?\n\nPARKER. Her ladyship has just gone out.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Gone out? She’s not on the terrace?\n\nPARKER. No, madam. Her ladyship has just gone out of the house.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Starts_, _and looks at the servant with a puzzled\nexpression in her face_.] Out of the house?\n\nPARKER. Yes, madam—her ladyship told me she had left a letter for his\nlordship on the table.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. A letter for Lord Windermere?\n\nPARKER. Yes, madam.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Thank you.\n\n[_Exit_ PARKER. _The music in the ball-room stops_.] Gone out of her\nhouse! A letter addressed to her husband! [_Goes over to bureau and\nlooks at letter_. _Takes it up and lays it down again with a shudder of\nfear_.] No, no! It would be impossible! Life doesn’t repeat its\ntragedies like that! Oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me?\nWhy do I remember now the one moment of my life I most wish to forget?\nDoes life repeat its tragedies? [_Tears letter open and reads it_, _then\nsinks down into a chair with a gesture of anguish_.] Oh, how terrible!\nThe same words that twenty years ago I wrote to her father! and how\nbitterly I have been punished for it! No; my punishment, my real\npunishment is to-night, is now! [_Still seated R._]\n\n[_Enter_ LORD WINDERMERE _L.U.E._]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Have you said good-night to my wife? [_Comes C._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Crushing letter in her hand_.] Yes.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Where is she?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. She is very tired. She has gone to bed. She said she had\na headache.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I must go to her. You’ll excuse me?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Rising hurriedly_.] Oh, no! It’s nothing serious.\nShe’s only very tired, that is all. Besides, there are people still in\nthe supper-room. She wants you to make her apologies to them. She said\nshe didn’t wish to be disturbed. [_Drops letter_.] She asked me to tell\nyou!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Picks up letter_.] You have dropped something.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh yes, thank you, that is mine. [_Puts out her hand to\ntake it_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Still looking at letter_.] But it’s my wife’s\nhandwriting, isn’t it?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Takes the letter quickly_.] Yes, it’s—an address. Will\nyou ask them to call my carriage, please?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Certainly.\n\n [_Goes L. and Exit_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Thanks! What can I do? What can I do? I feel a passion\nawakening within me that I never felt before. What can it mean? The\ndaughter must not be like the mother—that would be terrible. How can I\nsave her? How can I save my child? A moment may ruin a life. Who knows\nthat better than I? Windermere must be got out of the house; that is\nabsolutely necessary. [_Goes L._] But how shall I do it? It must be\ndone somehow. Ah!\n\n[_Enter_ LORD AUGUSTUS _R.U.E. carrying bouquet_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Dear lady, I am in such suspense! May I not have an\nanswer to my request?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Lord Augustus, listen to me. You are to take Lord\nWindermere down to your club at once, and keep him there as long as\npossible. You understand?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. But you said you wished me to keep early hours!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Nervously_.] Do what I tell you. Do what I tell you.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. And my reward?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Your reward? Your reward? Oh! ask me that to-morrow.\nBut don’t let Windermere out of your sight to-night. If you do I will\nnever forgive you. I will never speak to you again. I’ll have nothing\nto do with you. Remember you are to keep Windermere at your club, and\ndon’t let him come back to-night.\n\n [_Exit L._]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Well, really, I might be her husband already. Positively\nI might. [_Follows her in a bewildered manner_.]\n\n * * * * *\n\n ACT DROP.\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD ACT\n\n\n SCENE\n\n_Lord Darlington’s Rooms_. _A large sofa is in front of fireplace R._\n_At the back of the stage a curtain is drawn across the window_. _Doors\nL. and R._ _Table R. with writing materials. Table C. with syphons,\nglasses, and Tantalus frame_. _Table L. with cigar and cigarette box.\nLamps lit_.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Standing by the fireplace_.] Why doesn’t he come?\nThis waiting is horrible. He should be here. Why is he not here, to\nwake by passionate words some fire within me? I am cold—cold as a\nloveless thing. Arthur must have read my letter by this time. If he\ncared for me, he would have come after me, would have taken me back by\nforce. But he doesn’t care. He’s entrammelled by this woman—fascinated\nby her—dominated by her. If a woman wants to hold a man, she has merely\nto appeal to what is worst in him. We make gods of men and they leave\nus. Others make brutes of them and they fawn and are faithful. How\nhideous life is! . . . Oh! it was mad of me to come here, horribly mad.\nAnd yet, which is the worst, I wonder, to be at the mercy of a man who\nloves one, or the wife of a man who in one’s own house dishonours one?\nWhat woman knows? What woman in the whole world? But will he love me\nalways, this man to whom I am giving my life? What do I bring him? Lips\nthat have lost the note of joy, eyes that are blinded by tears, chill\nhands and icy heart. I bring him nothing. I must go back—no; I can’t go\nback, my letter has put me in their power—Arthur would not take me back!\nThat fatal letter! No! Lord Darlington leaves England to-morrow. I\nwill go with him—I have no choice. [_Sits down for a few moments_.\n_Then starts up and puts on her cloak_.] No, no! I will go back, let\nArthur do with me what he pleases. I can’t wait here. It has been\nmadness my coming. I must go at once. As for Lord Darlington—Oh! here\nhe is! What shall I do? What can I say to him? Will he let me go away\nat all? I have heard that men are brutal, horrible . . . Oh! [_Hides\nher face in her hands_.]\n\n[_Enter_ MRS. ERLYNNE _L._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Lady Windermere! [LADY WINDERMERE _starts and looks up_.\n_Then recoils in contempt_.] Thank Heaven I am in time. You must go\nback to your husband’s house immediately.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Must?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Authoritatively_.] Yes, you must! There is not a\nsecond to be lost. Lord Darlington may return at any moment.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Don’t come near me!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh! You are on the brink of ruin, you are on the brink of\na hideous precipice. You must leave this place at once, my carriage is\nwaiting at the corner of the street. You must come with me and drive\nstraight home.\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _throws off her cloak and flings it on the sofa_.]\n\nWhat are you doing?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne—if you had not come here, I would have\ngone back. But now that I see you, I feel that nothing in the whole\nworld would induce me to live under the same roof as Lord Windermere.\nYou fill me with horror. There is something about you that stirs the\nwildest—rage within me. And I know why you are here. My husband sent\nyou to lure me back that I might serve as a blind to whatever relations\nexist between you and him.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh! You don’t think that—you can’t.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Go back to my husband, Mrs. Erlynne. He belongs to you\nand not to me. I suppose he is afraid of a scandal. Men are such\ncowards. They outrage every law of the world, and are afraid of the\nworld’s tongue. But he had better prepare himself. He shall have a\nscandal. He shall have the worst scandal there has been in London for\nyears. He shall see his name in every vile paper, mine on every hideous\nplacard.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. No—no—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes! he shall. Had he come himself, I admit I would\nhave gone back to the life of degradation you and he had prepared for\nme—I was going back—but to stay himself at home, and to send you as his\nmessenger—oh! it was infamous—infamous.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_C._] Lady Windermere, you wrong me horribly—you wrong\nyour husband horribly. He doesn’t know you are here—he thinks you are\nsafe in your own house. He thinks you are asleep in your own room. He\nnever read the mad letter you wrote to him!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_R._] Never read it!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. No—he knows nothing about it.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. How simple you think me! [_Going to her_.] You are\nlying to me!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Restraining herself_.] I am not. I am telling you the\ntruth.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. If my husband didn’t read my letter, how is it that you\nare here? Who told you I had left the house you were shameless enough to\nenter? Who told you where I had gone to? My husband told you, and sent\nyou to decoy me back. [_Crosses L._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_R.C._] Your husband has never seen the letter. I—saw\nit, I opened it. I—read it.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Turning to her_.] You opened a letter of mine to my\nhusband? You wouldn’t dare!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Dare! Oh! to save you from the abyss into which you are\nfalling, there is nothing in the world I would not dare, nothing in the\nwhole world. Here is the letter. Your husband has never read it. He\nnever shall read it. [_Going to fireplace_.] It should never have been\nwritten. [_Tears it and throws it into the fire_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_With infinite contempt in her voice and look_.] How\ndo I know that that was my letter after all? You seem to think the\ncommonest device can take me in!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh! why do you disbelieve everything I tell you? What\nobject do you think I have in coming here, except to save you from utter\nruin, to save you from the consequence of a hideous mistake? That letter\nthat is burnt now _was_ your letter. I swear it to you!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Slowly_.] You took good care to burn it before I had\nexamined it. I cannot trust you. You, whose whole life is a lie, could\nyou speak the truth about anything? [_Sits down_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Hurriedly_.] Think as you like about me—say what you\nchoose against me, but go back, go back to the husband you love.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Sullenly_.] I do _not_ love him!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You do, and you know that he loves you.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. He does not understand what love is. He understands it\nas little as you do—but I see what you want. It would be a great\nadvantage for you to get me back. Dear Heaven! what a life I would have\nthen! Living at the mercy of a woman who has neither mercy nor pity in\nher, a woman whom it is an infamy to meet, a degradation to know, a vile\nwoman, a woman who comes between husband and wife!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Lady Windermere, Lady\nWindermere, don’t say such terrible things. You don’t know how terrible\nthey are, how terrible and how unjust. Listen, you must listen! Only go\nback to your husband, and I promise you never to communicate with him\nagain on any pretext—never to see him—never to have anything to do with\nhis life or yours. The money that he gave me, he gave me not through\nlove, but through hatred, not in worship, but in contempt. The hold I\nhave over him—\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rising_.] Ah! you admit you have a hold!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes, and I will tell you what it is. It is his love for\nyou, Lady Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You expect me to believe that?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You must believe it! It is true. It is his love for you\nthat has made him submit to—oh! call it what you like, tyranny, threats,\nanything you choose. But it is his love for you. His desire to spare\nyou—shame, yes, shame and disgrace.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. What do you mean? You are insolent! What have I to do\nwith you?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Humbly_.] Nothing. I know it—but I tell you that your\nhusband loves you—that you may never meet with such love again in your\nwhole life—that such love you will never meet—and that if you throw it\naway, the day may come when you will starve for love and it will not be\ngiven to you, beg for love and it will be denied you—Oh! Arthur loves\nyou!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Arthur? And you tell me there is nothing between you?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Lady Windermere, before Heaven your husband is guiltless\nof all offence towards you! And I—I tell you that had it ever occurred\nto me that such a monstrous suspicion would have entered your mind, I\nwould have died rather than have crossed your life or his—oh! died,\ngladly died! [_Moves away to sofa R._]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You talk as if you had a heart. Women like you have no\nhearts. Heart is not in you. You are bought and sold. [_Sits L.C._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Starts_, _with a gesture of pain_. _Then restrains\nherself_, _and comes over to where_ LADY WINDERMERE _is sitting_. _As\nshe speaks_, _she stretches out her hands towards her_, _but does not\ndare to touch her_.] Believe what you choose about me. I am not worth a\nmoment’s sorrow. But don’t spoil your beautiful young life on my\naccount! You don’t know what may be in store for you, unless you leave\nthis house at once. You don’t know what it is to fall into the pit, to\nbe despised, mocked, abandoned, sneered at—to be an outcast! to find the\ndoor shut against one, to have to creep in by hideous byways, afraid\nevery moment lest the mask should be stripped from one’s face, and all\nthe while to hear the laughter, the horrible laughter of the world, a\nthing more tragic than all the tears the world has ever shed. You don’t\nknow what it is. One pays for one’s sin, and then one pays again, and\nall one’s life one pays. You must never know that.—As for me, if\nsuffering be an expiation, then at this moment I have expiated all my\nfaults, whatever they have been; for to-night you have made a heart in\none who had it not, made it and broken it.—But let that pass. I may have\nwrecked my own life, but I will not let you wreck yours. You—why, you\nare a mere girl, you would be lost. You haven’t got the kind of brains\nthat enables a woman to get back. You have neither the wit nor the\ncourage. You couldn’t stand dishonour! No! Go back, Lady Windermere,\nto the husband who loves you, whom you love. You have a child, Lady\nWindermere. Go back to that child who even now, in pain or in joy, may\nbe calling to you. [LADY WINDERMERE _rises_.] God gave you that child.\nHe will require from you that you make his life fine, that you watch over\nhim. What answer will you make to God if his life is ruined through you?\nBack to your house, Lady Windermere—your husband loves you! He has never\nswerved for a moment from the love he bears you. But even if he had a\nthousand loves, you must stay with your child. If he was harsh to you,\nyou must stay with your child. If he ill-treated you, you must stay with\nyour child. If he abandoned you, your place is with your child.\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _bursts into tears and buries her face in her hands_.]\n\n[_Rushing to her_.] Lady Windermere!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Holding out her hands to her_, _helplessly_, _as a\nchild might do_.] Take me home. Take me home.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Is about to embrace her_. _Then restrains herself_.\n_There is a look of wonderful joy in her face_.] Come! Where is your\ncloak? [_Getting it from sofa_.] Here. Put it on. Come at once!\n\n[_They go to the door_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Stop! Don’t you hear voices?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. No, no! There was no one!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes, there is! Listen! Oh! that is my husband’s\nvoice! He is coming in! Save me! Oh, it’s some plot! You have sent\nfor him.\n\n[_Voices outside_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Silence! I’m here to save you, if I can. But I fear it\nis too late! There! [_Points to the curtain across the window_.] The\nfirst chance you have, slip out, if you ever get a chance!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. But you?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh! never mind me. I’ll face them.\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _hides herself behind the curtain_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Outside_.] Nonsense, dear Windermere, you must not\nleave me!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Lord Augustus! Then it is I who am lost! [_Hesitates for\na moment_, then _looks round and sees door R._, _and exits through it_.]\n\n[_Enter_ LORD DARLINGTON, MR. DUMBY, LORD WINDERMERE, LORD AUGUSTUS\nLORTON, _and_ MR. CECIL GRAHAM.\n\nDUMBY. What a nuisance their turning us out of the club at this hour!\nIt’s only two o’clock. [_Sinks into a chair_.] The lively part of the\nevening is only just beginning. [_Yawns and closes his eyes_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. It is very good of you, Lord Darlington, allowing\nAugustus to force our company on you, but I’m afraid I can’t stay long.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Really! I am so sorry! You’ll take a cigar, won’t\nyou?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Thanks! [_Sits down_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_To_ LORD WINDERMERE.] My dear boy, you must not dream\nof going. I have a great deal to talk to you about, of demmed\nimportance, too. [_Sits down with him at L. table_.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Oh! We all know what that is! Tuppy can’t talk about\nanything but Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Well, that is no business of yours, is it, Cecil?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. None! That is why it interests me. My own business\nalways bores me to death. I prefer other people’s.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Have something to drink, you fellows. Cecil, you’ll\nhave a whisky and soda?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Thanks. [_Goes to table with_ LORD DARLINGTON.] Mrs.\nErlynne looked very handsome to-night, didn’t she?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. I am not one of her admirers.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. I usen’t to be, but I am now. Why! she actually made me\nintroduce her to poor dear Aunt Caroline. I believe she is going to\nlunch there.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_In Purple_.] No?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. She is, really.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Excuse me, you fellows. I’m going away to-morrow. And\nI have to write a few letters. [_Goes to writing table and sits down_.]\n\nDUMBY. Clever woman, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Hallo, Dumby! I thought you were asleep.\n\nDUMBY. I am, I usually am!\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. A very clever woman. Knows perfectly well what a demmed\nfool I am—knows it as well as I do myself.\n\n[CECIL GRAHAM _comes towards him laughing_.]\n\nAh, you may laugh, my boy, but it is a great thing to come across a woman\nwho thoroughly understands one.\n\nDUMBY. It is an awfully dangerous thing. They always end by marrying\none.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. But I thought, Tuppy, you were never going to see her\nagain! Yes! you told me so yesterday evening at the club. You said\nyou’d heard—\n\n[_Whispering to him_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Oh, she’s explained that.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. And the Wiesbaden affair?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. She’s explained that too.\n\nDUMBY. And her income, Tuppy? Has she explained that?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_In a very serious voice_.] She’s going to explain that\nto-morrow.\n\n[CECIL GRAHAM _goes back to C. table_.]\n\nDUMBY. Awfully commercial, women nowadays. Our grandmothers threw their\ncaps over the mills, of course, but, by Jove, their granddaughters only\nthrow their caps over mills that can raise the wind for them.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. You want to make her out a wicked woman. She is not!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Oh! Wicked women bother one. Good women bore one. That\nis the only difference between them.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Puffing a cigar_.] Mrs. Erlynne has a future before\nher.\n\nDUMBY. Mrs. Erlynne has a past before her.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. I prefer women with a past. They’re always so demmed\namusing to talk to.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Well, you’ll have lots of topics of conversation with\n_her_, Tuppy. [_Rising and going to him_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. You’re getting annoying, dear-boy; you’re getting demmed\nannoying.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_Puts his hands on his shoulders_.] Now, Tuppy, you’ve\nlost your figure and you’ve lost your character. Don’t lose your temper;\nyou have only got one.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. My dear boy, if I wasn’t the most good-natured man in\nLondon—\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. We’d treat you with more respect, wouldn’t we, Tuppy?\n[_Strolls away_.]\n\nDUMBY. The youth of the present day are quite monstrous. They have\nabsolutely no respect for dyed hair. [LORD AUGUSTUS _looks round\nangrily_.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Mrs. Erlynne has a very great respect for dear Tuppy.\n\nDUMBY. Then Mrs. Erlynne sets an admirable example to the rest of her\nsex. It is perfectly brutal the way most women nowadays behave to men\nwho are not their husbands.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Dumby, you are ridiculous, and Cecil, you let your\ntongue run away with you. You must leave Mrs. Erlynne alone. You don’t\nreally know anything about her, and you’re always talking scandal against\nher.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_Coming towards him L.C._] My dear Arthur, I never talk\nscandal. _I_ only talk gossip.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. What is the difference between scandal and gossip?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Oh! gossip is charming! History is merely gossip. But\nscandal is gossip made tedious by morality. Now, I never moralise. A\nman who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who moralises is\ninvariably plain. There is nothing in the whole world so unbecoming to a\nwoman as a Nonconformist conscience. And most women know it, I’m glad to\nsay.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Just my sentiments, dear boy, just my sentiments.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Sorry to hear it, Tuppy; whenever people agree with me, I\nalways feel I must be wrong.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. My dear boy, when I was your age—\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. But you never were, Tuppy, and you never will be. [_Goes\nup C._] I say, Darlington, let us have some cards. You’ll play, Arthur,\nwon’t you?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. No, thanks, Cecil.\n\nDUMBY. [_With a sigh_.] Good heavens! how marriage ruins a man! It’s\nas demoralising as cigarettes, and far more expensive.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. You’ll play, of course, Tuppy?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Pouring himself out a brandy and soda at table_.]\nCan’t, dear boy. Promised Mrs. Erlynne never to play or drink again.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Now, my dear Tuppy, don’t be led astray into the paths of\nvirtue. Reformed, you would be perfectly tedious. That is the worst of\nwomen. They always want one to be good. And if we are good, when they\nmeet us, they don’t love us at all. They like to find us quite\nirretrievably bad, and to leave us quite unattractively good.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Rising from R. table_, _where he has been writing\nletters_.] They always do find us bad!\n\nDUMBY. I don’t think we are bad. I think we are all good, except Tuppy.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are\nlooking at the stars. [_Sits down at C. table_.]\n\nDUMBY. We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the\nstars? Upon my word, you are very romantic to-night, Darlington.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Too romantic! You must be in love. Who is the girl?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. The woman I love is not free, or thinks she isn’t.\n[_Glances instinctively at_ LORD WINDERMERE _while he speaks_.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. A married woman, then! Well, there’s nothing in the world\nlike the devotion of a married woman. It’s a thing no married man knows\nanything about.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Oh! she doesn’t love me. She is a good woman. She is\nthe only good woman I have ever met in my life.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. The only good woman you have ever met in your life?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Yes!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_Lighting a cigarette_.] Well, you are a lucky fellow!\nWhy, I have met hundreds of good women. I never seem to meet any but\ngood women. The world is perfectly packed with good women. To know them\nis a middle-class education.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. This woman has purity and innocence. She has\neverything we men have lost.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. My dear fellow, what on earth should we men do going about\nwith purity and innocence? A carefully thought-out buttonhole is much\nmore effective.\n\nDUMBY. She doesn’t really love you then?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. No, she does not!\n\nDUMBY. I congratulate you, my dear fellow. In this world there are only\ntwo tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is\ngetting it. The last is much the worst; the last is a real tragedy! But\nI am interested to hear she does not love you. How long could you love a\nwoman who didn’t love you, Cecil?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. A woman who didn’t love me? Oh, all my life!\n\nDUMBY. So could I. But it’s so difficult to meet one.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. How can you be so conceited, DUMBY?\n\nDUMBY. I didn’t say it as a matter of conceit. I said it as a matter of\nregret. I have been wildly, madly adored. I am sorry I have. It has\nbeen an immense nuisance. I should like to be allowed a little time to\nmyself now and then.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Looking round_.] Time to educate yourself, I suppose.\n\nDUMBY. No, time to forget all I have learned. That is much more\nimportant, dear Tuppy. [LORD AUGUSTUS _moves uneasily in his chair_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. What cynics you fellows are!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. What is a cynic? [_Sitting on the back of the sofa_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. A man who knows the price of everything and the value\nof nothing.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who\nsees an absurd value in everything, and doesn’t know the market price of\nany single thing.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You always amuse me, Cecil. You talk as if you were a\nman of experience.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. I am. [_Moves up to front off fireplace_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You are far too young!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. That is a great error. Experience is a question of\ninstinct about life. I have got it. Tuppy hasn’t. Experience is the\nname Tuppy gives to his mistakes. That is all. [LORD AUGUSTUS _looks\nround indignantly_.]\n\nDUMBY. Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_Standing with his back to the fireplace_.] One\nshouldn’t commit any. [_Sees_ LADY WINDERMERE’S _fan on sofa_.]\n\nDUMBY. Life would be very dull without them.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Of course you are quite faithful to this woman you are in\nlove with, Darlington, to this good woman?\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Cecil, if one really loves a woman, all other women in\nthe world become absolutely meaningless to one. Love changes one—_I_ am\nchanged.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Dear me! How very interesting! Tuppy, I want to talk to\nyou. [LORD AUGUSTUS _takes no notice_.]\n\nDUMBY. It’s no use talking to Tuppy. You might just as well talk to a\nbrick wall.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. But I like talking to a brick wall—it’s the only thing in\nthe world that never contradicts me! Tuppy!\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Well, what is it? What is it? [_Rising and going over\nto_ CECIL GRAHAM.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Come over here. I want you particularly. [_Aside_.]\nDarlington has been moralising and talking about the purity of love, and\nthat sort of thing, and he has got some woman in his rooms all the time.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. No, really! really!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. [_In a low voice_.] Yes, here is her fan. [_Points to\nthe fan_.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Chuckling_.] By Jove! By Jove!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Up by door_.] I am really off now, Lord Darlington.\nI am sorry you are leaving England so soon. Pray call on us when you\ncome back! My wife and I will be charmed to see you!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Upstage with_ LORD WINDERMERE.] I am afraid I shall\nbe away for many years. Good-night!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Arthur!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. What?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. I want to speak to you for a moment. No, do come!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Putting on his coat_.] I can’t—I’m off!\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. It is something very particular. It will interest you\nenormously.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Smiling_.] It is some of your nonsense, Cecil.\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. It isn’t! It isn’t really.\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Going to him_.] My dear fellow, you mustn’t go yet. I\nhave a lot to talk to you about. And Cecil has something to show you.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Walking over_.] Well, what is it?\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. Darlington has got a woman here in his rooms. Here is her\nfan. Amusing, isn’t it? [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Good God! [_Seizes the fan_—DUMBY _rises_.]\n\nCECIL GRAHAM. What is the matter?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Turning round_.] Yes!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. What is my wife’s fan doing here in your rooms? Hands\noff, Cecil. Don’t touch me.\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. Your wife’s fan?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Yes, here it is!\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Walking towards him_.] I don’t know!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You must know. I demand an explanation. Don’t hold\nme, you fool. [_To_ CECIL GRAHAM.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. [_Aside_.] She is here after all!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Speak, sir! Why is my wife’s fan here? Answer me! By\nGod! I’ll search your rooms, and if my wife’s here, I’ll— [_Moves_.]\n\nLORD DARLINGTON. You shall not search my rooms. You have no right to do\nso. I forbid you!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You scoundrel! I’ll not leave your room till I have\nsearched every corner of it! What moves behind that curtain? [_Rushes\ntowards the curtain C._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Enters behind R._] Lord Windermere!\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne!\n\n[_Every one starts and turns round_. LADY WINDERMERE _slips out from\nbehind the curtain and glides from the room L._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I am afraid I took your wife’s fan in mistake for my own,\nwhen I was leaving your house to-night. I am so sorry. [_Takes fan from\nhim_. LORD WINDERMERE _looks at her in contempt_. LORD DARLINGTON _in\nmingled astonishment and anger_. LORD AUGUSTUS _turns away_. _The other\nmen smile at each other_.]\n\n ACT DROP.\n\n\n\n\nFOURTH ACT\n\n\n SCENE—Same as in Act I.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Lying on sofa_.] How can I tell him? I can’t tell\nhim. It would kill me. I wonder what happened after I escaped from that\nhorrible room. Perhaps she told them the true reason of her being there,\nand the real meaning of that—fatal fan of mine. Oh, if he knows—how can\nI look him in the face again? He would never forgive me. [_Touches\nbell_.] How securely one thinks one lives—out of reach of temptation,\nsin, folly. And then suddenly—Oh! Life is terrible. It rules us, we do\nnot rule it.\n\n[_Enter_ ROSALIE _R._]\n\nROSALIE. Did your ladyship ring for me?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. Have you found out at what time Lord Windermere\ncame in last night?\n\nROSALIE. His lordship did not come in till five o’clock.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Five o’clock? He knocked at my door this morning,\ndidn’t he?\n\nROSALIE. Yes, my lady—at half-past nine. I told him your ladyship was\nnot awake yet.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Did he say anything?\n\nROSALIE. Something about your ladyship’s fan. I didn’t quite catch what\nhis lordship said. Has the fan been lost, my lady? I can’t find it, and\nParker says it was not left in any of the rooms. He has looked in all of\nthem and on the terrace as well.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. It doesn’t matter. Tell Parker not to trouble. That\nwill do.\n\n [_Exit_ ROSALIE.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rising_.] She is sure to tell him. I can fancy a\nperson doing a wonderful act of self-sacrifice, doing it spontaneously,\nrecklessly, nobly—and afterwards finding out that it costs too much. Why\nshould she hesitate between her ruin and mine? . . . How strange! I\nwould have publicly disgraced her in my own house. She accepts public\ndisgrace in the house of another to save me. . . . There is a bitter\nirony in things, a bitter irony in the way we talk of good and bad women.\n. . . Oh, what a lesson! and what a pity that in life we only get our\nlessons when they are of no use to us! For even if she doesn’t tell, I\nmust. Oh! the shame of it, the shame of it. To tell it is to live\nthrough it all again. Actions are the first tragedy in life, words are\nthe second. Words are perhaps the worst. Words are merciless. . . . Oh!\n[_Starts as_ LORD WINDERMERE _enters_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Kisses her_.] Margaret—how pale you look!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I slept very badly.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Sitting on sofa with her_.] I am so sorry. I came\nin dreadfully late, and didn’t like to wake you. You are crying, dear.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes, I am crying, for I have something to tell you,\nArthur.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. My dear child, you are not well. You’ve been doing too\nmuch. Let us go away to the country. You’ll be all right at Selby. The\nseason is almost over. There is no use staying on. Poor darling! We’ll\ngo away to-day, if you like. [_Rises_.] We can easily catch the 3.40.\nI’ll send a wire to Fannen. [_Crosses and sits down at table to write a\ntelegram_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes; let us go away to-day. No; I can’t go to-day,\nArthur. There is some one I must see before I leave town—some one who\nhas been kind to me.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Rising and leaning over sofa_.] Kind to you?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Far more than that. [_Rises and goes to him_.] I will\ntell you, Arthur, but only love me, love me as you used to love me.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Used to? You are not thinking of that wretched woman\nwho came here last night? [_Coming round and sitting R. of her_.] You\ndon’t still imagine—no, you couldn’t.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I don’t. I know now I was wrong and foolish.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. It was very good of you to receive her last night—but\nyou are never to see her again.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why do you say that? [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Holding her hand_.] Margaret, I thought Mrs. Erlynne\nwas a woman more sinned against than sinning, as the phrase goes. I\nthought she wanted to be good, to get back into a place that she had lost\nby a moment’s folly, to lead again a decent life. I believed what she\ntold me—I was mistaken in her. She is bad—as bad as a woman can be.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, Arthur, don’t talk so bitterly about any woman.\nI don’t think now that people can be divided into the good and the bad as\nthough they were two separate races or creations. What are called good\nwomen may have terrible things in them, mad moods of recklessness,\nassertion, jealousy, sin. Bad women, as they are termed, may have in\nthem sorrow, repentance, pity, sacrifice. And I don’t think Mrs. Erlynne\na bad woman—I know she’s not.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. My dear child, the woman’s impossible. No matter what\nharm she tries to do us, you must never see her again. She is\ninadmissible anywhere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. But I want to see her. I want her to come here.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Never!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. She came here once as _your_ guest. She must come now\nas _mine_. That is but fair.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. She should never have come here.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rising_.] It is too late, Arthur, to say that now.\n[_Moves away_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Rising_.] Margaret, if you knew where Mrs. Erlynne\nwent last night, after she left this house, you would not sit in the same\nroom with her. It was absolutely shameless, the whole thing.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, I can’t bear it any longer. I must tell you.\nLast night—\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER _with a tray on which lie_ LADY WINDERMERE’S _fan and a\ncard_.]\n\nPARKER. Mrs. Erlynne has called to return your ladyship’s fan which she\ntook away by mistake last night. Mrs. Erlynne has written a message on\nthe card.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh, ask Mrs. Erlynne to be kind enough to come up.\n[_Reads card_.] Say I shall be very glad to see her.\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER.]\n\nShe wants to see me, Arthur.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Takes card and looks at it_.] Margaret, I _beg_ you\nnot to. Let me see her first, at any rate. She’s a very dangerous\nwoman. She is the most dangerous woman I know. You don’t realise what\nyou’re doing.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. It is right that I should see her.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. My child, you may be on the brink of a great sorrow.\nDon’t go to meet it. It is absolutely necessary that I should see her\nbefore you do.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Why should it be necessary?\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER.]\n\nPARKER. Mrs. Erlynne.\n\n[_Enter_ MRS. ERLYNNE.]\n\n [_Exit_ PARKER.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. How do you do, Lady Windermere? [_To_ LORD WINDERMERE.]\nHow do you do? Do you know, Lady Windermere, I am so sorry about your\nfan. I can’t imagine how I made such a silly mistake. Most stupid of\nme. And as I was driving in your direction, I thought I would take the\nopportunity of returning your property in person with many apologies for\nmy carelessness, and of bidding you good-bye.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Good-bye? [_Moves towards sofa with_ MRS. ERLYNNE _and\nsits down beside her_.] Are you going away, then, Mrs. Erlynne?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes; I am going to live abroad again. The English climate\ndoesn’t suit me. My—heart is affected here, and that I don’t like. I\nprefer living in the south. London is too full of fogs and—and serious\npeople, Lord Windermere. Whether the fogs produce the serious people or\nwhether the serious people produce the fogs, I don’t know, but the whole\nthing rather gets on my nerves, and so I’m leaving this afternoon by the\nClub Train.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. This afternoon? But I wanted so much to come and see\nyou.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. How kind of you! But I am afraid I have to go.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Shall I never see you again, Mrs. Erlynne?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I am afraid not. Our lives lie too far apart. But there\nis a little thing I would like you to do for me. I want a photograph of\nyou, Lady Windermere—would you give me one? You don’t know how gratified\nI should be.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh, with pleasure. There is one on that table. I’ll\nshow it to you. [_Goes across to the table_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Coming up to_ MRS. ERLYNNE _and speaking in a low\nvoice_.] It is monstrous your intruding yourself here after your conduct\nlast night.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_With an amused smile_.] My dear Windermere, manners\nbefore morals!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Returning_.] I’m afraid it is very flattering—I am\nnot so pretty as that. [_Showing photograph_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You are much prettier. But haven’t you got one of\nyourself with your little boy?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I have. Would you prefer one of those?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I’ll go and get it for you, if you’ll excuse me for a\nmoment. I have one upstairs.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. So sorry, Lady Windermere, to give you so much trouble.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Moves to door R._] No trouble at all, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Thanks so much.\n\n[_Exit_ LADY WINDERMERE _R._] You seem rather out of temper this\nmorning, Windermere. Why should you be? Margaret and I get on\ncharmingly together.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I can’t bear to see you with her. Besides, you have\nnot told me the truth, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I have not told _her_ the truth, you mean.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Standing C._] I sometimes wish you had. I should\nhave been spared then the misery, the anxiety, the annoyance of the last\nsix months. But rather than my wife should know—that the mother whom she\nwas taught to consider as dead, the mother whom she has mourned as dead,\nis living—a divorced woman, going about under an assumed name, a bad\nwoman preying upon life, as I know you now to be—rather than that, I was\nready to supply you with money to pay bill after bill, extravagance after\nextravagance, to risk what occurred yesterday, the first quarrel I have\never had with my wife. You don’t understand what that means to me. How\ncould you? But I tell you that the only bitter words that ever came from\nthose sweet lips of hers were on your account, and I hate to see you next\nher. You sully the innocence that is in her. [_Moves L.C._] And then I\nused to think that with all your faults you were frank and honest. You\nare not.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Why do you say that?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You made me get you an invitation to my wife’s ball.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. For my daughter’s ball—yes.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You came, and within an hour of your leaving the house\nyou are found in a man’s rooms—you are disgraced before every one.\n[_Goes up stage C._]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Turning round on her_.] Therefore I have a right to\nlook upon you as what you are—a worthless, vicious woman. I have the\nright to tell you never to enter this house, never to attempt to come\nnear my wife—\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Coldly_.] My daughter, you mean.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You have no right to claim her as your daughter. You\nleft her, abandoned her when she was but a child in the cradle, abandoned\nher for your lover, who abandoned you in turn.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Rising_.] Do you count that to his credit, Lord\nWindermere—or to mine?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. To his, now that I know you.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Take care—you had better be careful.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Oh, I am not going to mince words for you. I know you\nthoroughly.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Looks steadily at him_.] I question that.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I _do_ know you. For twenty years of your life you\nlived without your child, without a thought of your child. One day you\nread in the papers that she had married a rich man. You saw your hideous\nchance. You knew that to spare her the ignominy of learning that a woman\nlike you was her mother, I would endure anything. You began your\nblackmailing.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Don’t use ugly words,\nWindermere. They are vulgar. I saw my chance, it is true, and took it.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Yes, you took it—and spoiled it all last night by being\nfound out.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_With a strange smile_.] You are quite right, I spoiled\nit all last night.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. And as for your blunder in taking my wife’s fan from\nhere and then leaving it about in Darlington’s rooms, it is unpardonable.\nI can’t bear the sight of it now. I shall never let my wife use it\nagain. The thing is soiled for me. You should have kept it and not\nbrought it back.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I think I shall keep it. [_Goes up_.] It’s extremely\npretty. [_Takes up fan_.] I shall ask Margaret to give it to me.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I hope my wife will give it you.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Oh, I’m sure she will have no objection.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I wish that at the same time she would give you a\nminiature she kisses every night before she prays—It’s the miniature of a\nyoung innocent-looking girl with beautiful _dark_ hair.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Ah, yes, I remember. How long ago that seems! [_Goes to\nsofa and sits down_.] It was done before I was married. Dark hair and\nan innocent expression were the fashion then, Windermere! [_A pause_.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. What do you mean by coming here this morning? What is\nyour object? [_Crossing L.C. and sitting_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_With a note of irony in her voice_.] To bid good-bye to\nmy dear daughter, of course. [LORD WINDERMERE _bites his under lip in\nanger_. MRS. ERLYNNE _looks at him_, _and her voice and manner become\nserious_. _In her accents at she talks there is a note of deep tragedy_.\n_For a moment she reveals herself_.] Oh, don’t imagine I am going to\nhave a pathetic scene with her, weep on her neck and tell her who I am,\nand all that kind of thing. I have no ambition to play the part of a\nmother. Only once in my life have I known a mother’s feelings. That was\nlast night. They were terrible—they made me suffer—they made me suffer\ntoo much. For twenty years, as you say, I have lived childless,—I want\nto live childless still. [_Hiding her feelings with a trivial laugh_.]\nBesides, my dear Windermere, how on earth could I pose as a mother with a\ngrown-up daughter? Margaret is twenty-one, and I have never admitted\nthat I am more than twenty-nine, or thirty at the most. Twenty-nine when\nthere are pink shades, thirty when there are not. So you see what\ndifficulties it would involve. No, as far as I am concerned, let your\nwife cherish the memory of this dead, stainless mother. Why should I\ninterfere with her illusions? I find it hard enough to keep my own. I\nlost one illusion last night. I thought I had no heart. I find I have,\nand a heart doesn’t suit me, Windermere. Somehow it doesn’t go with\nmodern dress. It makes one look old. [_Takes up hand-mirror from table\nand looks into it_.] And it spoils one’s career at critical moments.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. You fill me with horror—with absolute horror.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Rising_.] I suppose, Windermere, you would like me to\nretire into a convent, or become a hospital nurse, or something of that\nkind, as people do in silly modern novels. That is stupid of you,\nArthur; in real life we don’t do such things—not as long as we have any\ngood looks left, at any rate. No—what consoles one nowadays is not\nrepentance, but pleasure. Repentance is quite out of date. And besides,\nif a woman really repents, she has to go to a bad dressmaker, otherwise\nno one believes in her. And nothing in the world would induce me to do\nthat. No; I am going to pass entirely out of your two lives. My coming\ninto them has been a mistake—I discovered that last night.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. A fatal mistake.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Smiling_.] Almost fatal.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I am sorry now I did not tell my wife the whole thing\nat once.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I regret my bad actions. You regret your good ones—that\nis the difference between us.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I don’t trust you. I _will_ tell my wife. It’s better\nfor her to know, and from me. It will cause her infinite pain—it will\nhumiliate her terribly, but it’s right that she should know.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You propose to tell her?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I am going to tell her.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Going up to him_.] If you do, I will make my name so\ninfamous that it will mar every moment of her life. It will ruin her,\nand make her wretched. If you dare to tell her, there is no depth of\ndegradation I will not sink to, no pit of shame I will not enter. You\nshall not tell her—I forbid you.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Why?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_After a pause_.] If I said to you that I cared for her,\nperhaps loved her even—you would sneer at me, wouldn’t you?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. I should feel it was not true. A mother’s love means\ndevotion, unselfishness, sacrifice. What could you know of such things?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You are right. What could I know of such things? Don’t\nlet us talk any more about it—as for telling my daughter who I am, that I\ndo not allow. It is my secret, it is not yours. If I make up my mind to\ntell her, and I think I will, I shall tell her before I leave the\nhouse—if not, I shall never tell her.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Angrily_.] Then let me beg of you to leave our house\nat once. I will make your excuses to Margaret.\n\n[_Enter_ LADY WINDERMERE _R._ _She goes over to_ MRS. ERLYNNE _with the\nphotograph in her hand_. LORD WINDERMERE _moves to back of sofa_, _and\nanxiously watches_ MRS. ERLYNNE _as the scene progresses_.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I am so sorry, Mrs. Erlynne, to have kept you waiting.\nI couldn’t find the photograph anywhere. At last I discovered it in my\nhusband’s dressing-room—he had stolen it.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Takes the photograph from her and looks at it_.] I am\nnot surprised—it is charming. [_Goes over to sofa with_ LADY WINDERMERE,\n_and sits down beside her_. _Looks again at the photograph_.] And so\nthat is your little boy! What is he called?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Gerard, after my dear father.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Laying the photograph down_.] Really?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. If it had been a girl, I would have called it\nafter my mother. My mother had the same name as myself, Margaret.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. My name is Margaret too.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Indeed!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes. [_Pause_.] You are devoted to your mother’s memory,\nLady Windermere, your husband tells me.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. We all have ideals in life. At least we all should\nhave. Mine is my mother.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Ideals are dangerous things. Realities are better. They\nwound, but they’re better.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Shaking her head_.] If I lost my ideals, I should\nlose everything.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Everything?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes. [_Pause_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Did your father often speak to you of your mother?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. No, it gave him too much pain. He told me how my\nmother had died a few months after I was born. His eyes filled with\ntears as he spoke. Then he begged me never to mention her name to him\nagain. It made him suffer even to hear it. My father—my father really\ndied of a broken heart. His was the most ruined life know.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Rising_.] I am afraid I must go now, Lady Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Rising_.] Oh no, don’t.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. I think I had better. My carriage must have come back by\nthis time. I sent it to Lady Jedburgh’s with a note.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, would you mind seeing if Mrs. Erlynne’s\ncarriage has come back?\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Pray don’t trouble, Lord Windermere.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Yes, Arthur, do go, please.\n\n[LORD WINDERMERE _hesitated for a moment and looks at_ MRS. ERLYNNE.\n_She remains quite impassive_. _He leaves the room_.]\n\n[_To_ MRS. ERLYNNE.] Oh! What am I to say to you? You saved me last\nnight? [_Goes towards her_.]\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Hush—don’t speak of it.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I must speak of it. I can’t let you think that I am\ngoing to accept this sacrifice. I am not. It is too great. I am going\nto tell my husband everything. It is my duty.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. It is not your duty—at least you have duties to others\nbesides him. You say you owe me something?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. I owe you everything.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Then pay your debt by silence. That is the only way in\nwhich it can be paid. Don’t spoil the one good thing I have done in my\nlife by telling it to any one. Promise me that what passed last night\nwill remain a secret between us. You must not bring misery into your\nhusband’s life. Why spoil his love? You must not spoil it. Love is\neasily killed. Oh! how easily love is killed. Pledge me your word, Lady\nWindermere, that you will never tell him. I insist upon it.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_With bowed head_.] It is your will, not mine.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Yes, it is my will. And never forget your child—I like to\nthink of you as a mother. I like you to think of yourself as one.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Looking up_.] I always will now. Only once in my\nlife I have forgotten my own mother—that was last night. Oh, if I had\nremembered her I should not have been so foolish, so wicked.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_With a slight shudder_.] Hush, last night is quite\nover.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD WINDERMERE.]\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Your carriage has not come back yet, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. It makes no matter. I’ll take a hansom. There is nothing\nin the world so respectable as a good Shrewsbury and Talbot. And now,\ndear Lady Windermere, I am afraid it is really good-bye. [_Moves up C._]\nOh, I remember. You’ll think me absurd, but do you know I’ve taken a\ngreat fancy to this fan that I was silly enough to run away with last\nnight from your ball. Now, I wonder would you give it to me? Lord\nWindermere says you may. I know it is his present.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh, certainly, if it will give you any pleasure. But\nit has my name on it. It has ‘Margaret’ on it.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. But we have the same Christian name.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Oh, I forgot. Of course, do have it. What a wonderful\nchance our names being the same!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. Quite wonderful. Thanks—it will always remind me of you.\n[_Shakes hands with her_.]\n\n[_Enter_ PARKER.]\n\nPARKER. Lord Augustus Lorton. Mrs. Erlynne’s carriage has come.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD AUGUSTUS.]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Good morning, dear boy. Good morning, Lady Windermere.\n[_Sees_ MRS. ERLYNNE.] Mrs. Erlynne!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. How do you do, Lord Augustus? Are you quite well this\nmorning?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Coldly_.] Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. You don’t look at all well, Lord Augustus. You stop up\ntoo late—it is so bad for you. You really should take more care of\nyourself. Good-bye, Lord Windermere. [_Goes towards door with a bow to_\nLORD AUGUSTUS. _Suddenly smiles and looks back at him_.] Lord Augustus!\nWon’t you see me to my carriage? You might carry the fan.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Allow me!\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. No; I want Lord Augustus. I have a special message for\nthe dear Duchess. Won’t you carry the fan, Lord Augustus?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. If you really desire it, Mrs. Erlynne.\n\nMRS. ERLYNNE. [_Laughing_.] Of course I do. You’ll carry it so\ngracefully. You would carry off anything gracefully, dear Lord Augustus.\n\n[_When she reaches the door she looks back for a moment at_ LADY\nWINDERMERE. _Their eyes meet_. _Then she turns_, _and exit C. followed\nby_ LORD AUGUSTUS.]\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. You will never speak against Mrs. Erlynne again,\nArthur, will you?\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Gravely_.] She is better than one thought her.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. She is better than I am.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Smiling as he strokes her hair_.] Child, you and she\nbelong to different worlds. Into your world evil has never entered.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. Don’t say that, Arthur. There is the same world for\nall of us, and good and evil, sin and innocence, go through it hand in\nhand. To shut one’s eyes to half of life that one may live securely is\nas though one blinded oneself that one might walk with more safety in a\nland of pit and precipice.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. [_Moves down with her_.] Darling, why do you say that?\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Sits on sofa_.] Because I, who had shut my eyes to\nlife, came to the brink. And one who had separated us—\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. We were never separated.\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. We never must be again. O Arthur, don’t love me less,\nand I will trust you more. I will trust you absolutely. Let us go to\nSelby. In the Rose Garden at Selby the roses are white and red.\n\n[_Enter_ LORD AUGUSTUS _C._]\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. Arthur, she has explained everything!\n\n[LADY WINDERMERE _looks horribly frightened at this_. LORD WINDERMERE\n_starts_. LORD AUGUSTUS _takes_ WINDERMERE _by the arm and brings him to\nfront of stage_. _He talks rapidly and in a low voice_. LADY WINDERMERE\n_stands watching them in terror_.] My dear fellow, she has explained\nevery demmed thing. We all wronged her immensely. It was entirely for\nmy sake she went to Darlington’s rooms. Called first at the Club—fact\nis, wanted to put me out of suspense—and being told I had gone\non—followed—naturally frightened when she heard a lot of us coming\nin—retired to another room—I assure you, most gratifying to me, the whole\nthing. We all behaved brutally to her. She is just the woman for me.\nSuits me down to the ground. All the conditions she makes are that we\nlive entirely out of England. A very good thing too. Demmed clubs,\ndemmed climate, demmed cooks, demmed everything. Sick of it all!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Frightened_.] Has Mrs. Erlynne—?\n\nLORD AUGUSTUS. [_Advancing towards her with a low bow_.] Yes, Lady\nWindermere— Mrs. Erlynne has done me the honour of accepting my hand.\n\nLORD WINDERMERE. Well, you are certainly marrying a very clever woman!\n\nLADY WINDERMERE. [_Taking her husband’s hand_.] Ah, you’re marrying a\nvery good woman!\n\n * * * * *\n\n CURTAIN\n\n\n\n\n***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY WINDERMERE\'S FAN***\n\n\n******* This file should be named 790-0.txt or 790-0.zip *******\n\n\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\nhttp://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/9/790\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook, Intentions, by Oscar Wilde\n\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\nother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions \nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of\nthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at \nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\'ll have\nto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.\n\n\n\n\nTitle: Intentions\n\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\n\n\nRelease Date: October 26, 2014 [eBook #887]\n[This file was first posted on April 24, 1997]\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set encoding: UTF-8\n\n\n***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INTENTIONS***\n\n\nTranscribed from the 1913 Methuen and Co edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n INTENTIONS\n\n\n BY\n OSCAR WILDE\n\n * * * * *\n\n METHUEN & CO. LTD.\n 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\n LONDON\n\n * * * * *\n\n _First Published_, _at 1s. net_, _in 1913_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_This Book was First Published_ _1891_\n_Second Edition_ _1894_\n_First Published_ (_Third Edition_) _by Methuen _1908_\nand Co._\n_Fourth Edition_ _1909_\n_Fifth Edition_ _1911_\n\n * * * * *\n\n DEDICATED\n TO\n MRS. CAREW\n BY\n THE AUTHOR’S LITERARY EXECUTOR\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nTHE DECAY OF LYING 1\nPEN, PENCIL, AND POISON 57\nTHE CRITIC AS ARTIST 95\nTHE TRUTH OF MASKS 221\n\n\n\n\nTHE DECAY OF LYING:\nAN OBSERVATION\n\n\n _A DIALOGUE_. _Persons_: _Cyril and_\n _Vivian_. _Scene_: _the Library of a country_\n _house in Nottinghamshire_.\n\nCYRIL (_coming in through the open window from the terrace_). My dear\nVivian, don’t coop yourself up all day in the library. It is a perfectly\nlovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. There is a mist upon the woods,\nlike the purple bloom upon a plum. Let us go and lie on the grass and\nsmoke cigarettes and enjoy Nature.\n\nVIVIAN. Enjoy Nature! I am glad to say that I have entirely lost that\nfaculty. People tell us that Art makes us love Nature more than we loved\nher before; that it reveals her secrets to us; and that after a careful\nstudy of Corot and Constable we see things in her that had escaped our\nobservation. My own experience is that the more we study Art, the less\nwe care for Nature. What Art really reveals to us is Nature’s lack of\ndesign, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely\nunfinished condition. Nature has good intentions, of course, but, as\nAristotle once said, she cannot carry them out. When I look at a\nlandscape I cannot help seeing all its defects. It is fortunate for us,\nhowever, that Nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we should have no art\nat all. Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature\nher proper place. As for the infinite variety of Nature, that is a pure\nmyth. It is not to be found in Nature herself. It resides in the\nimagination, or fancy, or cultivated blindness of the man who looks at\nher.\n\nCYRIL. Well, you need not look at the landscape. You can lie on the\ngrass and smoke and talk.\n\nVIVIAN. But Nature is so uncomfortable. Grass is hard and lumpy and\ndamp, and full of dreadful black insects. Why, even Morris’s poorest\nworkman could make you a more comfortable seat than the whole of Nature\ncan. Nature pales before the furniture of ‘the street which from Oxford\nhas borrowed its name,’ as the poet you love so much once vilely phrased\nit. I don’t complain. If Nature had been comfortable, mankind would\nnever have invented architecture, and I prefer houses to the open air.\nIn a house we all feel of the proper proportions. Everything is\nsubordinated to us, fashioned for our use and our pleasure. Egotism\nitself, which is so necessary to a proper sense of human dignity, is\nentirely the result of indoor life. Out of doors one becomes abstract\nand impersonal. One’s individuality absolutely leaves one. And then\nNature is so indifferent, so unappreciative. Whenever I am walking in\nthe park here, I always feel that I am no more to her than the cattle\nthat browse on the slope, or the burdock that blooms in the ditch.\nNothing is more evident than that Nature hates Mind. Thinking is the\nmost unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die\nof any other disease. Fortunately, in England at any rate, thought is\nnot catching. Our splendid physique as a people is entirely due to our\nnational stupidity. I only hope we shall be able to keep this great\nhistoric bulwark of our happiness for many years to come; but I am afraid\nthat we are beginning to be over-educated; at least everybody who is\nincapable of learning has taken to teaching—that is really what our\nenthusiasm for education has come to. In the meantime, you had better go\nback to your wearisome uncomfortable Nature, and leave me to correct my\nproofs.\n\nCYRIL. Writing an article! That is not very consistent after what you\nhave just said.\n\nVIVIAN. Who wants to be consistent? The dullard and the doctrinaire,\nthe tedious people who carry out their principles to the bitter end of\naction, to the _reductio ad absurdum_ of practice. Not I. Like Emerson,\nI write over the door of my library the word ‘Whim.’ Besides, my article\nis really a most salutary and valuable warning. If it is attended to,\nthere may be a new Renaissance of Art.\n\nCYRIL. What is the subject?\n\nVIVIAN. I intend to call it ‘The Decay of Lying: A Protest.’\n\nCYRIL. Lying! I should have thought that our politicians kept up that\nhabit.\n\nVIVIAN. I assure you that they do not. They never rise beyond the level\nof misrepresentation, and actually condescend to prove, to discuss, to\nargue. How different from the temper of the true liar, with his frank,\nfearless statements, his superb irresponsibility, his healthy, natural\ndisdain of proof of any kind! After all, what is a fine lie? Simply\nthat which is its own evidence. If a man is sufficiently unimaginative\nto produce evidence in support of a lie, he might just as well speak the\ntruth at once. No, the politicians won’t do. Something may, perhaps, be\nurged on behalf of the Bar. The mantle of the Sophist has fallen on its\nmembers. Their feigned ardours and unreal rhetoric are delightful. They\ncan make the worse appear the better cause, as though they were fresh\nfrom Leontine schools, and have been known to wrest from reluctant juries\ntriumphant verdicts of acquittal for their clients, even when those\nclients, as often happens, were clearly and unmistakeably innocent. But\nthey are briefed by the prosaic, and are not ashamed to appeal to\nprecedent. In spite of their endeavours, the truth will out.\nNewspapers, even, have degenerated. They may now be absolutely relied\nupon. One feels it as one wades through their columns. It is always the\nunreadable that occurs. I am afraid that there is not much to be said in\nfavour of either the lawyer or the journalist. Besides, what I am\npleading for is Lying in art. Shall I read you what I have written? It\nmight do you a great deal of good.\n\nCYRIL. Certainly, if you give me a cigarette. Thanks. By the way, what\nmagazine do you intend it for?\n\nVIVIAN. For the _Retrospective Review_. I think I told you that the\nelect had revived it.\n\nCYRIL. Whom do you mean by ‘the elect’?\n\nVIVIAN. Oh, The Tired Hedonists, of course. It is a club to which I\nbelong. We are supposed to wear faded roses in our button-holes when we\nmeet, and to have a sort of cult for Domitian. I am afraid you are not\neligible. You are too fond of simple pleasures.\n\nCYRIL. I should be black-balled on the ground of animal spirits, I\nsuppose?\n\nVIVIAN. Probably. Besides, you are a little too old. We don’t admit\nanybody who is of the usual age.\n\nCYRIL. Well, I should fancy you are all a good deal bored with each\nother.\n\nVIVIAN. We are. This is one of the objects of the club. Now, if you\npromise not to interrupt too often, I will read you my article.\n\nCYRIL. You will find me all attention.\n\nVIVIAN (_reading in a very clear_, _musical voice_). THE DECAY OF LYING:\nA PROTEST.—One of the chief causes that can be assigned for the curiously\ncommonplace character of most of the literature of our age is undoubtedly\nthe decay of Lying as an art, a science, and a social pleasure. The\nancient historians gave us delightful fiction in the form of fact; the\nmodern novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of fiction.\nThe Blue-Book is rapidly becoming his ideal both for method and manner.\nHe has his tedious _document humain_, his miserable little _coin de la\ncréation_, into which he peers with his microscope. He is to be found at\nthe Librairie Nationale, or at the British Museum, shamelessly reading up\nhis subject. He has not even the courage of other people’s ideas, but\ninsists on going directly to life for everything, and ultimately, between\nencyclopædias and personal experience, he comes to the ground, having\ndrawn his types from the family circle or from the weekly washerwoman,\nand having acquired an amount of useful information from which never,\neven in his most meditative moments, can he thoroughly free himself.\n\n‘The lose that results to literature in general from this false ideal of\nour time can hardly be overestimated. People have a careless way of\ntalking about a “born liar,” just as they talk about a “born poet.” But\nin both cases they are wrong. Lying and poetry are arts—arts, as Pinto\nsaw, not unconnected with each other—and they require the most careful\nstudy, the most disinterested devotion. Indeed, they have their\ntechnique, just as the more material arts of painting and sculpture have,\ntheir subtle secrets of form and colour, their craft-mysteries, their\ndeliberate artistic methods. As one knows the poet by his fine music, so\none can recognise the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance, and in neither\ncase will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice. Here, as\nelsewhere, practice must, precede perfection. But in modern days while\nthe fashion of writing poetry has become far too common, and should, if\npossible, be discouraged, the fashion of lying has almost fallen into\ndisrepute. Many a young man starts in life with a natural gift for\nexaggeration which, if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic\nsurroundings, or by the imitation of the best models, might grow into\nsomething really great and wonderful. But, as a rule, he comes to\nnothing. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy—’\n\nCYRIL. My dear fellow!\n\nVIVIAN. Please don’t interrupt in the middle of a sentence. ‘He either\nfalls into careless habits of accuracy, or takes to frequenting the\nsociety of the aged and the well-informed. Both things are equally fatal\nto his imagination, as indeed they would be fatal to the imagination of\nanybody, and in a short time he develops a morbid and unhealthy faculty\nof truth-telling, begins to verify all statements made in his presence,\nhas no hesitation in contradicting people who are much younger than\nhimself, and often ends by writing novels which are so lifelike that no\none can possibly believe in their probability. This is no isolated\ninstance that we are giving. It is simply one example out of many; and\nif something cannot be done to check, or at least to modify, our\nmonstrous worship of facts, Art will become sterile, and beauty will pass\naway from the land.\n\n‘Even Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, that delightful master of delicate and\nfanciful prose, is tainted with this modern vice, for we know positively\nno other name for it. There is such a thing as robbing a story of its\nreality by trying to make it too true, and _The Black Arrow_ is so\ninartistic as not to contain a single anachronism to boast of, while the\ntransformation of Dr. Jekyll reads dangerously like an experiment out of\nthe _Lancet_. As for Mr. Rider Haggard, who really has, or had once, the\nmakings of a perfectly magnificent liar, he is now so afraid of being\nsuspected of genius that when he does tell us anything marvellous, he\nfeels bound to invent a personal reminiscence, and to put it into a\nfootnote as a kind of cowardly corroboration. Nor are our other\nnovelists much better. Mr. Henry James writes fiction as if it were a\npainful duty, and wastes upon mean motives and imperceptible “points of\nview” his neat literary style, his felicitous phrases, his swift and\ncaustic satire. Mr. Hall Caine, it is true, aims at the grandiose, but\nthen he writes at the top of his voice. He is so loud that one cannot\nbear what he says. Mr. James Payn is an adept in the art of concealing\nwhat is not worth finding. He hunts down the obvious with the enthusiasm\nof a short-sighted detective. As one turns over the pages, the suspense\nof the author becomes almost unbearable. The horses of Mr. William\nBlack’s phaeton do not soar towards the sun. They merely frighten the\nsky at evening into violent chromolithographic effects. On seeing them\napproach, the peasants take refuge in dialect. Mrs. Oliphant prattles\npleasantly about curates, lawn-tennis parties, domesticity, and other\nwearisome things. Mr. Marion Crawford has immolated himself upon the\naltar of local colour. He is like the lady in the French comedy who\nkeeps talking about “le beau ciel d’Italie.” Besides, he has fallen into\nthe bad habit of uttering moral platitudes. He is always telling us that\nto be good is to be good, and that to be bad is to be wicked. At times\nhe is almost edifying. _Robert Elsmere_ is of course a masterpiece—a\nmasterpiece of the “genre ennuyeux,” the one form of literature that the\nEnglish people seems thoroughly to enjoy. A thoughtful young friend of\nours once told us that it reminded him of the sort of conversation that\ngoes on at a meat tea in the house of a serious Nonconformist family, and\nwe can quite believe it. Indeed it is only in England that such a book\ncould be produced. England is the home of lost ideas. As for that great\nand daily increasing school of novelists for whom the sun always rises in\nthe East-End, the only thing that can be said about them is that they\nfind life crude, and leave it raw.\n\n‘In France, though nothing so deliberately tedious as _Robert Elsmere_\nhas been produced, things are not much better. M. Guy de Maupassant,\nwith his keen mordant irony and his hard vivid style, strips life of the\nfew poor rags that still cover her, and shows us foul sore and festering\nwound. He writes lurid little tragedies in which everybody is\nridiculous; bitter comedies at which one cannot laugh for very tears. M.\nZola, true to the lofty principle that he lays down in one of his\npronunciamientos on literature, “L’homme de génie n’a jamais d’esprit,”\nis determined to show that, if he has not got genius, he can at least be\ndull. And how well he succeeds! He is not without power. Indeed at\ntimes, as in _Germinal_, there is something almost epic in his work. But\nhis work is entirely wrong from beginning to end, and wrong not on the\nground of morals, but on the ground of art. From any ethical standpoint\nit is just what it should be. The author is perfectly truthful, and\ndescribes things exactly as they happen. What more can any moralist\ndesire? We have no sympathy at all with the moral indignation of our\ntime against M. Zola. It is simply the indignation of Tartuffe on being\nexposed. But from the standpoint of art, what can be said in favour of\nthe author of _L’Assommoir_, _Nana_ and _Pot-Bouille_? Nothing. Mr.\nRuskin once described the characters in George Eliot’s novels as being\nlike the sweepings of a Pentonville omnibus, but M. Zola’s characters are\nmuch worse. They have their dreary vices, and their drearier virtues.\nThe record of their lives is absolutely without interest. Who cares what\nhappens to them? In literature we require distinction, charm, beauty and\nimaginative power. We don’t want to be harrowed and disgusted with an\naccount of the doings of the lower orders. M. Daudet is better. He has\nwit, a light touch and an amusing style. But he has lately committed\nliterary suicide. Nobody can possibly care for Delobelle with his “Il\nfaut lutter pour l’art,” or for Valmajour with his eternal refrain about\nthe nightingale, or for the poet in _Jack_ with his “mots cruels,” now\nthat we have learned from _Vingt Ans de ma Vie littéraire_ that these\ncharacters were taken directly from life. To us they seem to have\nsuddenly lost all their vitality, all the few qualities they ever\npossessed. The only real people are the people who never existed, and if\na novelist is base enough to go to life for his personages he should at\nleast pretend that they are creations, and not boast of them as copies.\nThe justification of a character in a novel is not that other persons are\nwhat they are, but that the author is what he is. Otherwise the novel is\nnot a work of art. As for M. Paul Bourget, the master of the _roman\npsychologique_, he commits the error of imagining that the men and women\nof modern life are capable of being infinitely analysed for an\ninnumerable series of chapters. In point of fact what is interesting\nabout people in good society—and M. Bourget rarely moves out of the\nFaubourg St. Germain, except to come to London,—is the mask that each one\nof them wears, not the reality that lies behind the mask. It is a\nhumiliating confession, but we are all of us made out of the same stuff.\nIn Falstaff there is something of Hamlet, in Hamlet there is not a little\nof Falstaff. The fat knight has his moods of melancholy, and the young\nprince his moments of coarse humour. Where we differ from each other is\npurely in accidentals: in dress, manner, tone of voice, religious\nopinions, personal appearance, tricks of habit and the like. The more\none analyses people, the more all reasons for analysis disappear. Sooner\nor later one comes to that dreadful universal thing called human nature.\nIndeed, as any one who has ever worked among the poor knows only too\nwell, the brotherhood of man is no mere poet’s dream, it is a most\ndepressing and humiliating reality; and if a writer insists upon\nanalysing the upper classes, he might just as well write of match-girls\nand costermongers at once.’ However, my dear Cyril, I will not detain\nyou any further just here. I quite admit that modern novels have many\ngood points. All I insist on is that, as a class, they are quite\nunreadable.\n\nCYRIL. That is certainly a very grave qualification, but I must say that\nI think you are rather unfair in some of your strictures. I like _The\nDeemster_, and _The Daughter of Heth_, and _Le Disciple_, and _Mr.\nIsaacs_, and as for _Robert Elsmere_, I am quite devoted to it. Not that\nI can look upon it as a serious work. As a statement of the problems\nthat confront the earnest Christian it is ridiculous and antiquated. It\nis simply Arnold’s _Literature and Dogma_ with the literature left out.\nIt is as much behind the age as Paley’s _Evidences_, or Colenso’s method\nof Biblical exegesis. Nor could anything be less impressive than the\nunfortunate hero gravely heralding a dawn that rose long ago, and so\ncompletely missing its true significance that he proposes to carry on the\nbusiness of the old firm under the new name. On the other hand, it\ncontains several clever caricatures, and a heap of delightful quotations,\nand Green’s philosophy very pleasantly sugars the somewhat bitter pill of\nthe author’s fiction. I also cannot help expressing my surprise that you\nhave said nothing about the two novelists whom you are always reading,\nBalzac and George Meredith. Surely they are realists, both of them?\n\nVIVIAN. Ah! Meredith! Who can define him? His style is chaos\nillumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered\neverything except language: as a novelist he can do everything, except\ntell a story: as an artist he is everything except articulate. Somebody\nin Shakespeare—Touchstone, I think—talks about a man who is always\nbreaking his shins over his own wit, and it seems to me that this might\nserve as the basis for a criticism of Meredith’s method. But whatever he\nis, he is not a realist. Or rather I would say that he is a child of\nrealism who is not on speaking terms with his father. By deliberate\nchoice he has made himself a romanticist. He has refused to bow the knee\nto Baal, and after all, even if the man’s fine spirit did not revolt\nagainst the noisy assertions of realism, his style would be quite\nsufficient of itself to keep life at a respectful distance. By its means\nhe has planted round his garden a hedge full of thorns, and red with\nwonderful roses. As for Balzac, he was a most remarkable combination of\nthe artistic temperament with the scientific spirit. The latter he\nbequeathed to his disciples. The former was entirely his own. The\ndifference between such a book as M. Zola’s _L’Assommoir_ and Balzac’s\n_Illusions Perdues_ is the difference between unimaginative realism and\nimaginative reality. ‘All Balzac’s characters;’ said Baudelaire, ‘are\ngifted with the same ardour of life that animated himself. All his\nfictions are as deeply coloured as dreams. Each mind is a weapon loaded\nto the muzzle with will. The very scullions have genius.’ A steady\ncourse of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows, and our\nacquaintances to the shadows of shades. His characters have a kind of\nfervent fiery-coloured existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism.\nOne of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de\nRubempré. It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to\nrid myself. It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when\nI laugh. But Balzac is no more a realist than Holbein was. He created\nlife, he did not copy it. I admit, however, that he set far too high a\nvalue on modernity of form, and that, consequently, there is no book of\nhis that, as an artistic masterpiece, can rank with _Salammbô_ or\n_Esmond_, or _The Cloister and the Hearth_, or the _Vicomte de\nBragelonne_.\n\nCYRIL. Do you object to modernity of form, then?\n\nVIVIAN. Yes. It is a huge price to pay for a very poor result. Pure\nmodernity of form is always somewhat vulgarising. It cannot help being\nso. The public imagine that, because they are interested in their\nimmediate surroundings, Art should be interested in them also, and should\ntake them as her subject-matter. But the mere fact that they are\ninterested in these things makes them unsuitable subjects for Art. The\nonly beautiful things, as somebody once said, are the things that do not\nconcern us. As long as a thing is useful or necessary to us, or affects\nus in any way, either for pain or for pleasure, or appeals strongly to\nour sympathies, or is a vital part of the environment in which we live,\nit is outside the proper sphere of art. To art’s subject-matter we\nshould be more or less indifferent. We should, at any rate, have no\npreferences, no prejudices, no partisan feeling of any kind. It is\nexactly because Hecuba is nothing to us that her sorrows are such an\nadmirable motive for a tragedy. I do not know anything in the whole\nhistory of literature sadder than the artistic career of Charles Reade.\nHe wrote one beautiful book, _The Cloister and the Hearth_, a book as\nmuch above _Romola_ as _Romola_ is above _Daniel Deronda_, and wasted the\nrest of his life in a foolish attempt to be modern, to draw public\nattention to the state of our convict prisons, and the management of our\nprivate lunatic asylums. Charles Dickens was depressing enough in all\nconscience when he tried to arouse our sympathy for the victims of the\npoor-law administration; but Charles Reade, an artist, a scholar, a man\nwith a true sense of beauty, raging and roaring over the abuses of\ncontemporary life like a common pamphleteer or a sensational journalist,\nis really a sight for the angels to weep over. Believe me, my dear\nCyril, modernity of form and modernity of subject-matter are entirely and\nabsolutely wrong. We have mistaken the common livery of the age for the\nvesture of the Muses, and spend our days in the sordid streets and\nhideous suburbs of our vile cities when we should be out on the hillside\nwith Apollo. Certainly we are a degraded race, and have sold our\nbirthright for a mess of facts.\n\nCYRIL. There is something in what you say, and there is no doubt that\nwhatever amusement we may find in reading a purely model novel, we have\nrarely any artistic pleasure in re-reading it. And this is perhaps the\nbest rough test of what is literature and what is not. If one cannot\nenjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use reading it at\nall. But what do you say about the return to Life and Nature? This is\nthe panacea that is always being recommended to us.\n\nVIVIAN. I will read you what I say on that subject. The passage comes\nlater on in the article, but I may as well give it to you now:—\n\n‘The popular cry of our time is “Let us return to Life and Nature; they\nwill recreate Art for us, and send the red blood coursing through her\nveins; they will shoe her feet with swiftness and make her hand strong.”\nBut, alas! we are mistaken in our amiable and well-meaning efforts.\nNature is always behind the age. And as for Life, she is the solvent\nthat breaks up Art, the enemy that lays waste her house.’\n\nCYRIL. What do you mean by saying that Nature is always behind the age?\n\nVIVIAN. Well, perhaps that is rather cryptic. What I mean is this. If\nwe take Nature to mean natural simple instinct as opposed to\nself-conscious culture, the work produced under this influence is always\nold-fashioned, antiquated, and out of date. One touch of Nature may make\nthe whole world kin, but two touches of Nature will destroy any work of\nArt. If, on the other hand, we regard Nature as the collection of\nphenomena external to man, people only discover in her what they bring to\nher. She has no suggestions of her own. Wordsworth went to the lakes,\nbut he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the sermons he had\nalready hidden there. He went moralising about the district, but his\ngood work was produced when he returned, not to Nature but to poetry.\nPoetry gave him ‘Laodamia,’ and the fine sonnets, and the great Ode, such\nas it is. Nature gave him ‘Martha Ray’ and ‘Peter Bell,’ and the address\nto Mr. Wilkinson’s spade.\n\nCYRIL. I think that view might be questioned. I am rather inclined to\nbelieve in ‘the impulse from a vernal wood,’ though of course the\nartistic value of such an impulse depends entirely on the kind of\ntemperament that receives it, so that the return to Nature would come to\nmean simply the advance to a great personality. You would agree with\nthat, I fancy. However, proceed with your article.\n\nVIVIAN (_reading_). ‘Art begins with abstract decoration, with purely\nimaginative and pleasurable work dealing with what is unreal and\nnon-existent. This is the first stage. Then Life becomes fascinated\nwith this new wonder, and asks to be admitted into the charmed circle.\nArt takes life as part of her rough material, recreates it, and\nrefashions it in fresh forms, is absolutely indifferent to fact, invents,\nimagines, dreams, and keeps between herself and reality the impenetrable\nbarrier of beautiful style, of decorative or ideal treatment. The third\nstage is when Life gets the upper hand, and drives Art out into the\nwilderness. That is the true decadence, and it is from this that we are\nnow suffering.\n\n‘Take the case of the English drama. At first in the hands of the monks\nDramatic Art was abstract, decorative and mythological. Then she\nenlisted Life in her service, and using some of life’s external forms,\nshe created an entirely new race of beings, whose sorrows were more\nterrible than any sorrow man has ever felt, whose joys were keener than\nlover’s joys, who had the rage of the Titans and the calm of the gods,\nwho had monstrous and marvellous sins, monstrous and marvellous virtues.\nTo them she gave a language different from that of actual use, a language\nfull of resonant music and sweet rhythm, made stately by solemn cadence,\nor made delicate by fanciful rhyme, jewelled with wonderful words, and\nenriched with lofty diction. She clothed her children in strange raiment\nand gave them masks, and at her bidding the antique world rose from its\nmarble tomb. A new Cæsar stalked through the streets of risen Rome, and\nwith purple sail and flute-led oars another Cleopatra passed up the river\nto Antioch. Old myth and legend and dream took shape and substance.\nHistory was entirely re-written, and there was hardly one of the\ndramatists who did not recognise that the object of Art is not simple\ntruth but complex beauty. In this they were perfectly right. Art itself\nis really a form of exaggeration; and selection, which is the very spirit\nof art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over-emphasis.\n\n‘But Life soon shattered the perfection of the form. Even in Shakespeare\nwe can see the beginning of the end. It shows itself by the gradual\nbreaking-up of the blank-verse in the later plays, by the predominance\ngiven to prose, and by the over-importance assigned to characterisation.\nThe passages in Shakespeare—and they are many—where the language is\nuncouth, vulgar, exaggerated, fantastic, obscene even, are entirely due\nto Life calling for an echo of her own voice, and rejecting the\nintervention of beautiful style, through which alone should life be\nsuffered to find expression. Shakespeare is not by any means a flawless\nartist. He is too fond of going directly to life, and borrowing life’s\nnatural utterance. He forgets that when Art surrenders her imaginative\nmedium she surrenders everything. Goethe says, somewhere—\n\n In der Beschränkung zeigt Fsich erst der Meister,\n\n“It is in working within limits that the master reveals himself,” and the\nlimitation, the very condition of any art is style. However, we need not\nlinger any longer over Shakespeare’s realism. _The Tempest_ is the most\nperfect of palinodes. All that we desired to point out was, that the\nmagnificent work of the Elizabethan and Jacobean artists contained within\nitself the seeds of its own dissolution, and that, if it drew some of its\nstrength from using life as rough material, it drew all its weakness from\nusing life as an artistic method. As the inevitable result of this\nsubstitution of an imitative for a creative medium, this surrender of an\nimaginative form, we have the modern English melodrama. The characters\nin these plays talk on the stage exactly as they would talk off it; they\nhave neither aspirations nor aspirates; they are taken directly from life\nand reproduce its vulgarity down to the smallest detail; they present the\ngait, manner, costume and accent of real people; they would pass\nunnoticed in a third-class railway carriage. And yet how wearisome the\nplays are! They do not succeed in producing even that impression of\nreality at which they aim, and which is their only reason for existing.\nAs a method, realism is a complete failure.\n\n‘What is true about the drama and the novel is no less true about those\narts that we call the decorative arts. The whole history of these arts\nin Europe is the record of the struggle between Orientalism, with its\nfrank rejection of imitation, its love of artistic convention, its\ndislike to the actual representation of any object in Nature, and our own\nimitative spirit. Wherever the former has been paramount, as in\nByzantium, Sicily and Spain, by actual contact, or in the rest of Europe\nby the influence of the Crusades, we have had beautiful and imaginative\nwork in which the visible things of life are transmuted into artistic\nconventions, and the things that Life has not are invented and fashioned\nfor her delight. But wherever we have returned to Life and Nature, our\nwork has always become vulgar, common and uninteresting. Modern\ntapestry, with its aërial effects, its elaborate perspective, its broad\nexpanses of waste sky, its faithful and laborious realism, has no beauty\nwhatsoever. The pictorial glass of Germany is absolutely detestable. We\nare beginning to weave possible carpets in England, but only because we\nhave returned to the method and spirit of the East. Our rugs and carpets\nof twenty years ago, with their solemn depressing truths, their inane\nworship of Nature, their sordid reproductions of visible objects, have\nbecome, even to the Philistine, a source of laughter. A cultured\nMahomedan once remarked to us, “You Christians are so occupied in\nmisinterpreting the fourth commandment that you have never thought of\nmaking an artistic application of the second.” He was perfectly right,\nand the whole truth of the matter is this: The proper school to learn art\nin is not Life but Art.’\n\nAnd now let me read you a passage which seems to me to settle the\nquestion very completely.\n\n‘It was not always thus. We need not say anything about the poets, for\nthey, with the unfortunate exception of Mr. Wordsworth, have been really\nfaithful to their high mission, and are universally recognised as being\nabsolutely unreliable. But in the works of Herodotus, who, in spite of\nthe shallow and ungenerous attempts of modern sciolists to verify his\nhistory, may justly be called the “Father of Lies”; in the published\nspeeches of Cicero and the biographies of Suetonius; in Tacitus at his\nbest; in Pliny’s _Natural History_; in Hanno’s _Periplus_; in all the\nearly chronicles; in the Lives of the Saints; in Froissart and Sir Thomas\nMalory; in the travels of Marco Polo; in Olaus Magnus, and Aldrovandus,\nand Conrad Lycosthenes, with his magnificent _Prodigiorum et Ostentorum\nChronicon_; in the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini; in the memoirs of\nCasanova; in Defoe’s _History of the Plague_; in Boswell’s _Life of\nJohnson_; in Napoleon’s despatches, and in the works of our own Carlyle,\nwhose _French Revolution_ is one of the most fascinating historical\nnovels ever written, facts are either kept in their proper subordinate\nposition, or else entirely excluded on the general ground of dulness.\nNow, everything is changed. Facts are not merely finding a footing-place\nin history, but they are usurping the domain of Fancy, and have invaded\nthe kingdom of Romance. Their chilling touch is over everything. They\nare vulgarising mankind. The crude commercialism of America, its\nmaterialising spirit, its indifference to the poetical side of things,\nand its lack of imagination and of high unattainable ideals, are entirely\ndue to that country having adopted for its national hero a man who,\naccording to his own confession, was incapable of telling a lie, and it\nis not too much to say that the story of George Washington and the\ncherry-tree has done more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any\nother moral tale in the whole of literature.’\n\nCYRIL. My dear boy!\n\nVIVIAN. I assure you it is the case, and the amusing part of the whole\nthing is that the story of the cherry-tree is an absolute myth. However,\nyou must not think that I am too despondent about the artistic future\neither of America or of our own country. Listen to this:—\n\n‘That some change will take place before this century has drawn to its\nclose we have no doubt whatsoever. Bored by the tedious and improving\nconversation of those who have neither the wit to exaggerate nor the\ngenius to romance, tired of the intelligent person whose reminiscences\nare always based upon memory, whose statements are invariably limited by\nprobability, and who is at any time liable to be corroborated by the\nmerest Philistine who happens to be present, Society sooner or later must\nreturn to its lost leader, the cultured and fascinating liar. Who he was\nwho first, without ever having gone out to the rude chase, told the\nwandering cavemen at sunset how he had dragged the Megatherium from the\npurple darkness of its jasper cave, or slain the Mammoth in single combat\nand brought back its gilded tusks, we cannot tell, and not one of our\nmodern anthropologists, for all their much-boasted science, has had the\nordinary courage to tell us. Whatever was his name or race, he certainly\nwas the true founder of social intercourse. For the aim of the liar is\nsimply to charm, to delight, to give pleasure. He is the very basis of\ncivilised society, and without him a dinner-party, even at the mansions\nof the great, is as dull as a lecture at the Royal Society, or a debate\nat the Incorporated Authors, or one of Mr. Burnand’s farcical comedies.\n\n‘Nor will he be welcomed by society alone. Art, breaking from the\nprison-house of realism, will run to greet him, and will kiss his false,\nbeautiful lips, knowing that he alone is in possession of the great\nsecret of all her manifestations, the secret that Truth is entirely and\nabsolutely a matter of style; while Life—poor, probable, uninteresting\nhuman life—tired of repeating herself for the benefit of Mr. Herbert\nSpencer, scientific historians, and the compilers of statistics in\ngeneral, will follow meekly after him, and try to reproduce, in her own\nsimple and untutored way, some of the marvels of which he talks.\n\n‘No doubt there will always be critics who, like a certain writer in the\n_Saturday Review_, will gravely censure the teller of fairy tales for his\ndefective knowledge of natural history, who will measure imaginative work\nby their own lack of any imaginative faculty, and will hold up their\nink-stained hands in horror if some honest gentleman, who has never been\nfarther than the yew-trees of his own garden, pens a fascinating book of\ntravels like Sir John Mandeville, or, like great Raleigh, writes a whole\nhistory of the world, without knowing anything whatsoever about the past.\nTo excuse themselves they will try and shelter under the shield of him\nwho made Prospero the magician, and gave him Caliban and Ariel as his\nservants, who heard the Tritons blowing their horns round the coral reefs\nof the Enchanted Isle, and the fairies singing to each other in a wood\nnear Athens, who led the phantom kings in dim procession across the misty\nScottish heath, and hid Hecate in a cave with the weird sisters. They\nwill call upon Shakespeare—they always do—and will quote that hackneyed\npassage forgetting that this unfortunate aphorism about Art holding the\nmirror up to Nature, is deliberately said by Hamlet in order to convince\nthe bystanders of his absolute insanity in all art-matters.’\n\nCYRIL. Ahem! Another cigarette, please.\n\nVIVIAN. My dear fellow, whatever you may say, it is merely a dramatic\nutterance, and no more represents Shakespeare’s real views upon art than\nthe speeches of Iago represent his real views upon morals. But let me\nget to the end of the passage:\n\n‘Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. She\nis not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. She is a\nveil, rather than a mirror. She has flowers that no forests know of,\nbirds that no woodland possesses. She makes and unmakes many worlds, and\ncan draw the moon from heaven with a scarlet thread. Hers are the “forms\nmore real than living man,” and hers the great archetypes of which things\nthat have existence are but unfinished copies. Nature has, in her eyes,\nno laws, no uniformity. She can work miracles at her will, and when she\ncalls monsters from the deep they come. She can bid the almond-tree\nblossom in winter, and send the snow upon the ripe cornfield. At her\nword the frost lays its silver finger on the burning mouth of June, and\nthe winged lions creep out from the hollows of the Lydian hills. The\ndryads peer from the thicket as she passes by, and the brown fauns smile\nstrangely at her when she comes near them. She has hawk-faced gods that\nworship her, and the centaurs gallop at her side.’\n\nCYRIL. I like that. I can see it. Is that the end?\n\nVIVIAN. No. There is one more passage, but it is purely practical. It\nsimply suggests some methods by which we could revive this lost art of\nLying.\n\nCYRIL. Well, before you read it to me, I should like to ask you a\nquestion. What do you mean by saying that life, ‘poor, probable,\nuninteresting human life,’ will try to reproduce the marvels of art? I\ncan quite understand your objection to art being treated as a mirror.\nYou think it would reduce genius to the position of a cracked\nlooking-glass. But you don’t mean to say that you seriously believe that\nLife imitates Art, that Life in fact is the mirror, and Art the reality?\n\nVIVIAN. Certainly I do. Paradox though it may seem—and paradoxes are\nalways dangerous things—it is none the less true that Life imitates art\nfar more than Art imitates life. We have all seen in our own day in\nEngland how a certain curious and fascinating type of beauty, invented\nand emphasised by two imaginative painters, has so influenced Life that\nwhenever one goes to a private view or to an artistic salon one sees,\nhere the mystic eyes of Rossetti’s dream, the long ivory throat, the\nstrange square-cut jaw, the loosened shadowy hair that he so ardently\nloved, there the sweet maidenhood of ‘The Golden Stair,’ the blossom-like\nmouth and weary loveliness of the ‘Laus Amoris,’ the passion-pale face of\nAndromeda, the thin hands and lithe beauty of the Vivian in ‘Merlin’s\nDream.’ And it has always been so. A great artist invents a type, and\nLife tries to copy it, to reproduce it in a popular form, like an\nenterprising publisher. Neither Holbein nor Vandyck found in England\nwhat they have given us. They brought their types with them, and Life\nwith her keen imitative faculty set herself to supply the master with\nmodels. The Greeks, with their quick artistic instinct, understood this,\nand set in the bride’s chamber the statue of Hermes or of Apollo, that\nshe might bear children as lovely as the works of art that she looked at\nin her rapture or her pain. They knew that Life gains from art not\nmerely spirituality, depth of thought and feeling, soul-turmoil or\nsoul-peace, but that she can form herself on the very lines and colours\nof art, and can reproduce the dignity of Pheidias as well as the grace of\nPraxiteles. Hence came their objection to realism. They disliked it on\npurely social grounds. They felt that it inevitably makes people ugly,\nand they were perfectly right. We try to improve the conditions of the\nrace by means of good air, free sunlight, wholesome water, and hideous\nbare buildings for the better housing of the lower orders. But these\nthings merely produce health, they do not produce beauty. For this, Art\nis required, and the true disciples of the great artist are not his\nstudio-imitators, but those who become like his works of art, be they\nplastic as in Greek days, or pictorial as in modern times; in a word,\nLife is Art’s best, Art’s only pupil.\n\nAs it is with the visible arts, so it is with literature. The most\nobvious and the vulgarest form in which this is shown is in the case of\nthe silly boys who, after reading the adventures of Jack Sheppard or Dick\nTurpin, pillage the stalls of unfortunate apple-women, break into\nsweet-shops at night, and alarm old gentlemen who are returning home from\nthe city by leaping out on them in suburban lanes, with black masks and\nunloaded revolvers. This interesting phenomenon, which always occurs\nafter the appearance of a new edition of either of the books I have\nalluded to, is usually attributed to the influence of literature on the\nimagination. But this is a mistake. The imagination is essentially\ncreative, and always seeks for a new form. The boy-burglar is simply the\ninevitable result of life’s imitative instinct. He is Fact, occupied as\nFact usually is, with trying to reproduce Fiction, and what we see in him\nis repeated on an extended scale throughout the whole of life.\nSchopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern\nthought, but Hamlet invented it. The world has become sad because a\npuppet was once melancholy. The Nihilist, that strange martyr who has no\nfaith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he\ndoes not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by\nTourgénieff, and completed by Dostoieffski. Robespierre came out of the\npages of Rousseau as surely as the People’s Palace rose out of the\n_débris_ of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not\ncopy it, but moulds it to its purpose. The nineteenth century, as we\nknow it, is largely an invention of Balzac. Our Luciens de Rubempré, our\nRastignacs, and De Marsays made their first appearance on the stage of\nthe _Comédie Humaine_. We are merely carrying out, with footnotes and\nunnecessary additions, the whim or fancy or creative vision of a great\nnovelist. I once asked a lady, who knew Thackeray intimately, whether he\nhad had any model for Becky Sharp. She told me that Becky was an\ninvention, but that the idea of the character had been partly suggested\nby a governess who lived in the neighbourhood of Kensington Square, and\nwas the companion of a very selfish and rich old woman. I inquired what\nbecame of the governess, and she replied that, oddly enough, some years\nafter the appearance of _Vanity Fair_, she ran away with the nephew of\nthe lady with whom she was living, and for a short time made a great\nsplash in society, quite in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley’s style, and entirely by\nMrs. Rawdon Crawley’s methods. Ultimately she came to grief, disappeared\nto the Continent, and used to be occasionally seen at Monte Carlo and\nother gambling places. The noble gentleman from whom the same great\nsentimentalist drew Colonel Newcome died, a few months after _The\nNewcomer_ had reached a fourth edition, with the word ‘Adsum’ on his\nlips. Shortly after Mr. Stevenson published his curious psychological\nstory of transformation, a friend of mine, called Mr. Hyde, was in the\nnorth of London, and being anxious to get to a railway station, took what\nhe thought would be a short cut, lost his way, and found himself in a\nnetwork of mean, evil-looking streets. Feeling rather nervous he began\nto walk extremely fast, when suddenly out of an archway ran a child right\nbetween his legs. It fell on the pavement, he tripped over it, and\ntrampled upon it. Being of course very much frightened and a little\nhurt, it began to scream, and in a few seconds the whole street was full\nof rough people who came pouring out of the houses like ants. They\nsurrounded him, and asked him his name. He was just about to give it\nwhen he suddenly remembered the opening incident in Mr. Stevenson’s\nstory. He was so filled with horror at having realised in his own person\nthat terrible and well-written scene, and at having done accidentally,\nthough in fact, what the Mr. Hyde of fiction had done with deliberate\nintent, that he ran away as hard as he could go. He was, however, very\nclosely followed, and finally he took refuge in a surgery, the door of\nwhich happened to be open, where he explained to a young assistant, who\nhappened to be there, exactly what had occurred. The humanitarian crowd\nwere induced to go away on his giving them a small sum of money, and as\nsoon as the coast was clear he left. As he passed out, the name on the\nbrass door-plate of the surgery caught his eye. It was ‘Jekyll.’ At\nleast it should have been.\n\nHere the imitation, as far as it went, was of course accidental. In the\nfollowing case the imitation was self-conscious. In the year 1879, just\nafter I had left Oxford, I met at a reception at the house of one of the\nForeign Ministers a woman of very curious exotic beauty. We became great\nfriends, and were constantly together. And yet what interested me most\nin her was not her beauty, but her character, her entire vagueness of\ncharacter. She seemed to have no personality at all, but simply the\npossibility of many types. Sometimes she would give herself up entirely\nto art, turn her drawing-room into a studio, and spend two or three days\na week at picture galleries or museums. Then she would take to attending\nrace-meetings, wear the most horsey clothes, and talk about nothing but\nbetting. She abandoned religion for mesmerism, mesmerism for politics,\nand politics for the melodramatic excitements of philanthropy. In fact,\nshe was a kind of Proteus, and as much a failure in all her\ntransformations as was that wondrous sea-god when Odysseus laid hold of\nhim. One day a serial began in one of the French magazines. At that\ntime I used to read serial stories, and I well remember the shock of\nsurprise I felt when I came to the description of the heroine. She was\nso like my friend that I brought her the magazine, and she recognised\nherself in it immediately, and seemed fascinated by the resemblance. I\nshould tell you, by the way, that the story was translated from some dead\nRussian writer, so that the author had not taken his type from my friend.\nWell, to put the matter briefly, some months afterwards I was in Venice,\nand finding the magazine in the reading-room of the hotel, I took it up\ncasually to see what had become of the heroine. It was a most piteous\ntale, as the girl had ended by running away with a man absolutely\ninferior to her, not merely in social station, but in character and\nintellect also. I wrote to my friend that evening about my views on John\nBellini, and the admirable ices at Florian’s, and the artistic value of\ngondolas, but added a postscript to the effect that her double in the\nstory had behaved in a very silly manner. I don’t know why I added that,\nbut I remember I had a sort of dread over me that she might do the same\nthing. Before my letter had reached her, she had run away with a man who\ndeserted her in six months. I saw her in 1884 in Paris, where she was\nliving with her mother, and I asked her whether the story had had\nanything to do with her action. She told me that she had felt an\nabsolutely irresistible impulse to follow the heroine step by step in her\nstrange and fatal progress, and that it was with a feeling of real terror\nthat she had looked forward to the last few chapters of the story. When\nthey appeared, it seemed to her that she was compelled to reproduce them\nin life, and she did so. It was a most clear example of this imitative\ninstinct of which I was speaking, and an extremely tragic one.\n\nHowever, I do not wish to dwell any further upon individual instances.\nPersonal experience is a most vicious and limited circle. All that I\ndesire to point out is the general principle that Life imitates Art far\nmore than Art imitates Life, and I feel sure that if you think seriously\nabout it you will find that it is true. Life holds the mirror up to Art,\nand either reproduces some strange type imagined by painter or sculptor,\nor realises in fact what has been dreamed in fiction. Scientifically\nspeaking, the basis of life—the energy of life, as Aristotle would call\nit—is simply the desire for expression, and Art is always presenting\nvarious forms through which this expression can be attained. Life seizes\non them and uses them, even if they be to her own hurt. Young men have\ncommitted suicide because Rolla did so, have died by their own hand\nbecause by his own hand Werther died. Think of what we owe to the\nimitation of Christ, of what we owe to the imitation of Cæsar.\n\nCYRIL. The theory is certainly a very curious one, but to make it\ncomplete you must show that Nature, no less than Life, is an imitation of\nArt. Are you prepared to prove that?\n\nVIVIAN. My dear fellow, I am prepared to prove anything.\n\nCYRIL. Nature follows the landscape painter, then, and takes her effects\nfrom him?\n\nVIVIAN. Certainly. Where, if not from the Impressionists, do we get\nthose wonderful brown fogs that come creeping down our streets, blurring\nthe gas-lamps and changing the houses into monstrous shadows? To whom,\nif not to them and their master, do we owe the lovely silver mists that\nbrood over our river, and turn to faint forms of fading grace curved\nbridge and swaying barge? The extraordinary change that has taken place\nin the climate of London during the last ten years is entirely due to a\nparticular school of Art. You smile. Consider the matter from a\nscientific or a metaphysical point of view, and you will find that I am\nright. For what is Nature? Nature is no great mother who has borne us.\nShe is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life.\nThings are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it,\ndepends on the Arts that have influenced us. To look at a thing is very\ndifferent from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees\nits beauty. Then, and then only, does it come into existence. At\npresent, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets\nand painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects.\nThere may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were.\nBut no one saw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did\nnot exist till Art had invented them. Now, it must be admitted, fogs are\ncarried to excess. They have become the mere mannerism of a clique, and\nthe exaggerated realism of their method gives dull people bronchitis.\nWhere the cultured catch an effect, the uncultured catch cold. And so,\nlet us be humane, and invite Art to turn her wonderful eyes elsewhere.\nShe has done so already, indeed. That white quivering sunlight that one\nsees now in France, with its strange blotches of mauve, and its restless\nviolet shadows, is her latest fancy, and, on the whole, Nature reproduces\nit quite admirably. Where she used to give us Corots and Daubignys, she\ngives us now exquisite Monets and entrancing Pissaros. Indeed there are\nmoments, rare, it is true, but still to be observed from time to time,\nwhen Nature becomes absolutely modern. Of course she is not always to be\nrelied upon. The fact is that she is in this unfortunate position. Art\ncreates an incomparable and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on\nto other things. Nature, upon the other hand, forgetting that imitation\ncan be made the sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect\nuntil we all become absolutely wearied of it. Nobody of any real\nculture, for instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of a sunset.\nSunsets are quite old-fashioned. They belong to the time when Turner was\nthe last note in art. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism\nof temperament. Upon the other hand they go on. Yesterday evening Mrs.\nArundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking at the glorious\nsky, as she called it. Of course I had to look at it. She is one of\nthose absurdly pretty Philistines to whom one can deny nothing. And what\nwas it? It was simply a very second-rate Turner, a Turner of a bad\nperiod, with all the painter’s worst faults exaggerated and\nover-emphasised. Of course, I am quite ready to admit that Life very\noften commits the same error. She produces her false Renés and her sham\nVautrins, just as Nature gives us, on one day a doubtful Cuyp, and on\nanother a more than questionable Rousseau. Still, Nature irritates one\nmore when she does things of that kind. It seems so stupid, so obvious,\nso unnecessary. A false Vautrin might be delightful. A doubtful Cuyp is\nunbearable. However, I don’t want to be too hard on Nature. I wish the\nChannel, especially at Hastings, did not look quite so often like a Henry\nMoore, grey pearl with yellow lights, but then, when Art is more varied,\nNature will, no doubt, be more varied also. That she imitates Art, I\ndon’t think even her worst enemy would deny now. It is the one thing\nthat keeps her in touch with civilised man. But have I proved my theory\nto your satisfaction?\n\nCYRIL. You have proved it to my dissatisfaction, which is better. But\neven admitting this strange imitative instinct in Life and Nature, surely\nyou would acknowledge that Art expresses the temper of its age, the\nspirit of its time, the moral and social conditions that surround it, and\nunder whose influence it is produced.\n\nVIVIAN. Certainly not! Art never expresses anything but itself. This\nis the principle of my new æsthetics; and it is this, more than that\nvital connection between form and substance, on which Mr. Pater dwells,\nthat makes music the type of all the arts. Of course, nations and\nindividuals, with that healthy natural vanity which is the secret of\nexistence, are always under the impression that it is of them that the\nMuses are talking, always trying to find in the calm dignity of\nimaginative art some mirror of their own turbid passions, always\nforgetting that the singer of life is not Apollo but Marsyas. Remote\nfrom reality, and with her eyes turned away from the shadows of the cave,\nArt reveals her own perfection, and the wondering crowd that watches the\nopening of the marvellous, many-petalled rose fancies that it is its own\nhistory that is being told to it, its own spirit that is finding\nexpression in a new form. But it is not so. The highest art rejects the\nburden of the human spirit, and gains more from a new medium or a fresh\nmaterial than she does from any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty\npassion, or from any great awakening of the human consciousness. She\ndevelops purely on her own lines. She is not symbolic of any age. It is\nthe ages that are her symbols.\n\nEven those who hold that Art is representative of time and place and\npeople cannot help admitting that the more imitative an art is, the less\nit represents to us the spirit of its age. The evil faces of the Roman\nemperors look out at us from the foul porphyry and spotted jasper in\nwhich the realistic artists of the day delighted to work, and we fancy\nthat in those cruel lips and heavy sensual jaws we can find the secret of\nthe ruin of the Empire. But it was not so. The vices of Tiberius could\nnot destroy that supreme civilisation, any more than the virtues of the\nAntonines could save it. It fell for other, for less interesting\nreasons. The sibyls and prophets of the Sistine may indeed serve to\ninterpret for some that new birth of the emancipated spirit that we call\nthe Renaissance; but what do the drunken boors and bawling peasants of\nDutch art tell us about the great soul of Holland? The more abstract,\nthe more ideal an art is, the more it reveals to us the temper of its\nage. If we wish to understand a nation by means of its art, let us look\nat its architecture or its music.\n\nCYRIL. I quite agree with you there. The spirit of an age may be best\nexpressed in the abstract ideal arts, for the spirit itself is abstract\nand ideal. Upon the other hand, for the visible aspect of an age, for\nits look, as the phrase goes, we must of course go to the arts of\nimitation.\n\nVIVIAN. I don’t think so. After all, what the imitative arts really\ngive us are merely the various styles of particular artists, or of\ncertain schools of artists. Surely you don’t imagine that the people of\nthe Middle Ages bore any resemblance at all to the figures on mediæval\nstained glass, or in mediæval stone and wood carving, or on mediæval\nmetal-work, or tapestries, or illuminated MSS. They were probably very\nordinary-looking people, with nothing grotesque, or remarkable, or\nfantastic in their appearance. The Middle Ages, as we know them in art,\nare simply a definite form of style, and there is no reason at all why an\nartist with this style should not be produced in the nineteenth century.\nNo great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would\ncease to be an artist. Take an example from our own day. I know that\nyou are fond of Japanese things. Now, do you really imagine that the\nJapanese people, as they are presented to us in art, have any existence?\nIf you do, you have never understood Japanese art at all. The Japanese\npeople are the deliberate self-conscious creation of certain individual\nartists. If you set a picture by Hokusai, or Hokkei, or any of the great\nnative painters, beside a real Japanese gentleman or lady, you will see\nthat there is not the slightest resemblance between them. The actual\npeople who live in Japan are not unlike the general run of English\npeople; that is to say, they are extremely commonplace, and have nothing\ncurious or extraordinary about them. In fact the whole of Japan is a\npure invention. There is no such country, there are no such people. One\nof our most charming painters went recently to the Land of the\nChrysanthemum in the foolish hope of seeing the Japanese. All he saw,\nall he had the chance of painting, were a few lanterns and some fans. He\nwas quite unable to discover the inhabitants, as his delightful\nexhibition at Messrs. Dowdeswell’s Gallery showed only too well. He did\nnot know that the Japanese people are, as I have said, simply a mode of\nstyle, an exquisite fancy of art. And so, if you desire to see a\nJapanese effect, you will not behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On\nthe contrary, you will stay at home and steep yourself in the work of\ncertain Japanese artists, and then, when you have absorbed the spirit of\ntheir style, and caught their imaginative manner of vision, you will go\nsome afternoon and sit in the Park or stroll down Piccadilly, and if you\ncannot see an absolutely Japanese effect there, you will not see it\nanywhere. Or, to return again to the past, take as another instance the\nancient Greeks. Do you think that Greek art ever tells us what the Greek\npeople were like? Do you believe that the Athenian women were like the\nstately dignified figures of the Parthenon frieze, or like those\nmarvellous goddesses who sat in the triangular pediments of the same\nbuilding? If you judge from the art, they certainly were so. But read\nan authority, like Aristophanes, for instance. You will find that the\nAthenian ladies laced tightly, wore high-heeled shoes, dyed their hair\nyellow, painted and rouged their faces, and were exactly like any silly\nfashionable or fallen creature of our own day. The fact is that we look\nback on the ages entirely through the medium of art, and art, very\nfortunately, has never once told us the truth.\n\nCYRIL. But modern portraits by English painters, what of them? Surely\nthey are like the people they pretend to represent?\n\nVIVIAN. Quite so. They are so like them that a hundred years from now\nno one will believe in them. The only portraits in which one believes\nare portraits where there is very little of the sitter, and a very great\ndeal of the artist. Holbein’s drawings of the men and women of his time\nimpress us with a sense of their absolute reality. But this is simply\nbecause Holbein compelled life to accept his conditions, to restrain\nitself within his limitations, to reproduce his type, and to appear as he\nwished it to appear. It is style that makes us believe in a\nthing—nothing but style. Most of our modern portrait painters are doomed\nto absolute oblivion. They never paint what they see. They paint what\nthe public sees, and the public never sees anything.\n\nCYRIL. Well, after that I think I should like to hear the end of your\narticle.\n\nVIVIAN. With pleasure. Whether it will do any good I really cannot say.\nOurs is certainly the dullest and most prosaic century possible. Why,\neven Sleep has played us false, and has closed up the gates of ivory, and\nopened the gates of horn. The dreams of the great middle classes of this\ncountry, as recorded in Mr. Myers’s two bulky volumes on the subject, and\nin the Transactions of the Psychical Society, are the most depressing\nthings that I have ever read. There is not even a fine nightmare among\nthem. They are commonplace, sordid and tedious. As for the Church, I\ncannot conceive anything better for the culture of a country than the\npresence in it of a body of men whose duty it is to believe in the\nsupernatural, to perform daily miracles, and to keep alive that\nmythopoeic faculty which is so essential for the imagination. But in the\nEnglish Church a man succeeds, not through his capacity for belief, but\nthrough his capacity for disbelief. Ours is the only Church where the\nsceptic stands at the altar, and where St. Thomas is regarded as the\nideal apostle. Many a worthy clergyman, who passes his life in admirable\nworks of kindly charity, lives and dies unnoticed and unknown; but it is\nsufficient for some shallow uneducated passman out of either University\nto get up in his pulpit and express his doubts about Noah’s ark, or\nBalaam’s ass, or Jonah and the whale, for half of London to flock to hear\nhim, and to sit open-mouthed in rapt admiration at his superb intellect.\nThe growth of common sense in the English Church is a thing very much to\nbe regretted. It is really a degrading concession to a low form of\nrealism. It is silly, too. It springs from an entire ignorance of\npsychology. Man can believe the impossible, but man can never believe\nthe improbable. However, I must read the end of my article:—\n\n‘What we have to do, what at any rate it is our duty to do, is to revive\nthis old art of Lying. Much of course may be done, in the way of\neducating the public, by amateurs in the domestic circle, at literary\nlunches, and at afternoon teas. But this is merely the light and\ngraceful side of lying, such as was probably heard at Cretan\ndinner-parties. There are many other forms. Lying for the sake of\ngaining some immediate personal advantage, for instance—lying with a\nmoral purpose, as it is usually called—though of late it has been rather\nlooked down upon, was extremely popular with the antique world. Athena\nlaughs when Odysseus tells her “his words of sly devising,” as Mr.\nWilliam Morris phrases it, and the glory of mendacity illumines the pale\nbrow of the stainless hero of Euripidean tragedy, and sets among the\nnoble women of the past the young bride of one of Horace’s most exquisite\nodes. Later on, what at first had been merely a natural instinct was\nelevated into a self-conscious science. Elaborate rules were laid down\nfor the guidance of mankind, and an important school of literature grew\nup round the subject. Indeed, when one remembers the excellent\nphilosophical treatise of Sanchez on the whole question, one cannot help\nregretting that no one has ever thought of publishing a cheap and\ncondensed edition of the works of that great casuist. A short primer,\n“When to Lie and How,” if brought out in an attractive and not too\nexpensive a form, would no doubt command a large sale, and would prove of\nreal practical service to many earnest and deep-thinking people. Lying\nfor the sake of the improvement of the young, which is the basis of home\neducation, still lingers amongst us, and its advantages are so admirably\nset forth in the early books of Plato’s _Republic_ that it is unnecessary\nto dwell upon them here. It is a mode of lying for which all good\nmothers have peculiar capabilities, but it is capable of still further\ndevelopment, and has been sadly overlooked by the School Board. Lying\nfor the sake of a monthly salary is of course well known in Fleet Street,\nand the profession of a political leader-writer is not without its\nadvantages. But it is said to be a somewhat dull occupation, and it\ncertainly does not lead to much beyond a kind of ostentatious obscurity.\nThe only form of lying that is absolutely beyond reproach is lying for\nits own sake, and the highest development of this is, as we have already\npointed out, Lying in Art. Just as those who do not love Plato more than\nTruth cannot pass beyond the threshold of the Academe, so those who do\nnot love Beauty more than Truth never know the inmost shrine of Art. The\nsolid stolid British intellect lies in the desert sands like the Sphinx\nin Flaubert’s marvellous tale, and fantasy, _La Chimère_, dances round\nit, and calls to it with her false, flute-toned voice. It may not hear\nher now, but surely some day, when we are all bored to death with the\ncommonplace character of modern fiction, it will hearken to her and try\nto borrow her wings.\n\n‘And when that day dawns, or sunset reddens, how joyous we shall all be!\nFacts will be regarded as discreditable, Truth will be found mourning\nover her fetters, and Romance, with her temper of wonder, will return to\nthe land. The very aspect of the world will change to our startled eyes.\nOut of the sea will rise Behemoth and Leviathan, and sail round the\nhigh-pooped galleys, as they do on the delightful maps of those ages when\nbooks on geography were actually readable. Dragons will wander about the\nwaste places, and the phoenix will soar from her nest of fire into the\nair. We shall lay our hands upon the basilisk, and see the jewel in the\ntoad’s head. Champing his gilded oats, the Hippogriff will stand in our\nstalls, and over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful\nand impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen,\nof things that are not and that should be. But before this comes to pass\nwe must cultivate the lost art of Lying.’\n\nCYRIL. Then we must entirely cultivate it at once. But in order to\navoid making any error I want you to tell me briefly the doctrines of the\nnew æsthetics.\n\nVIVIAN. Briefly, then, they are these. Art never expresses anything but\nitself. It has an independent life, just as Thought has, and develops\npurely on its own lines. It is not necessarily realistic in an age of\nrealism, nor spiritual in an age of faith. So far from being the\ncreation of its time, it is usually in direct opposition to it, and the\nonly history that it preserves for us is the history of its own progress.\nSometimes it returns upon its footsteps, and revives some antique form,\nas happened in the archaistic movement of late Greek Art, and in the\npre-Raphaelite movement of our own day. At other times it entirely\nanticipates its age, and produces in one century work that it takes\nanother century to understand, to appreciate and to enjoy. In no case\ndoes it reproduce its age. To pass from the art of a time to the time\nitself is the great mistake that all historians commit.\n\nThe second doctrine is this. All bad art comes from returning to Life\nand Nature, and elevating them into ideals. Life and Nature may\nsometimes be used as part of Art’s rough material, but before they are of\nany real service to art they must be translated into artistic\nconventions. The moment Art surrenders its imaginative medium it\nsurrenders everything. As a method Realism is a complete failure, and\nthe two things that every artist should avoid are modernity of form and\nmodernity of subject-matter. To us, who live in the nineteenth century,\nany century is a suitable subject for art except our own. The only\nbeautiful things are the things that do not concern us. It is, to have\nthe pleasure of quoting myself, exactly because Hecuba is nothing to us\nthat her sorrows are so suitable a motive for a tragedy. Besides, it is\nonly the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned. M. Zola sits down to\ngive us a picture of the Second Empire. Who cares for the Second Empire\nnow? It is out of date. Life goes faster than Realism, but Romanticism\nis always in front of Life.\n\nThe third doctrine is that Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates\nLife. This results not merely from Life’s imitative instinct, but from\nthe fact that the self-conscious aim of Life is to find expression, and\nthat Art offers it certain beautiful forms through which it may realise\nthat energy. It is a theory that has never been put forward before, but\nit is extremely fruitful, and throws an entirely new light upon the\nhistory of Art.\n\nIt follows, as a corollary from this, that external Nature also imitates\nArt. The only effects that she can show us are effects that we have\nalready seen through poetry, or in paintings. This is the secret of\nNature’s charm, as well as the explanation of Nature’s weakness.\n\nThe final revelation is that Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue\nthings, is the proper aim of Art. But of this I think I have spoken at\nsufficient length. And now let us go out on the terrace, where ‘droops\nthe milk-white peacock like a ghost,’ while the evening star ‘washes the\ndusk with silver.’ At twilight nature becomes a wonderfully suggestive\neffect, and is not without loveliness, though perhaps its chief use is to\nillustrate quotations from the poets. Come! We have talked long enough.\n\n\n\n\nPEN, PENCIL AND POISON\nA STUDY IN GREEN\n\n\nIT has constantly been made a subject of reproach against artists and men\nof letters that they are lacking in wholeness and completeness of nature.\nAs a rule this must necessarily be so. That very concentration of vision\nand intensity of purpose which is the characteristic of the artistic\ntemperament is in itself a mode of limitation. To those who are\npreoccupied with the beauty of form nothing else seems of much\nimportance. Yet there are many exceptions to this rule. Rubens served\nas ambassador, and Goethe as state councillor, and Milton as Latin\nsecretary to Cromwell. Sophocles held civic office in his own city; the\nhumourists, essayists, and novelists of modern America seem to desire\nnothing better than to become the diplomatic representatives of their\ncountry; and Charles Lamb’s friend, Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the\nsubject of this brief memoir, though of an extremely artistic\ntemperament, followed many masters other than art, being not merely a\npoet and a painter, an art-critic, an antiquarian, and a writer of prose,\nan amateur of beautiful things, and a dilettante of things delightful,\nbut also a forger of no mean or ordinary capabilities, and as a subtle\nand secret poisoner almost without rival in this or any age.\n\nThis remarkable man, so powerful with ‘pen, pencil and poison,’ as a\ngreat poet of our own day has finely said of him, was born at Chiswick,\nin 1794. His father was the son of a distinguished solicitor of Gray’s\nInn and Hatton Garden. His mother was the daughter of the celebrated Dr.\nGriffiths, the editor and founder of the _Monthly Review_, the partner in\nanother literary speculation of Thomas Davis, that famous bookseller of\nwhom Johnson said that he was not a bookseller, but ‘a gentleman who\ndealt in books,’ the friend of Goldsmith and Wedgwood, and one of the\nmost well-known men of his day. Mrs. Wainewright died, in giving him\nbirth, at the early age of twenty-one, and an obituary notice in the\n_Gentleman’s Magazine_ tells us of her ‘amiable disposition and numerous\naccomplishments,’ and adds somewhat quaintly that ‘she is supposed to\nhave understood the writings of Mr. Locke as well as perhaps any person\nof either sex now living.’ His father did not long survive his young\nwife, and the little child seems to have been brought up by his\ngrandfather, and, on the death of the latter in 1803, by his uncle George\nEdward Griffiths, whom he subsequently poisoned. His boyhood was passed\nat Linden House, Turnham Green, one of those many fine Georgian mansions\nthat have unfortunately disappeared before the inroads of the suburban\nbuilder, and to its lovely gardens and well-timbered park he owed that\nsimple and impassioned love of nature which never left him all through\nhis life, and which made him so peculiarly susceptible to the spiritual\ninfluences of Wordsworth’s poetry. He went to school at Charles Burney’s\nacademy at Hammersmith. Mr. Burney was the son of the historian of\nmusic, and the near kinsman of the artistic lad who was destined to turn\nout his most remarkable pupil. He seems to have been a man of a good\ndeal of culture, and in after years Mr. Wainewright often spoke of him\nwith much affection as a philosopher, an archæologist, and an admirable\nteacher who, while he valued the intellectual side of education, did not\nforget the importance of early moral training. It was under Mr. Burney\nthat he first developed his talent as an artist, and Mr. Hazlitt tells us\nthat a drawing-book which he used at school is still extant, and displays\ngreat talent and natural feeling. Indeed, painting was the first art\nthat fascinated him. It was not till much later that he sought to find\nexpression by pen or poison.\n\nBefore this, however, he seems to have been carried away by boyish dreams\nof the romance and chivalry of a soldier’s life, and to have become a\nyoung guardsman. But the reckless dissipated life of his companions\nfailed to satisfy the refined artistic temperament of one who was made\nfor other things. In a short time he wearied of the service. ‘Art,’ he\ntells us, in words that still move many by their ardent sincerity and\nstrange fervour, ‘Art touched her renegade; by her pure and high\ninfluence the noisome mists were purged; my feelings, parched, hot, and\ntarnished, were renovated with cool, fresh bloom, simple, beautiful to\nthe simple-hearted.’ But Art was not the only cause of the change. ‘The\nwritings of Wordsworth,’ he goes on to say, ‘did much towards calming the\nconfusing whirl necessarily incident to sudden mutations. I wept over\nthem tears of happiness and gratitude.’ He accordingly left the army,\nwith its rough barrack-life and coarse mess-room tittle-tattle, and\nreturned to Linden House, full of this new-born enthusiasm for culture.\nA severe illness, in which, to use his own words, he was ‘broken like a\nvessel of clay,’ prostrated him for a time. His delicately strung\norganisation, however indifferent it might have been to inflicting pain\non others, was itself most keenly sensitive to pain. He shrank from\nsuffering as a thing that mars and maims human life, and seems to have\nwandered through that terrible valley of melancholia from which so many\ngreat, perhaps greater, spirits have never emerged. But he was\nyoung—only twenty-five years of age—and he soon passed out of the ‘dead\nblack waters,’ as he called them, into the larger air of humanistic\nculture. As he was recovering from the illness that had led him almost\nto the gates of death, he conceived the idea of taking up literature as\nan art. ‘I said with John Woodvil,’ he cries, ‘it were a life of gods to\ndwell in such an element,’ to see and hear and write brave things:—\n\n ‘These high and gusty relishes of life\n Have no allayings of mortality.’\n\nIt is impossible not to feel that in this passage we have the utterance\nof a man who had a true passion for letters. ‘To see and hear and write\nbrave things,’ this was his aim.\n\nScott, the editor of the _London Magazine_, struck by the young man’s\ngenius, or under the influence of the strange fascination that he\nexercised on every one who knew him, invited him to write a series of\narticles on artistic subjects, and under a series of fanciful pseudonym\nhe began to contribute to the literature of his day. _Janus\nWeathercock_, _Egomet Bonmot_, and _Van Vinkvooms_, were some of the\ngrotesque masks under which he choose to hide his seriousness or to\nreveal his levity. A mask tells us more than a face. These disguises\nintensified his personality. In an incredibly short time he seems to\nhave made his mark. Charles Lamb speaks of ‘kind, light-hearted\nWainewright,’ whose prose is ‘capital.’ We hear of him entertaining\nMacready, John Forster, Maginn, Talfourd, Sir Wentworth Dilke, the poet\nJohn Clare, and others, at _a petit-dîner_. Like Disraeli, he determined\nto startle the town as a dandy, and his beautiful rings, his antique\ncameo breast-pin, and his pale lemon-coloured kid gloves, were well\nknown, and indeed were regarded by Hazlitt as being the signs of a new\nmanner in literature: while his rich curly hair, fine eyes, and exquisite\nwhite hands gave him the dangerous and delightful distinction of being\ndifferent from others. There was something in him of Balzac’s Lucien de\nRubempré. At times he reminds us of Julien Sorel. De Quincey saw him\nonce. It was at a dinner at Charles Lamb’s. ‘Amongst the company, all\nliterary men, sat a murderer,’ he tells us, and he goes on to describe\nhow on that day he had been ill, and had hated the face of man and woman,\nand yet found himself looking with intellectual interest across the table\nat the young writer beneath whose affectations of manner there seemed to\nhim to lie so much unaffected sensibility, and speculates on ‘what sudden\ngrowth of another interest’ would have changed his mood, had he known of\nwhat terrible sin the guest to whom Lamb paid so much attention was even\nthen guilty.\n\nHis life-work falls naturally under the three heads suggested by Mr.\nSwinburne, and it may be partly admitted that, if we set aside his\nachievements in the sphere of poison, what he has actually left to us\nhardly justifies his reputation.\n\nBut then it is only the Philistine who seeks to estimate a personality by\nthe vulgar test of production. This young dandy sought to be somebody,\nrather than to do something. He recognised that Life itself is in art,\nand has its modes of style no less than the arts that seek to express it.\nNor is his work without interest. We hear of William Blake stopping in\nthe Royal Academy before one of his pictures and pronouncing it to be\n‘very fine.’ His essays are prefiguring of much that has since been\nrealised. He seems to have anticipated some of those accidents of modern\nculture that are regarded by many as true essentials. He writes about La\nGioconda, and early French poets and the Italian Renaissance. He loves\nGreek gems, and Persian carpets, and Elizabethan translations of _Cupid\nand Psyche_, and the _Hypnerotomachia_, and book-binding and early\neditions, and wide-margined proofs. He is keenly sensitive to the value\nof beautiful surroundings, and never wearies of describing to us the\nrooms in which he lived, or would have liked to live. He had that\ncurious love of green, which in individuals is always the sign of a\nsubtle artistic temperament, and in nations is said to denote a laxity,\nif not a decadence of morals. Like Baudelaire he was extremely fond of\ncats, and with Gautier, he was fascinated by that ‘sweet marble monster’\nof both sexes that we can still see at Florence and in the Louvre.\n\nThere is of course much in his descriptions, and his suggestions for\ndecoration, that shows that he did not entirely free himself from the\nfalse taste of his time. But it is clear that he was one of the first to\nrecognise what is, indeed, the very keynote of æsthetic eclecticism, I\nmean the true harmony of all really beautiful things irrespective of age\nor place, of school or manner. He saw that in decorating a room, which\nis to be, not a room for show, but a room to live in, we should never aim\nat any archæological reconstruction of the past, nor burden ourselves\nwith any fanciful necessity for historical accuracy. In this artistic\nperception he was perfectly right. All beautiful things belong to the\nsame age.\n\nAnd so, in his own library, as he describes it, we find the delicate\nfictile vase of the Greek, with its exquisitely painted figures and the\nfaint ΚΑΛΟΣ finely traced upon its side, and behind it hangs an engraving\nof the ‘Delphic Sibyl’ of Michael Angelo, or of the ‘Pastoral’ of\nGiorgione. Here is a bit of Florentine majolica, and here a rude lamp\nfrom some old Roman tomb. On the table lies a book of Hours, ‘cased in a\ncover of solid silver gilt, wrought with quaint devices and studded with\nsmall brilliants and rubies,’ and close by it ‘squats a little ugly\nmonster, a Lar, perhaps, dug up in the sunny fields of corn-bearing\nSicily.’ Some dark antique bronzes contrast with the pale gleam of two\nnoble _Christi Crucifixi_, one carved in ivory, the other moulded in\nwax.’ He has his trays of Tassie’s gems, his tiny Louis-Quatorze\n_bonbonnière_ with a miniature by Petitot, his highly prized\n‘brown-biscuit teapots, filagree-worked,’ his citron morocco letter-case,\nand his ‘pomona-green’ chair.\n\nOne can fancy him lying there in the midst of his books and casts and\nengravings, a true virtuoso, a subtle connoisseur, turning over his fine\ncollection of Mare Antonios, and his Turner’s ‘Liber Studiorum,’ of which\nhe was a warm admirer, or examining with a magnifier some of his antique\ngems and cameos, ‘the head of Alexander on an onyx of two strata,’ or\n‘that superb _altissimo relievo_ on cornelian, Jupiter Ægiochus.’ He was\nalways a great amateur of engravings, and gives some very useful\nsuggestions as to the best means of forming a collection. Indeed, while\nfully appreciating modern art, he never lost sight of the importance of\nreproductions of the great masterpieces of the past, and all that he says\nabout the value of plaster casts is quite admirable.\n\nAs an art-critic he concerned himself primarily with the complex\nimpressions produced by a work of art, and certainly the first step in\næsthetic criticism is to realise one’s own impressions. He cared nothing\nfor abstract discussions on the nature of the Beautiful, and the\nhistorical method, which has since yielded such rich fruit, did not\nbelong to his day, but he never lost sight of the great truth that Art’s\nfirst appeal is neither to the intellect nor to the emotions, but purely\nto the artistic temperament, and he more than once points out that this\ntemperament, this ‘taste,’ as he calls it, being unconsciously guided and\nmade perfect by frequent contact with the best work, becomes in the end a\nform of right judgment. Of course there are fashions in art just as\nthere are fashions in dress, and perhaps none of us can ever quite free\nourselves from the influence of custom and the influence of novelty. He\ncertainly could not, and he frankly acknowledges how difficult it is to\nform any fair estimate of contemporary work. But, on the whole, his\ntaste was good and sound. He admired Turner and Constable at a time when\nthey were not so much thought of as they are now, and saw that for the\nhighest landscape art we require more than ‘mere industry and accurate\ntranscription.’ Of Crome’s ‘Heath Scene near Norwich’ he remarks that it\nshows ‘how much a subtle observation of the elements, in their wild\nmoods, does for a most uninteresting flat,’ and of the popular type of\nlandscape of his day he says that it is ‘simply an enumeration of hill\nand dale, stumps of trees, shrubs, water, meadows, cottages and houses;\nlittle more than topography, a kind of pictorial map-work; in which\nrainbows, showers, mists, haloes, large beams shooting through rifted\nclouds, storms, starlight, all the most valued materials of the real\npainter, are not.’ He had a thorough dislike of what is obvious or\ncommonplace in art, and while he was charmed to entertain Wilkie at\ndinner, he cared as little for Sir David’s pictures as he did for Mr.\nCrabbe’s poems. With the imitative and realistic tendencies of his day\nhe had no sympathy and he tells us frankly that his great admiration for\nFuseli was largely due to the fact that the little Swiss did not consider\nit necessary that an artist should paint only what he sees. The\nqualities that he sought for in a picture were composition, beauty and\ndignity of line, richness of colour, and imaginative power. Upon the\nother hand, he was not a doctrinaire. ‘I hold that no work of art can be\ntried otherwise than by laws deduced from itself: whether or not it be\nconsistent with itself is the question.’ This is one of his excellent\naphorisms. And in criticising painters so different as Landseer and\nMartin, Stothard and Etty, he shows that, to use a phrase now classical,\nhe is trying ‘to see the object as in itself it really is.’\n\nHowever, as I pointed out before, he never feels quite at his ease in his\ncriticisms of contemporary work. ‘The present,’ he says, ‘is about as\nagreeable a confusion to me as Ariosto on the first perusal. . . . Modern\nthings dazzle me. I must look at them through Time’s telescope. Elia\ncomplains that to him the merit of a MS. poem is uncertain; “print,” as\nhe excellently says, “settles it.” Fifty years’ toning does the same\nthing to a picture.’ He is happier when he is writing about Watteau and\nLancret, about Rubens and Giorgione, about Rembrandt, Corregio, and\nMichael Angelo; happiest of all when he is writing about Greek things.\nWhat is Gothic touched him very little, but classical art and the art of\nthe Renaissance were always dear to him. He saw what our English school\ncould gain from a study of Greek models, and never wearies of pointing\nout to the young student the artistic possibilities that lie dormant in\nHellenic marbles and Hellenic methods of work. In his judgments on the\ngreat Italian Masters, says De Quincey, ‘there seemed a tone of sincerity\nand of native sensibility, as in one who spoke for himself, and was not\nmerely a copier from books.’ The highest praise that we can give to him\nis that he tried to revive style as a conscious tradition. But he saw\nthat no amount of art lectures or art congresses, or ‘plans for advancing\nthe fine arts,’ will ever produce this result. The people, he says very\nwisely, and in the true spirit of Toynbee Hall, must always have ‘the\nbest models constantly before their eyes.’\n\nAs is to be expected from one who was a painter, he is often extremely\ntechnical in his art criticisms. Of Tintoret’s ‘St. George delivering\nthe Egyptian Princess from the Dragon,’ he remarks:—\n\n The robe of Sabra, warmly glazed with Prussian blue, is relieved from\n the pale greenish background by a vermilion scarf; and the full hues\n of both are beautifully echoed, as it were, in a lower key by the\n purple-lake coloured stuffs and bluish iron armour of the saint,\n besides an ample balance to the vivid azure drapery on the foreground\n in the indigo shades of the wild wood surrounding the castle.\n\nAnd elsewhere he talks learnedly of ‘a delicate Schiavone, various as a\ntulip-bed, with rich broken tints,’ of ‘a glowing portrait, remarkable\nfor _morbidezza_, by the scarce Moroni,’ and of another picture being\n‘pulpy in the carnations.’\n\nBut, as a rule, he deals with his impressions of the work as an artistic\nwhole, and tries to translate those impressions into words, to give, as\nit were, the literary equivalent for the imaginative and mental effect.\nHe was one of the first to develop what has been called the\nart-literature of the nineteenth century, that form of literature which\nhas found in Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Browning, its two most perfect exponents.\nHis description of Lancret’s _Repas Italien_, in which ‘a dark-haired\ngirl, “amorous of mischief,” lies on the daisy-powdered grass,’ is in\nsome respects very charming. Here is his account of ‘The Crucifixion,’\nby Rembrandt. It is extremely characteristic of his style—\n\n Darkness—sooty, portentous darkness—shrouds the whole scene: only\n above the accursed wood, as if through a horrid rift in the murky\n ceiling, a rainy deluge—‘sleety-flaw, discoloured water’—streams down\n amain, spreading a grisly spectral light, even more horrible than\n that palpable night. Already the Earth pants thick and fast! the\n darkened Cross trembles! the winds are dropt—the air is stagnant—a\n muttering rumble growls underneath their feet, and some of that\n miserable crowd begin to fly down the hill. The horses snuff the\n coming terror, and become unmanageable through fear. The moment\n rapidly approaches when, nearly torn asunder by His own weight,\n fainting with loss of blood, which now runs in narrower rivulets from\n His slit veins, His temples and breast drowned in sweat, and His\n black tongue parched with the fiery death-fever, Jesus cries, ‘I\n thirst.’ The deadly vinegar is elevated to Him.\n\n His head sinks, and the sacred corpse ‘swings senseless of the\n cross.’ A sheet of vermilion flame shoots sheer through the air and\n vanishes; the rocks of Carmel and Lebanon cleave asunder; the sea\n rolls on high from the sands its black weltering waves. Earth yawns,\n and the graves give up their dwellers. The dead and the living are\n mingled together in unnatural conjunction and hurry through the holy\n city. New prodigies await them there. The veil of the temple—the\n unpierceable veil—is rent asunder from top to bottom, and that\n dreaded recess containing the Hebrew mysteries—the fatal ark with the\n tables and seven-branched candelabrum—is disclosed by the light of\n unearthly flames to the God-deserted multitude.\n\n Rembrandt never painted this sketch, and he was quite right. It\n would have lost nearly all its charms in losing that perplexing veil\n of indistinctness which affords such ample range wherein the doubting\n imagination may speculate. At present it is like a thing in another\n world. A dark gulf is betwixt us. It is not tangible by the body.\n We can only approach it in the spirit.\n\nIn this passage, written, the author tells us, ‘in awe and reverence,’\nthere is much that is terrible, and very much that is quite horrible, but\nit is not without a certain crude form of power, or, at any rate, a\ncertain crude violence of words, a quality which this age should highly\nappreciate, as it is its chief defect. It is pleasanter, however, to\npass to this description of Giulio Romano’s ‘Cephalus and Procris’:—\n\n We should read Moschus’s lament for Bion, the sweet shepherd, before\n looking at this picture, or study the picture as a preparation for\n the lament. We have nearly the same images in both. For either\n victim the high groves and forest dells murmur; the flowers exhale\n sad perfume from their buds; the nightingale mourns on the craggy\n lands, and the swallow in the long-winding vales; ‘the satyrs, too,\n and fauns dark-veiled groan,’ and the fountain nymphs within the wood\n melt into tearful waters. The sheep and goats leave their pasture;\n and oreads, ‘who love to scale the most inaccessible tops of all\n uprightest rocks,’ hurry down from the song of their wind-courting\n pines; while the dryads bend from the branches of the meeting trees,\n and the rivers moan for white Procris, ‘with many-sobbing streams,’\n\n Filling the far-seen ocean with a voice.\n\n The golden bees are silent on the thymy Hymettus; and the knelling\n horn of Aurora’s love no more shall scatter away the cold twilight on\n the top of Hymettus. The foreground of our subject is a grassy\n sunburnt bank, broken into swells and hollows like waves (a sort of\n land-breakers), rendered more uneven by many foot-tripping roots and\n stumps of trees stocked untimely by the axe, which are again throwing\n out light-green shoots. This bank rises rather suddenly on the right\n to a clustering grove, penetrable to no star, at the entrance of\n which sits the stunned Thessalian king, holding between his knees\n that ivory-bright body which was, but an instant agone, parting the\n rough boughs with her smooth forehead, and treading alike on thorns\n and flowers with jealousy-stung foot—now helpless, heavy, void of all\n motion, save when the breeze lifts her thick hair in mockery.\n\n From between the closely-neighboured boles astonished nymphs press\n forward with loud cries—\n\n And deerskin-vested satyrs, crowned with ivy twists, advance;\n And put strange pity in their horned countenance.\n\n Laelaps lies beneath, and shows by his panting the rapid pace of\n death. On the other side of the group, Virtuous Love with ‘vans\n dejected’ holds forth the arrow to an approaching troop of sylvan\n people, fauns, rams, goats, satyrs, and satyr-mothers, pressing their\n children tighter with their fearful hands, who hurry along from the\n left in a sunken path between the foreground and a rocky wall, on\n whose lowest ridge a brook-guardian pours from her urn her\n grief-telling waters. Above and more remote than the Ephidryad,\n another female, rending her locks, appears among the vine-festooned\n pillars of an unshorn grove. The centre of the picture is filled by\n shady meadows, sinking down to a river-mouth; beyond is ‘the vast\n strength of the ocean stream,’ from whose floor the extinguisher of\n stars, rosy Aurora, drives furiously up her brine-washed steeds to\n behold the death-pangs of her rival.\n\nWere this description carefully re-written, it would be quite admirable.\nThe conception of making a prose poem out of paint is excellent. Much of\nthe best modern literature springs from the same aim. In a very ugly and\nsensible age, the arts borrow, not from life, but from each other.\n\nHis sympathies, too, were wonderfully varied. In everything connected\nwith the stage, for instance, he was always extremely interested, and\nstrongly upheld the necessity for archæological accuracy in costume and\nscene-painting. ‘In art,’ he says in one of his essays, ‘whatever is\nworth doing at all is worth doing well’; and he points out that once we\nallow the intrusion of anachronisms, it becomes difficult to say where\nthe line is to be drawn. In literature, again, like Lord Beaconsfield on\na famous occasion, he was ‘on the side of the angels.’ He was one of the\nfirst to admire Keats and Shelley—‘the tremulously-sensitive and poetical\nShelley,’ as he calls him. His admiration for Wordsworth was sincere and\nprofound. He thoroughly appreciated William Blake. One of the best\ncopies of the ‘Songs of Innocence and Experience’ that is now in\nexistence was wrought specially for him. He loved Alain Chartier, and\nRonsard, and the Elizabethan dramatists, and Chaucer and Chapman, and\nPetrarch. And to him all the arts were one. ‘Our critics,’ he remarks\nwith much wisdom, ‘seem hardly aware of the identity of the primal seeds\nof poetry and painting, nor that any true advancement in the serious\nstudy of one art co-generates a proportionate perfection in the other’;\nand he says elsewhere that if a man who does not admire Michael Angelo\ntalks of his love for Milton, he is deceiving either himself or his\nlisteners. To his fellow-contributors in the _London Magazine_ he was\nalways most generous, and praises Barry Cornwall, Allan Cunningham,\nHazlitt, Elton, and Leigh Hunt without anything of the malice of a\nfriend. Some of his sketches of Charles Lamb are admirable in their way,\nand, with the art of the true comedian, borrow their style from their\nsubject:—\n\n What can I say of thee more than all know? that thou hadst the gaiety\n of a boy with the knowledge of a man: as gentle a heart as ever sent\n tears to the eyes.\n\n How wittily would he mistake your meaning, and put in a conceit most\n seasonably out of season. His talk without affectation was\n compressed, like his beloved Elizabethans, even unto obscurity. Like\n grains of fine gold, his sentences would beat out into whole sheets.\n He had small mercy on spurious fame, and a caustic observation on the\n _fashion for men of genius_ was a standing dish. Sir Thomas Browne\n was a ‘bosom cronie’ of his; so was Burton, and old Fuller. In his\n amorous vein he dallied with that peerless Duchess of many-folio\n odour; and with the heyday comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher he\n induced light dreams. He would deliver critical touches on these,\n like one inspired, but it was good to let him choose his own game; if\n another began even on the acknowledged pets he was liable to\n interrupt, or rather append, in a mode difficult to define whether as\n misapprehensive or mischievous. One night at C-’s, the above\n dramatic partners were the temporary subject of chat. Mr. X.\n commended the passion and haughty style of a tragedy (I don’t know\n which of them), but was instantly taken up by Elia, who told him\n ‘_That_ was nothing; the lyrics were the high things—the lyrics!’\n\nOne side of his literary career deserves especial notice. Modern\njournalism may be said to owe almost as much to him as to any man of the\nearly part of this century. He was the pioneer of Asiatic prose, and\ndelighted in pictorial epithets and pompous exaggerations. To have a\nstyle so gorgeous that it conceals the subject is one of the highest\nachievements of an important and much admired school of Fleet Street\nleader-writers, and this school _Janus Weathercock_ may be said to have\ninvented. He also saw that it was quite easy by continued reiteration to\nmake the public interested in his own personality, and in his purely\njournalistic articles this extraordinary young man tells the world what\nhe had for dinner, where he gets his clothes, what wines he likes, and in\nwhat state of health he is, just as if he were writing weekly notes for\nsome popular newspaper of our own time. This being the least valuable\nside of his work, is the one that has had the most obvious influence. A\npublicist, nowadays, is a man who bores the community with the details of\nthe illegalities of his private life.\n\nLike most artificial people, he had a great love of nature. ‘I hold\nthree things in high estimation,’ he says somewhere: ‘to sit lazily on an\neminence that commands a rich prospect; to be shadowed by thick trees\nwhile the sun shines around me; and to enjoy solitude with the\nconsciousness of neighbourhood. The country gives them all to me.’ He\nwrites about his wandering over fragrant furze and heath repeating\nCollins’s ‘Ode to Evening,’ just to catch the fine quality of the moment;\nabout smothering his face ‘in a watery bed of cowslips, wet with May\ndews’; and about the pleasure of seeing the sweet-breathed kine ‘pass\nslowly homeward through the twilight,’ and hearing ‘the distant clank of\nthe sheep-bell.’ One phrase of his, ‘the polyanthus glowed in its cold\nbed of earth, like a solitary picture of Giorgione on a dark oaken\npanel,’ is curiously characteristic of his temperament, and this passage\nis rather pretty in its way:—\n\n The short tender grass was covered with marguerites—‘such that men\n called _daisies_ in our town’—thick as stars on a summer’s night.\n The harsh caw of the busy rooks came pleasantly mellowed from a high\n dusky grove of elms at some distance off, and at intervals was heard\n the voice of a boy scaring away the birds from the newly-sown seeds.\n The blue depths were the colour of the darkest ultramarine; not a\n cloud streaked the calm æther; only round the horizon’s edge streamed\n a light, warm film of misty vapour, against which the near village\n with its ancient stone church showed sharply out with blinding\n whiteness. I thought of Wordsworth’s ‘Lines written in March.’\n\nHowever, we must not forget that the cultivated young man who penned\nthese lines, and who was so susceptible to Wordsworthian influences, was\nalso, as I said at the beginning of this memoir, one of the most subtle\nand secret poisoners of this or any age. How he first became fascinated\nby this strange sin he does not tell us, and the diary in which he\ncarefully noted the results of his terrible experiments and the methods\nthat he adopted, has unfortunately been lost to us. Even in later days,\ntoo, he was always reticent on the matter, and preferred to speak about\n‘The Excursion,’ and the ‘Poems founded on the Affections.’ There is no\ndoubt, however, that the poison that he used was strychnine. In one of\nthe beautiful rings of which he was so proud, and which served to show\noff the fine modelling of his delicate ivory hands, he used to carry\ncrystals of the Indian _nux vomica_, a poison, one of his biographers\ntells us, ‘nearly tasteless, difficult of discovery, and capable of\nalmost infinite dilution.’ His murders, says De Quincey, were more than\nwere ever made known judicially. This is no doubt so, and some of them\nare worthy of mention. His first victim was his uncle, Mr. Thomas\nGriffiths. He poisoned him in 1829 to gain possession of Linden House, a\nplace to which he had always been very much attached. In the August of\nthe next year he poisoned Mrs. Abercrombie, his wife’s mother, and in the\nfollowing December he poisoned the lovely Helen Abercrombie, his\nsister-in-law. Why he murdered Mrs. Abercrombie is not ascertained. It\nmay have been for a caprice, or to quicken some hideous sense of power\nthat was in him, or because she suspected something, or for no reason.\nBut the murder of Helen Abercrombie was carried out by himself and his\nwife for the sake of a sum of about £18,000, for which they had insured\nher life in various offices. The circumstances were as follows. On the\n12th of December, he and his wife and child came up to London from Linden\nHouse, and took lodgings at No. 12 Conduit Street, Regent Street. With\nthem were the two sisters, Helen and Madeleine Abercrombie. On the\nevening of the 14th they all went to the play, and at supper that night\nHelen sickened. The next day she was extremely ill, and Dr. Locock, of\nHanover Square, was called in to attend her. She lived till Monday, the\n20th, when, after the doctor’s morning visit, Mr. and Mrs. Wainewright\nbrought her some poisoned jelly, and then went out for a walk. When they\nreturned Helen Abercrombie was dead. She was about twenty years of age,\na tall graceful girl with fair hair. A very charming red-chalk drawing\nof her by her brother-in-law is still in existence, and shows how much\nhis style as an artist was influenced by Sir Thomas Lawrence, a painter\nfor whose work he had always entertained a great admiration. De Quincey\nsays that Mrs. Wainewright was not really privy to the murder. Let us\nhope that she was not. Sin should be solitary, and have no accomplices.\n\nThe insurance companies, suspecting the real facts of the case, declined\nto pay the policy on the technical ground of misrepresentation and want\nof interest, and, with curious courage, the poisoner entered an action in\nthe Court of Chancery against the Imperial, it being agreed that one\ndecision should govern all the cases. The trial, however, did not come\non for five years, when, after one disagreement, a verdict was ultimately\ngiven in the companies’ favour. The judge on the occasion was Lord\nAbinger. _Egomet Bonmot_ was represented by Mr. Erle and Sir William\nFollet, and the Attorney-General and Sir Frederick Pollock appeared for\nthe other side. The plaintiff, unfortunately, was unable to be present\nat either of the trials. The refusal of the companies to give him the\n£18,000 had placed him in a position of most painful pecuniary\nembarrassment. Indeed, a few months after the murder of Helen\nAbercrombie, he had been actually arrested for debt in the streets of\nLondon while he was serenading the pretty daughter of one of his friends.\nThis difficulty was got over at the time, but shortly afterwards he\nthought it better to go abroad till he could come to some practical\narrangement with his creditors. He accordingly went to Boulogne on a\nvisit to the father of the young lady in question, and while he was there\ninduced him to insure his life with the Pelican Company for £3000. As\nsoon as the necessary formalities had been gone through and the policy\nexecuted, he dropped some crystals of strychnine into his coffee as they\nsat together one evening after dinner. He himself did not gain any\nmonetary advantage by doing this. His aim was simply to revenge himself\non the first office that had refused to pay him the price of his sin.\nHis friend died the next day in his presence, and he left Boulogne at\nonce for a sketching tour through the most picturesque parts of Brittany,\nand was for some time the guest of an old French gentleman, who had a\nbeautiful country house at St. Omer. From this he moved to Paris, where\nhe remained for several years, living in luxury, some say, while others\ntalk of his ‘skulking with poison in his pocket, and being dreaded by all\nwho knew him.’ In 1837 he returned to England privately. Some strange\nmad fascination brought him back. He followed a woman whom he loved.\n\nIt was the month of June, and he was staying at one of the hotels in\nCovent Garden. His sitting-room was on the ground floor, and he\nprudently kept the blinds down for fear of being seen. Thirteen years\nbefore, when he was making his fine collection of majolica and Marc\nAntonios, he had forged the names of his trustees to a power of attorney,\nwhich enabled him to get possession of some of the money which he had\ninherited from his mother, and had brought into marriage settlement. He\nknew that this forgery had been discovered, and that by returning to\nEngland he was imperilling his life. Yet he returned. Should one\nwonder? It was said that the woman was very beautiful. Besides, she did\nnot love him.\n\nIt was by a mere accident that he was discovered. A noise in the street\nattracted his attention, and, in his artistic interest in modern life, he\npushed aside the blind for a moment. Some one outside called out,\n‘That’s Wainewright, the Bank-forger.’ It was Forrester, the Bow Street\nrunner.\n\nOn the 5th of July he was brought up at the Old Bailey. The following\nreport of the proceedings appeared in the _Times_:—\n\n Before Mr. Justice Vaughan and Mr. Baron Alderson, Thomas Griffiths\n Wainewright, aged forty-two, a man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing\n mustachios, was indicted for forging and uttering a certain power of\n attorney for £2259, with intent to defraud the Governor and Company\n of the Bank of England.\n\n There were five indictments against the prisoner, to all of which he\n pleaded not guilty, when he was arraigned before Mr. Serjeant Arabin\n in the course of the morning. On being brought before the judges,\n however, he begged to be allowed to withdraw the former plea, and\n then pleaded guilty to two of the indictments which were not of a\n capital nature.\n\n The counsel for the Bank having explained that there were three other\n indictments, but that the Bank did not desire to shed blood, the plea\n of guilty on the two minor charges was recorded, and the prisoner at\n the close of the session sentenced by the Recorder to transportation\n for life.\n\nHe was taken back to Newgate, preparatory to his removal to the colonies.\nIn a fanciful passage in one of his early essays he had fancied himself\n‘lying in Horsemonger Gaol under sentence of death’ for having been\nunable to resist the temptation of stealing some Marc Antonios from the\nBritish Museum in order to complete his collection. The sentence now\npassed on him was to a man of his culture a form of death. He complained\nbitterly of it to his friends, and pointed out, with a good deal of\nreason, some people may fancy, that the money was practically his own,\nhaving come to him from his mother, and that the forgery, such as it was,\nhad been committed thirteen years before, which, to use his own phrase,\nwas at least a _circonstance attenuante_. The permanence of personality\nis a very subtle metaphysical problem, and certainly the English law\nsolves the question in an extremely rough-and-ready manner. There is,\nhowever, something dramatic in the fact that this heavy punishment was\ninflicted on him for what, if we remember his fatal influence on the\nprose of modern journalism, was certainly not the worst of all his sins.\n\nWhile he was in gaol, Dickens, Macready, and Hablot Browne came across\nhim by chance. They had been going over the prisons of London, searching\nfor artistic effects, and in Newgate they suddenly caught sight of\nWainewright. He met them with a defiant stare, Forster tells us, but\nMacready was ‘horrified to recognise a man familiarly known to him in\nformer years, and at whose table he had dined.’\n\nOthers had more curiosity, and his cell was for some time a kind of\nfashionable lounge. Many men of letters went down to visit their old\nliterary comrade. But he was no longer the kind light-hearted Janus whom\nCharles Lamb admired. He seems to have grown quite cynical.\n\nTo the agent of an insurance company who was visiting him one afternoon,\nand thought he would improve the occasion by pointing out that, after\nall, crime was a bad speculation, he replied: ‘Sir, you City men enter on\nyour speculations, and take the chances of them. Some of your\nspeculations succeed, some fail. Mine happen to have failed, yours\nhappen to have succeeded. That is the only difference, sir, between my\nvisitor and me. But, sir, I will tell you one thing in which I have\nsucceeded to the last. I have been determined through life to hold the\nposition of a gentleman. I have always done so. I do so still. It is\nthe custom of this place that each of the inmates of a cell shall take\nhis morning’s turn of sweeping it out. I occupy a cell with a bricklayer\nand a sweep, but they never offer me the broom!’ When a friend\nreproached him with the murder of Helen Abercrombie he shrugged his\nshoulders and said, ‘Yes; it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very\nthick ankles.’\n\nFrom Newgate he was brought to the hulks at Portsmouth, and sent from\nthere in the _Susan_ to Van Diemen’s Land along with three hundred other\nconvicts. The voyage seems to have been most distasteful to him, and in\na letter written to a friend he spoke bitterly about the ignominy of ‘the\ncompanion of poets and artists’ being compelled to associate with\n‘country bumpkins.’ The phrase that he applies to his companions need\nnot surprise us. Crime in England is rarely the result of sin. It is\nnearly always the result of starvation. There was probably no one on\nboard in whom he would have found a sympathetic listener, or even a\npsychologically interesting nature.\n\nHis love of art, however, never deserted him. At Hobart Town he started\na studio, and returned to sketching and portrait-painting, and his\nconversation and manners seem not to have lost their charm. Nor did he\ngive up his habit of poisoning, and there are two cases on record in\nwhich he tried to make away with people who had offended him. But his\nhand seems to have lost its cunning. Both of his attempts were complete\nfailures, and in 1844, being thoroughly dissatisfied with Tasmanian\nsociety, he presented a memorial to the governor of the settlement, Sir\nJohn Eardley Wilmot, praying for a ticket-of-leave. In it he speaks of\nhimself as being ‘tormented by ideas struggling for outward form and\nrealisation, barred up from increase of knowledge, and deprived of the\nexercise of profitable or even of decorous speech.’ His request,\nhowever, was refused, and the associate of Coleridge consoled himself by\nmaking those marvellous _Paradis Artificiels_ whose secret is only known\nto the eaters of opium. In 1852 he died of apoplexy, his sole living\ncompanion being a cat, for which he had evinced at extraordinary\naffection.\n\nHis crimes seem to have had an important effect upon his art. They gave\na strong personality to his style, a quality that his early work\ncertainly lacked. In a note to the _Life of Dickens_, Forster mentions\nthat in 1847 Lady Blessington received from her brother, Major Power, who\nheld a military appointment at Hobart Town, an oil portrait of a young\nlady from his clever brush; and it is said that ‘he had contrived to put\nthe expression of his own wickedness into the portrait of a nice,\nkind-hearted girl.’ M. Zola, in one of his novels, tells us of a young\nman who, having committed a murder, takes to art, and paints greenish\nimpressionist portraits of perfectly respectable people, all of which\nbear a curious resemblance to his victim. The development of Mr.\nWainewright’s style seems to me far more subtle and suggestive. One can\nfancy an intense personality being created out of sin.\n\nThis strange and fascinating figure that for a few years dazzled literary\nLondon, and made so brilliant a _début_ in life and letters, is\nundoubtedly a most interesting study. Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt, his latest\nbiographer, to whom I am indebted for many of the facts contained in this\nmemoir, and whose little book is, indeed, quite invaluable in its way, is\nof opinion that his love of art and nature was a mere pretence and\nassumption, and others have denied to him all literary power. This seems\nto me a shallow, or at least a mistaken, view. The fact of a man being a\npoisoner is nothing against his prose. The domestic virtues are not the\ntrue basis of art, though they may serve as an excellent advertisement\nfor second-rate artists. It is possible that De Quincey exaggerated his\ncritical powers, and I cannot help saying again that there is much in his\npublished works that is too familiar, too common, too journalistic, in\nthe bad sense of that bad word. Here and there he is distinctly vulgar\nin expression, and he is always lacking in the self-restraint of the true\nartist. But for some of his faults we must blame the time in which he\nlived, and, after all, prose that Charles Lamb thought ‘capital’ has no\nsmall historic interest. That he had a sincere love of art and nature\nseems to me quite certain. There is no essential incongruity between\ncrime and culture. We cannot re-write the whole of history for the\npurpose of gratifying our moral sense of what should be.\n\nOf course, he is far too close to our own time for us to be able to form\nany purely artistic judgment about him. It is impossible not to feel a\nstrong prejudice against a man who might have poisoned Lord Tennyson, or\nMr. Gladstone, or the Master of Balliol. But had the man worn a costume\nand spoken a language different from our own, had he lived in imperial\nRome, or at the time of the Italian Renaissance, or in Spain in the\nseventeenth century, or in any land or any century but this century and\nthis land, we would be quite able to arrive at a perfectly unprejudiced\nestimate of his position and value. I know that there are many\nhistorians, or at least writers on historical subjects, who still think\nit necessary to apply moral judgments to history, and who distribute\ntheir praise or blame with the solemn complacency of a successful\nschoolmaster. This, however, is a foolish habit, and merely shows that\nthe moral instinct can be brought to such a pitch of perfection that it\nwill make its appearance wherever it is not required. Nobody with the\ntrue historical sense ever dreams of blaming Nero, or scolding Tiberius,\nor censuring Cæsar Borgia. These personages have become like the puppets\nof a play. They may fill us with terror, or horror, or wonder, but they\ndo not harm us. They are not in immediate relation to us. We have\nnothing to fear from them. They have passed into the sphere of art and\nscience, and neither art nor science knows anything of moral approval or\ndisapproval. And so it may be some day with Charles Lamb’s friend. At\npresent I feel that he is just a little too modern to be treated in that\nfine spirit of disinterested curiosity to which we owe so many charming\nstudies of the great criminals of the Italian Renaissance from the pens\nof Mr. John Addington Symonds, Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, Miss Vernon Lee,\nand other distinguished writers. However, Art has not forgotten him. He\nis the hero of Dickens’s _Hunted Down_, the Varney of Bulwer’s\n_Lucretia_; and it is gratifying to note that fiction has paid some\nhomage to one who was so powerful with ‘pen, pencil and poison.’ To be\nsuggestive for fiction is to be of more importance than a fact.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRITIC AS ARTIST\nWITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE\nIMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING\n\n\n _A DIALOGUE_. _Part I._ _Persons_: _Gilbert_\n _and Ernest_. _Scene_: _the library of a house in_\n _Piccadilly_, _overlooking the Green Park_.\n\nGILBERT (_at the Piano_). My dear Ernest, what are you laughing at?\n\nERNEST (_looking up_). At a capital story that I have just come across\nin this volume of Reminiscences that I have found on your table.\n\nGILBERT. What is the book? Ah! I see. I have not read it yet. Is it\ngood?\n\nERNEST. Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the\npages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs.\nThey are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their\nmemories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however,\nis, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English\npublic always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to\nit.\n\nGILBERT. Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives\neverything except genius. But I must confess that I like all memoirs. I\nlike them for their form, just as much as for their matter. In\nliterature mere egotism is delightful. It is what fascinates us in the\nletters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac, Flaubert and\nBerlioz, Byron and Madame de Sévigné. Whenever we come across it, and,\nstrangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and do not\neasily forget it. Humanity will always love Rousseau for having\nconfessed his sins, not to a priest, but to the world, and the couchant\nnymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for the castle of King Francis, the\ngreen and gold Perseus, even, that in the open Loggia at Florence shows\nthe moon the dead terror that once turned life to stone, have not given\nit more pleasure than has that autobiography in which the supreme\nscoundrel of the Renaissance relates the story of his splendour and his\nshame. The opinions, the character, the achievements of the man, matter\nvery little. He may be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne, or\na saint like the bitter son of Monica, but when he tells us his own\nsecrets he can always charm our ears to listening and our lips to\nsilence. The mode of thought that Cardinal Newman represented—if that\ncan be called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual\nproblems by a denial of the supremacy of the intellect—may not, cannot, I\nthink, survive. But the world will never weary of watching that troubled\nsoul in its progress from darkness to darkness. The lonely church at\nLittlemore, where ‘the breath of the morning is damp, and worshippers are\nfew,’ will always be dear to it, and whenever men see the yellow\nsnapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of that\ngracious undergraduate who saw in the flower’s sure recurrence a prophecy\nthat he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his days—a\nprophecy that Faith, in her wisdom or her folly, suffered not to be\nfulfilled. Yes; autobiography is irresistible. Poor, silly, conceited\nMr. Secretary Pepys has chattered his way into the circle of the\nImmortals, and, conscious that indiscretion is the better part of valour,\nbustles about among them in that ‘shaggy purple gown with gold buttons\nand looped lace’ which he is so fond of describing to us, perfectly at\nhis ease, and prattling, to his own and our infinite pleasure, of the\nIndian blue petticoat that he bought for his wife, of the ‘good hog’s\nhars-let,’ and the ‘pleasant French fricassee of veal’ that he loved to\neat, of his game of bowls with Will Joyce, and his ‘gadding after\nbeauties,’ and his reciting of _Hamlet_ on a Sunday, and his playing of\nthe viol on week days, and other wicked or trivial things. Even in\nactual life egotism is not without its attractions. When people talk to\nus about others they are usually dull. When they talk to us about\nthemselves they are nearly always interesting, and if one could shut them\nup, when they become wearisome, as easily as one can shut up a book of\nwhich one has grown wearied, they would be perfect absolutely.\n\nERNEST. There is much virtue in that If, as Touchstone would say. But\ndo you seriously propose that every man should become his own Boswell?\nWhat would become of our industrious compilers of Lives and Recollections\nin that case?\n\nGILBERT. What has become of them? They are the pest of the age, nothing\nmore and nothing less. Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and\nit is always Judas who writes the biography.\n\nERNEST. My dear fellow!\n\nGILBERT. I am afraid it is true. Formerly we used to canonise our\nheroes. The modern method is to vulgarise them. Cheap editions of great\nbooks may be delightful, but cheap editions of great men are absolutely\ndetestable.\n\nERNEST. May I ask, Gilbert, to whom you allude?\n\nGILBERT. Oh! to all our second-rate _littérateurs_. We are overrun by a\nset of people who, when poet or painter passes away, arrive at the house\nalong with the undertaker, and forget that their one duty is to behave as\nmutes. But we won’t talk about them. They are the mere body-snatchers\nof literature. The dust is given to one, and the ashes to another, and\nthe soul is out of their reach. And now, let me play Chopin to you, or\nDvorák? Shall I play you a fantasy by Dvorák? He writes passionate,\ncuriously-coloured things.\n\nERNEST. No; I don’t want music just at present. It is far too\nindefinite. Besides, I took the Baroness Bernstein down to dinner last\nnight, and, though absolutely charming in every other respect, she\ninsisted on discussing music as if it were actually written in the German\nlanguage. Now, whatever music sounds like I am glad to say that it does\nnot sound in the smallest degree like German. There are forms of\npatriotism that are really quite degrading. No; Gilbert, don’t play any\nmore. Turn round and talk to me. Talk to me till the white-horned day\ncomes into the room. There is something in your voice that is wonderful.\n\nGILBERT (_rising from the piano_). I am not in a mood for talking\nto-night. I really am not. How horrid of you to smile! Where are the\ncigarettes? Thanks. How exquisite these single daffodils are! They\nseem to be made of amber and cool ivory. They are like Greek things of\nthe best period. What was the story in the confessions of the remorseful\nAcademician that made you laugh? Tell it to me. After playing Chopin, I\nfeel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and\nmourning over tragedies that were not my own. Music always seems to me\nto produce that effect. It creates for one a past of which one has been\nignorant, and fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden\nfrom one’s tears. I can fancy a man who had led a perfectly commonplace\nlife, hearing by chance some curious piece of music, and suddenly\ndiscovering that his soul, without his being conscious of it, had passed\nthrough terrible experiences, and known fearful joys, or wild romantic\nloves, or great renunciations. And so tell me this story, Ernest. I\nwant to be amused.\n\nERNEST. Oh! I don’t know that it is of any importance. But I thought\nit a really admirable illustration of the true value of ordinary\nart-criticism. It seems that a lady once gravely asked the remorseful\nAcademician, as you call him, if his celebrated picture of ‘A Spring-Day\nat Whiteley’s,’ or, ‘Waiting for the Last Omnibus,’ or some subject of\nthat kind, was all painted by hand?\n\nGILBERT. And was it?\n\nERNEST. You are quite incorrigible. But, seriously speaking, what is\nthe use of art-criticism? Why cannot the artist be left alone, to create\na new world if he wishes it, or, if not, to shadow forth the world which\nwe already know, and of which, I fancy, we would each one of us be\nwearied if Art, with her fine spirit of choice and delicate instinct of\nselection, did not, as it were, purify it for us, and give to it a\nmomentary perfection. It seems to me that the imagination spreads, or\nshould spread, a solitude around it, and works best in silence and in\nisolation. Why should the artist be troubled by the shrill clamour of\ncriticism? Why should those who cannot create take upon themselves to\nestimate the value of creative work? What can they know about it? If a\nman’s work is easy to understand, an explanation is unnecessary. . . .\n\nGILBERT. And if his work is incomprehensible, an explanation is wicked.\n\nERNEST. I did not say that.\n\nGILBERT. Ah! but you should have. Nowadays, we have so few mysteries\nleft to us that we cannot afford to part with one of them. The members\nof the Browning Society, like the theologians of the Broad Church Party,\nor the authors of Mr. Walter Scott’s Great Writers Series, seem to me to\nspend their time in trying to explain their divinity away. Where one had\nhoped that Browning was a mystic they have sought to show that he was\nsimply inarticulate. Where one had fancied that he had something to\nconceal, they have proved that he had but little to reveal. But I speak\nmerely of his incoherent work. Taken as a whole the man was great. He\ndid not belong to the Olympians, and had all the incompleteness of the\nTitan. He did not survey, and it was but rarely that he could sing. His\nwork is marred by struggle, violence and effort, and he passed not from\nemotion to form, but from thought to chaos. Still, he was great. He has\nbeen called a thinker, and was certainly a man who was always thinking,\nand always thinking aloud; but it was not thought that fascinated him,\nbut rather the processes by which thought moves. It was the machine he\nloved, not what the machine makes. The method by which the fool arrives\nat his folly was as dear to him as the ultimate wisdom of the wise. So\nmuch, indeed, did the subtle mechanism of mind fascinate him that he\ndespised language, or looked upon it as an incomplete instrument of\nexpression. Rhyme, that exquisite echo which in the Muse’s hollow hill\ncreates and answers its own voice; rhyme, which in the hands of the real\nartist becomes not merely a material element of metrical beauty, but a\nspiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may\nbe, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and\nsuggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had\nknocked in vain; rhyme, which can turn man’s utterance to the speech of\ngods; rhyme, the one chord we have added to the Greek lyre, became in\nRobert Browning’s hands a grotesque, misshapen thing, which at times made\nhim masquerade in poetry as a low comedian, and ride Pegasus too often\nwith his tongue in his cheek. There are moments when he wounds us by\nmonstrous music. Nay, if he can only get his music by breaking the\nstrings of his lute, he breaks them, and they snap in discord, and no\nAthenian tettix, making melody from tremulous wings, lights on the ivory\nhorn to make the movement perfect, or the interval less harsh. Yet, he\nwas great: and though he turned language into ignoble clay, he made from\nit men and women that live. He is the most Shakespearian creature since\nShakespeare. If Shakespeare could sing with myriad lips, Browning could\nstammer through a thousand mouths. Even now, as I am speaking, and\nspeaking not against him but for him, there glides through the room the\npageant of his persons. There, creeps Fra Lippo Lippi with his cheeks\nstill burning from some girl’s hot kiss. There, stands dread Saul with\nthe lordly male-sapphires gleaming in his turban. Mildred Tresham is\nthere, and the Spanish monk, yellow with hatred, and Blougram, and Ben\nEzra, and the Bishop of St. Praxed’s. The spawn of Setebos gibbers in\nthe corner, and Sebald, hearing Pippa pass by, looks on Ottima’s haggard\nface, and loathes her and his own sin, and himself. Pale as the white\nsatin of his doublet, the melancholy king watches with dreamy treacherous\neyes too loyal Strafford pass forth to his doom, and Andrea shudders as\nhe hears the cousins whistle in the garden, and bids his perfect wife go\ndown. Yes, Browning was great. And as what will he be remembered? As a\npoet? Ah, not as a poet! He will be remembered as a writer of fiction,\nas the most supreme writer of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had.\nHis sense of dramatic situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not\nanswer his own problems, he could at least put problems forth, and what\nmore should an artist do? Considered from the point of view of a creator\nof character he ranks next to him who made Hamlet. Had he been\narticulate, he might have sat beside him. The only man who can touch the\nhem of his garment is George Meredith. Meredith is a prose Browning, and\nso is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.\n\nERNEST. There is something in what you say, but there is not everything\nin what you say. In many points you are unjust.\n\nGILBERT. It is difficult not to be unjust to what one loves. But let us\nreturn to the particular point at issue. What was it that you said?\n\nERNEST. Simply this: that in the best days of art there were no\nart-critics.\n\nGILBERT. I seem to have heard that observation before, Ernest. It has\nall the vitality of error and all the tediousness of an old friend.\n\nERNEST. It is true. Yes: there is no use your tossing your head in that\npetulant manner. It is quite true. In the best days of art there were\nno art-critics. The sculptor hewed from the marble block the great\nwhite-limbed Hermes that slept within it. The waxers and gilders of\nimages gave tone and texture to the statue, and the world, when it saw\nit, worshipped and was dumb. He poured the glowing bronze into the mould\nof sand, and the river of red metal cooled into noble curves and took the\nimpress of the body of a god. With enamel or polished jewels he gave\nsight to the sightless eyes. The hyacinth-like curls grew crisp beneath\nhis graver. And when, in some dim frescoed fane, or pillared sunlit\nportico, the child of Leto stood upon his pedestal, those who passed by,\nδια λαμπροτάτου βαίνοντες αβρως αιθέρος, became conscious of a new\ninfluence that had come across their lives, and dreamily, or with a sense\nof strange and quickening joy, went to their homes or daily labour, or\nwandered, it may be, through the city gates to that nymph-haunted meadow\nwhere young Phædrus bathed his feet, and, lying there on the soft grass,\nbeneath the tall wind—whispering planes and flowering _agnus castus_,\nbegan to think of the wonder of beauty, and grew silent with unaccustomed\nawe. In those days the artist was free. From the river valley he took\nthe fine clay in his fingers, and with a little tool of wood or bone,\nfashioned it into forms so exquisite that the people gave them to the\ndead as their playthings, and we find them still in the dusty tombs on\nthe yellow hillside by Tanagra, with the faint gold and the fading\ncrimson still lingering about hair and lips and raiment. On a wall of\nfresh plaster, stained with bright sandyx or mixed with milk and saffron,\nhe pictured one who trod with tired feet the purple white-starred fields\nof asphodel, one ‘in whose eyelids lay the whole of the Trojan War,’\nPolyxena, the daughter of Priam; or figured Odysseus, the wise and\ncunning, bound by tight cords to the mast-step, that he might listen\nwithout hurt to the singing of the Sirens, or wandering by the clear\nriver of Acheron, where the ghosts of fishes flitted over the pebbly bed;\nor showed the Persian in trews and mitre flying before the Greek at\nMarathon, or the galleys clashing their beaks of brass in the little\nSalaminian bay. He drew with silver-point and charcoal upon parchment\nand prepared cedar. Upon ivory and rose-coloured terracotta he painted\nwith wax, making the wax fluid with juice of olives, and with heated\nirons making it firm. Panel and marble and linen canvas became wonderful\nas his brush swept across them; and life seeing her own image, was still,\nand dared not speak. All life, indeed, was his, from the merchants\nseated in the market-place to the cloaked shepherd lying on the hill;\nfrom the nymph hidden in the laurels and the faun that pipes at noon, to\nthe king whom, in long green-curtained litter, slaves bore upon\noil-bright shoulders, and fanned with peacock fans. Men and women, with\npleasure or sorrow in their faces, passed before him. He watched them,\nand their secret became his. Through form and colour he re-created a\nworld.\n\nAll subtle arts belonged to him also. He held the gem against the\nrevolving disk, and the amethyst became the purple couch for Adonis, and\nacross the veined sardonyx sped Artemis with her hounds. He beat out the\ngold into roses, and strung them together for necklace or armlet. He\nbeat out the gold into wreaths for the conqueror’s helmet, or into\npalmates for the Tyrian robe, or into masks for the royal dead. On the\nback of the silver mirror he graved Thetis borne by her Nereids, or\nlove-sick Phædra with her nurse, or Persephone, weary of memory, putting\npoppies in her hair. The potter sat in his shed, and, flower-like from\nthe silent wheel, the vase rose up beneath his hands. He decorated the\nbase and stem and ears with pattern of dainty olive-leaf, or foliated\nacanthus, or curved and crested wave. Then in black or red he painted\nlads wrestling, or in the race: knights in full armour, with strange\nheraldic shields and curious visors, leaning from shell-shaped chariot\nover rearing steeds: the gods seated at the feast or working their\nmiracles: the heroes in their victory or in their pain. Sometimes he\nwould etch in thin vermilion lines upon a ground of white the languid\nbridegroom and his bride, with Eros hovering round them—an Eros like one\nof Donatello’s angels, a little laughing thing with gilded or with azure\nwings. On the curved side he would write the name of his friend. ΚΑΛΟΣ\nΑΛΚΙΒΙΑΔΗΣ or ΚΑΛΟΣ ΧΑΡΜΙΔΗΣ tells us the story of his days. Again, on\nthe rim of the wide flat cup he would draw the stag browsing, or the lion\nat rest, as his fancy willed it. From the tiny perfume-bottle laughed\nAphrodite at her toilet, and, with bare-limbed Mænads in his train,\nDionysus danced round the wine-jar on naked must-stained feet, while,\nsatyr-like, the old Silenus sprawled upon the bloated skins, or shook\nthat magic spear which was tipped with a fretted fir-cone, and wreathed\nwith dark ivy. And no one came to trouble the artist at his work. No\nirresponsible chatter disturbed him. He was not worried by opinions. By\nthe Ilyssus, says Arnold somewhere, there was no Higginbotham. By the\nIlyssus, my dear Gilbert, there were no silly art congresses bringing\nprovincialism to the provinces and teaching the mediocrity how to mouth.\nBy the Ilyssus there were no tedious magazines about art, in which the\nindustrious prattle of what they do not understand. On the reed-grown\nbanks of that little stream strutted no ridiculous journalism\nmonopolising the seat of judgment when it should be apologising in the\ndock. The Greeks had no art-critics.\n\nGILBERT. Ernest, you are quite delightful, but your views are terribly\nunsound. I am afraid that you have been listening to the conversation of\nsome one older than yourself. That is always a dangerous thing to do,\nand if you allow it to degenerate into a habit you will find it\nabsolutely fatal to any intellectual development. As for modern\njournalism, it is not my business to defend it. It justifies its own\nexistence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the\nvulgarest. I have merely to do with literature.\n\nERNEST. But what is the difference between literature and journalism?\n\nGILBERT. Oh! journalism is unreadable, and literature is not read. That\nis all. But with regard to your statement that the Greeks had no\nart-critics, I assure you that is quite absurd. It would be more just to\nsay that the Greeks were a nation of art-critics.\n\nERNEST. Really?\n\nGILBERT. Yes, a nation of art-critics. But I don’t wish to destroy the\ndelightfully unreal picture that you have drawn of the relation of the\nHellenic artist to the intellectual spirit of his age. To give an\naccurate description of what has never occurred is not merely the proper\noccupation of the historian, but the inalienable privilege of any man of\nparts and culture. Still less do I desire to talk learnedly. Learned\nconversation is either the affectation of the ignorant or the profession\nof the mentally unemployed. And, as for what is called improving\nconversation, that is merely the foolish method by which the still more\nfoolish philanthropist feebly tries to disarm the just rancour of the\ncriminal classes. No: let me play to you some mad scarlet thing by\nDvorák. The pallid figures on the tapestry are smiling at us, and the\nheavy eyelids of my bronze Narcissus are folded in sleep. Don’t let us\ndiscuss anything solemnly. I am but too conscious of the fact that we\nare born in an age when only the dull are treated seriously, and I live\nin terror of not being misunderstood. Don’t degrade me into the position\nof giving you useful information. Education is an admirable thing, but\nit is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth\nknowing can be taught. Through the parted curtains of the window I see\nthe moon like a clipped piece of silver. Like gilded bees the stars\ncluster round her. The sky is a hard hollow sapphire. Let us go out\ninto the night. Thought is wonderful, but adventure is more wonderful\nstill. Who knows but we may meet Prince Florizel of Bohemia, and hear\nthe fair Cuban tell us that she is not what she seems?\n\nERNEST. You are horribly wilful. I insist on your discussing this\nmatter with me. You have said that the Greeks were a nation of\nart-critics. What art-criticism have they left us?\n\nGILBERT. My dear Ernest, even if not a single fragment of art-criticism\nhad come down to us from Hellenic or Hellenistic days, it would be none\nthe less true that the Greeks were a nation of art-critics, and that they\ninvented the criticism of art just as they invented the criticism of\neverything else. For, after all, what is our primary debt to the Greeks?\nSimply the critical spirit. And, this spirit, which they exercised on\nquestions of religion and science, of ethics and metaphysics, of politics\nand education, they exercised on questions of art also, and, indeed, of\nthe two supreme and highest arts, they have left us the most flawless\nsystem of criticism that the world has ever seen.\n\nERNEST. But what are the two supreme and highest arts?\n\nGILBERT. Life and Literature, life and the perfect expression of life.\nThe principles of the former, as laid down by the Greeks, we may not\nrealise in an age so marred by false ideals as our own. The principles\nof the latter, as they laid them down, are, in many cases, so subtle that\nwe can hardly understand them. Recognising that the most perfect art is\nthat which most fully mirrors man in all his infinite variety, they\nelaborated the criticism of language, considered in the light of the mere\nmaterial of that art, to a point to which we, with our accentual system\nof reasonable or emotional emphasis, can barely if at all attain;\nstudying, for instance, the metrical movements of a prose as\nscientifically as a modern musician studies harmony and counterpoint,\nand, I need hardly say, with much keener æsthetic instinct. In this they\nwere right, as they were right in all things. Since the introduction of\nprinting, and the fatal development of the habit of reading amongst the\nmiddle and lower classes of this country, there has been a tendency in\nliterature to appeal more and more to the eye, and less and less to the\near which is really the sense which, from the standpoint of pure art, it\nshould seek to please, and by whose canons of pleasure it should abide\nalways. Even the work of Mr. Pater, who is, on the whole, the most\nperfect master of English prose now creating amongst us, is often far\nmore like a piece of mosaic than a passage in music, and seems, here and\nthere, to lack the true rhythmical life of words and the fine freedom and\nrichness of effect that such rhythmical life produces. We, in fact, have\nmade writing a definite mode of composition, and have treated it as a\nform of elaborate design. The Greeks, upon the other hand, regarded\nwriting simply as a method of chronicling. Their test was always the\nspoken word in its musical and metrical relations. The voice was the\nmedium, and the ear the critic. I have sometimes thought that the story\nof Homer’s blindness might be really an artistic myth, created in\ncritical days, and serving to remind us, not merely that the great poet\nis always a seer, seeing less with the eyes of the body than he does with\nthe eyes of the soul, but that he is a true singer also, building his\nsong out of music, repeating each line over and over again to himself\ntill he has caught the secret of its melody, chaunting in darkness the\nwords that are winged with light. Certainly, whether this be so or not,\nit was to his blindness, as an occasion, if not as a cause, that\nEngland’s great poet owed much of the majestic movement and sonorous\nsplendour of his later verse. When Milton could no longer write he began\nto sing. Who would match the measures of _Comus_ with the measures of\n_Samson Agonistes_, or of _Paradise Lost_ or _Regained_? When Milton\nbecame blind he composed, as every one should compose, with the voice\npurely, and so the pipe or reed of earlier days became that mighty\nmany-stopped organ whose rich reverberant music has all the stateliness\nof Homeric verse, if it seeks not to have its swiftness, and is the one\nimperishable inheritance of English literature sweeping through all the\nages, because above them, and abiding with us ever, being immortal in its\nform. Yes: writing has done much harm to writers. We must return to the\nvoice. That must be our test, and perhaps then we shall be able to\nappreciate some of the subtleties of Greek art-criticism.\n\nAs it now is, we cannot do so. Sometimes, when I have written a piece of\nprose that I have been modest enough to consider absolutely free from\nfault, a dreadful thought comes over me that I may have been guilty of\nthe immoral effeminacy of using trochaic and tribrachic movements, a\ncrime for which a learned critic of the Augustan age censures with most\njust severity the brilliant if somewhat paradoxical Hegesias. I grow\ncold when I think of it, and wonder to myself if the admirable ethical\neffect of the prose of that charming writer, who once in a spirit of\nreckless generosity towards the uncultivated portion of our community\nproclaimed the monstrous doctrine that conduct is three-fourths of life,\nwill not some day be entirely annihilated by the discovery that the pæons\nhave been wrongly placed.\n\nERNEST. Ah! now you are flippant.\n\nGILBERT. Who would not be flippant when he is gravely told that the\nGreeks had no art-critics? I can understand it being said that the\nconstructive genius of the Greeks lost itself in criticism, but not that\nthe race to whom we owe the critical spirit did not criticise. You will\nnot ask me to give you a survey of Greek art criticism from Plato to\nPlotinus. The night is too lovely for that, and the moon, if she heard\nus, would put more ashes on her face than are there already. But think\nmerely of one perfect little work of æsthetic criticism, Aristotle’s\n_Treatise on Poetry_. It is not perfect in form, for it is badly\nwritten, consisting perhaps of notes dotted down for an art lecture, or\nof isolated fragments destined for some larger book, but in temper and\ntreatment it is perfect, absolutely. The ethical effect of art, its\nimportance to culture, and its place in the formation of character, had\nbeen done once for all by Plato; but here we have art treated, not from\nthe moral, but from the purely æsthetic point of view. Plato had, of\ncourse, dealt with many definitely artistic subjects, such as the\nimportance of unity in a work of art, the necessity for tone and harmony,\nthe æsthetic value of appearances, the relation of the visible arts to\nthe external world, and the relation of fiction to fact. He first\nperhaps stirred in the soul of man that desire that we have not yet\nsatisfied, the desire to know the connection between Beauty and Truth,\nand the place of Beauty in the moral and intellectual order of the\nKosmos. The problems of idealism and realism, as he sets them forth, may\nseem to many to be somewhat barren of result in the metaphysical sphere\nof abstract being in which he places them, but transfer them to the\nsphere of art, and you will find that they are still vital and full of\nmeaning. It may be that it is as a critic of Beauty that Plato is\ndestined to live, and that by altering the name of the sphere of his\nspeculation we shall find a new philosophy. But Aristotle, like Goethe,\ndeals with art primarily in its concrete manifestations, taking Tragedy,\nfor instance, and investigating the material it uses, which is language,\nits subject-matter, which is life, the method by which it works, which is\naction, the conditions under which it reveals itself, which are those of\ntheatric presentation, its logical structure, which is plot, and its\nfinal æsthetic appeal, which is to the sense of beauty realised through\nthe passions of pity and awe. That purification and spiritualising of\nthe nature which he calls κάθαρσις is, as Goethe saw, essentially\næsthetic, and is not moral, as Lessing fancied. Concerning himself\nprimarily with the impression that the work of art produces, Aristotle\nsets himself to analyse that impression, to investigate its source, to\nsee how it is engendered. As a physiologist and psychologist, he knows\nthat the health of a function resides in energy. To have a capacity for\na passion and not to realise it, is to make oneself incomplete and\nlimited. The mimic spectacle of life that Tragedy affords cleanses the\nbosom of much ‘perilous stuff,’ and by presenting high and worthy objects\nfor the exercise of the emotions purifies and spiritualises the man; nay,\nnot merely does it spiritualise him, but it initiates him also into noble\nfeelings of which he might else have known nothing, the word κάθαρσις\nhaving, it has sometimes seemed to me, a definite allusion to the rite of\ninitiation, if indeed that be not, as I am occasionally tempted to fancy,\nits true and only meaning here. This is of course a mere outline of the\nbook. But you see what a perfect piece of æsthetic criticism it is. Who\nindeed but a Greek could have analysed art so well? After reading it,\none does not wonder any longer that Alexandria devoted itself so largely\nto art-criticism, and that we find the artistic temperaments of the day\ninvestigating every question of style and manner, discussing the great\nAcademic schools of painting, for instance, such as the school of Sicyon,\nthat sought to preserve the dignified traditions of the antique mode, or\nthe realistic and impressionist schools, that aimed at reproducing actual\nlife, or the elements of ideality in portraiture, or the artistic value\nof the epic form in an age so modern as theirs, or the proper\nsubject-matter for the artist. Indeed, I fear that the inartistic\ntemperaments of the day busied themselves also in matters of literature\nand art, for the accusations of plagiarism were endless, and such\naccusations proceed either from the thin colourless lips of impotence, or\nfrom the grotesque mouths of those who, possessing nothing of their own,\nfancy that they can gain a reputation for wealth by crying out that they\nhave been robbed. And I assure you, my dear Ernest, that the Greeks\nchattered about painters quite as much as people do nowadays, and had\ntheir private views, and shilling exhibitions, and Arts and Crafts\nguilds, and Pre-Raphaelite movements, and movements towards realism, and\nlectured about art, and wrote essays on art, and produced their\nart-historians, and their archæologists, and all the rest of it. Why,\neven the theatrical managers of travelling companies brought their\ndramatic critics with them when they went on tour, and paid them very\nhandsome salaries for writing laudatory notices. Whatever, in fact, is\nmodern in our life we owe to the Greeks. Whatever is an anachronism is\ndue to mediævalism. It is the Greeks who have given us the whole system\nof art-criticism, and how fine their critical instinct was, may be seen\nfrom the fact that the material they criticised with most care was, as I\nhave already said, language. For the material that painter or sculptor\nuses is meagre in comparison with that of words. Words have not merely\nmusic as sweet as that of viol and lute, colour as rich and vivid as any\nthat makes lovely for us the canvas of the Venetian or the Spaniard, and\nplastic form no less sure and certain than that which reveals itself in\nmarble or in bronze, but thought and passion and spirituality are theirs\nalso, are theirs indeed alone. If the Greeks had criticised nothing but\nlanguage, they would still have been the great art-critics of the world.\nTo know the principles of the highest art is to know the principles of\nall the arts.\n\nBut I see that the moon is hiding behind a sulphur-coloured cloud. Out\nof a tawny mane of drift she gleams like a lion’s eye. She is afraid\nthat I will talk to you of Lucian and Longinus, of Quinctilian and\nDionysius, of Pliny and Fronto and Pausanias, of all those who in the\nantique world wrote or lectured upon art matters. She need not be\nafraid. I am tired of my expedition into the dim, dull abyss of facts.\nThere is nothing left for me now but the divine μονόχρονος ηδονή of\nanother cigarette. Cigarettes have at least the charm of leaving one\nunsatisfied.\n\nERNEST. Try one of mine. They are rather good. I get them direct from\nCairo. The only use of our _attachés_ is that they supply their friends\nwith excellent tobacco. And as the moon has hidden herself, let us talk\na little longer. I am quite ready to admit that I was wrong in what I\nsaid about the Greeks. They were, as you have pointed out, a nation of\nart-critics. I acknowledge it, and I feel a little sorry for them. For\nthe creative faculty is higher than the critical. There is really no\ncomparison between them.\n\nGILBERT. The antithesis between them is entirely arbitrary. Without the\ncritical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the\nname. You spoke a little while ago of that fine spirit of choice and\ndelicate instinct of selection by which the artist realises life for us,\nand gives to it a momentary perfection. Well, that spirit of choice,\nthat subtle tact of omission, is really the critical faculty in one of\nits most characteristic moods, and no one who does not possess this\ncritical faculty can create anything at all in art. Arnold’s definition\nof literature as a criticism of life was not very felicitous in form, but\nit showed how keenly he recognised the importance of the critical element\nin all creative work.\n\nERNEST. I should have said that great artists work unconsciously, that\nthey were ‘wiser than they knew,’ as, I think, Emerson remarks somewhere.\n\nGILBERT. It is really not so, Ernest. All fine imaginative work is\nself-conscious and deliberate. No poet sings because he must sing. At\nleast, no great poet does. A great poet sings because he chooses to\nsing. It is so now, and it has always been so. We are sometimes apt to\nthink that the voices that sounded at the dawn of poetry were simpler,\nfresher, and more natural than ours, and that the world which the early\npoets looked at, and through which they walked, had a kind of poetical\nquality of its own, and almost without changing could pass into song.\nThe snow lies thick now upon Olympus, and its steep scarped sides are\nbleak and barren, but once, we fancy, the white feet of the Muses brushed\nthe dew from the anemones in the morning, and at evening came Apollo to\nsing to the shepherds in the vale. But in this we are merely lending to\nother ages what we desire, or think we desire, for our own. Our\nhistorical sense is at fault. Every century that produces poetry is, so\nfar, an artificial century, and the work that seems to us to be the most\nnatural and simple product of its time is always the result of the most\nself-conscious effort. Believe me, Ernest, there is no fine art without\nself-consciousness, and self-consciousness and the critical spirit are\none.\n\nERNEST. I see what you mean, and there is much in it. But surely you\nwould admit that the great poems of the early world, the primitive,\nanonymous collective poems, were the result of the imagination of races,\nrather than of the imagination of individuals?\n\nGILBERT. Not when they became poetry. Not when they received a\nbeautiful form. For there is no art where there is no style, and no\nstyle where there is no unity, and unity is of the individual. No doubt\nHomer had old ballads and stories to deal with, as Shakespeare had\nchronicles and plays and novels from which to work, but they were merely\nhis rough material. He took them, and shaped them into song. They\nbecome his, because he made them lovely. They were built out of music,\n\n And so not built at all,\n And therefore built for ever.\n\nThe longer one studies life and literature, the more strongly one feels\nthat behind everything that is wonderful stands the individual, and that\nit is not the moment that makes the man, but the man who creates the age.\nIndeed, I am inclined to think that each myth and legend that seems to us\nto spring out of the wonder, or terror, or fancy of tribe and nation, was\nin its origin the invention of one single mind. The curiously limited\nnumber of the myths seems to me to point to this conclusion. But we must\nnot go off into questions of comparative mythology. We must keep to\ncriticism. And what I want to point out is this. An age that has no\ncriticism is either an age in which art is immobile, hieratic, and\nconfined to the reproduction of formal types, or an age that possesses no\nart at all. There have been critical ages that have not been creative,\nin the ordinary sense of the word, ages in which the spirit of man has\nsought to set in order the treasures of his treasure-house, to separate\nthe gold from the silver, and the silver from the lead, to count over the\njewels, and to give names to the pearls. But there has never been a\ncreative age that has not been critical also. For it is the critical\nfaculty that invents fresh forms. The tendency of creation is to repeat\nitself. It is to the critical instinct that we owe each new school that\nsprings up, each new mould that art finds ready to its hand. There is\nreally not a single form that art now uses that does not come to us from\nthe critical spirit of Alexandria, where these forms were either\nstereotyped or invented or made perfect. I say Alexandria, not merely\nbecause it was there that the Greek spirit became most self-conscious,\nand indeed ultimately expired in scepticism and theology, but because it\nwas to that city, and not to Athens, that Rome turned for her models, and\nit was through the survival, such as it was, of the Latin language that\nculture lived at all. When, at the Renaissance, Greek literature dawned\nupon Europe, the soil had been in some measure prepared for it. But, to\nget rid of the details of history, which are always wearisome and usually\ninaccurate, let us say generally, that the forms of art have been due to\nthe Greek critical spirit. To it we owe the epic, the lyric, the entire\ndrama in every one of its developments, including burlesque, the idyll,\nthe romantic novel, the novel of adventure, the essay, the dialogue, the\noration, the lecture, for which perhaps we should not forgive them, and\nthe epigram, in all the wide meaning of that word. In fact, we owe it\neverything, except the sonnet, to which, however, some curious parallels\nof thought-movement may be traced in the Anthology, American journalism,\nto which no parallel can be found anywhere, and the ballad in sham Scotch\ndialect, which one of our most industrious writers has recently proposed\nshould be made the basis for a final and unanimous effort on the part of\nour second-rate poets to make themselves really romantic. Each new\nschool, as it appears, cries out against criticism, but it is to the\ncritical faculty in man that it owes its origin. The mere creative\ninstinct does not innovate, but reproduces.\n\nERNEST. You have been talking of criticism as an essential part of the\ncreative spirit, and I now fully accept your theory. But what of\ncriticism outside creation? I have a foolish habit of reading\nperiodicals, and it seems to me that most modern criticism is perfectly\nvalueless.\n\nGILBERT. So is most modern creative work also. Mediocrity weighing\nmediocrity in the balance, and incompetence applauding its brother—that\nis the spectacle which the artistic activity of England affords us from\ntime to time. And yet, I feel I am a little unfair in this matter. As a\nrule, the critics—I speak, of course, of the higher class, of those in\nfact who write for the sixpenny papers—are far more cultured than the\npeople whose work they are called upon to review. This is, indeed, only\nwhat one would expect, for criticism demands infinitely more cultivation\nthan creation does.\n\nERNEST. Really?\n\nGILBERT. Certainly. Anybody can write a three-volumed novel. It merely\nrequires a complete ignorance of both life and literature. The\ndifficulty that I should fancy the reviewer feels is the difficulty of\nsustaining any standard. Where there is no style a standard must be\nimpossible. The poor reviewers are apparently reduced to be the\nreporters of the police-court of literature, the chroniclers of the\ndoings of the habitual criminals of art. It is sometimes said of them\nthat they do not read all through the works they are called upon to\ncriticise. They do not. Or at least they should not. If they did so,\nthey would become confirmed misanthropes, or if I may borrow a phrase\nfrom one of the pretty Newnham graduates, confirmed womanthropes for the\nrest of their lives. Nor is it necessary. To know the vintage and\nquality of a wine one need not drink the whole cask. It must be\nperfectly easy in half an hour to say whether a book is worth anything or\nworth nothing. Ten minutes are really sufficient, if one has the\ninstinct for form. Who wants to wade through a dull volume? One tastes\nit, and that is quite enough—more than enough, I should imagine. I am\naware that there are many honest workers in painting as well as in\nliterature who object to criticism entirely. They are quite right.\nTheir work stands in no intellectual relation to their age. It brings us\nno new element of pleasure. It suggests no fresh departure of thought,\nor passion, or beauty. It should not be spoken of. It should be left to\nthe oblivion that it deserves.\n\nERNEST. But, my dear fellow—excuse me for interrupting you—you seem to\nme to be allowing your passion for criticism to lead you a great deal too\nfar. For, after all, even you must admit that it is much more difficult\nto do a thing than to talk about it.\n\nGILBERT. More difficult to do a thing than to talk about it? Not at\nall. That is a gross popular error. It is very much more difficult to\ntalk about a thing than to do it. In the sphere of actual life that is\nof course obvious. Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write\nit. There is no mode of action, no form of emotion, that we do not share\nwith the lower animals. It is only by language that we rise above them,\nor above each other—by language, which is the parent, and not the child,\nof thought. Action, indeed, is always easy, and when presented to us in\nits most aggravated, because most continuous form, which I take to be\nthat of real industry, becomes simply the refuge of people who have\nnothing whatsoever to do. No, Ernest, don’t talk about action. It is a\nblind thing dependent on external influences, and moved by an impulse of\nwhose nature it is unconscious. It is a thing incomplete in its essence,\nbecause limited by accident, and ignorant of its direction, being always\nat variance with its aim. Its basis is the lack of imagination. It is\nthe last resource of those who know not how to dream.\n\nERNEST. Gilbert, you treat the world as if it were a crystal ball. You\nhold it in your hand, and reverse it to please a wilful fancy. You do\nnothing but re-write history.\n\nGILBERT. The one duty we owe to history is to re-write it. That is not\nthe least of the tasks in store for the critical spirit. When we have\nfully discovered the scientific laws that govern life, we shall realise\nthat the one person who has more illusions than the dreamer is the man of\naction. He, indeed, knows neither the origin of his deeds nor their\nresults. From the field in which he thought that he had sown thorns, we\nhave gathered our vintage, and the fig-tree that he planted for our\npleasure is as barren as the thistle, and more bitter. It is because\nHumanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find\nits way.\n\nERNEST. You think, then, that in the sphere of action a conscious aim is\na delusion?\n\nGILBERT. It is worse than a delusion. If we lived long enough to see\nthe results of our actions it may be that those who call themselves good\nwould be sickened with a dull remorse, and those whom the world calls\nevil stirred by a noble joy. Each little thing that we do passes into\nthe great machine of life which may grind our virtues to powder and make\nthem worthless, or transform our sins into elements of a new\ncivilisation, more marvellous and more splendid than any that has gone\nbefore. But men are the slaves of words. They rage against Materialism,\nas they call it, forgetting that there has been no material improvement\nthat has not spiritualised the world, and that there have been few, if\nany, spiritual awakenings that have not wasted the world’s faculties in\nbarren hopes, and fruitless aspirations, and empty or trammelling creeds.\nWhat is termed Sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the\nworld would stagnate, or grow old, or become colourless. By its\ncuriosity Sin increases the experience of the race. Through its\nintensified assertion of individualism, it saves us from monotony of\ntype. In its rejection of the current notions about morality, it is one\nwith the higher ethics. And as for the virtues! What are the virtues?\nNature, M. Renan tells us, cares little about chastity, and it may be\nthat it is to the shame of the Magdalen, and not to their own purity,\nthat the Lucretias of modern life owe their freedom from stain. Charity,\nas even those of whose religion it makes a formal part have been\ncompelled to acknowledge, creates a multitude of evils. The mere\nexistence of conscience, that faculty of which people prate so much\nnowadays, and are so ignorantly proud, is a sign of our imperfect\ndevelopment. It must be merged in instinct before we become fine.\nSelf-denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress, and\nself-sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage, part of that\nold worship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of the\nworld, and which even now makes its victims day by day, and has its\naltars in the land. Virtues! Who knows what the virtues are? Not you.\nNot I. Not any one. It is well for our vanity that we slay the\ncriminal, for if we suffered him to live he might show us what we had\ngained by his crime. It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his\nmartyrdom. He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest.\n\nERNEST. Gilbert, you sound too harsh a note. Let us go back to the more\ngracious fields of literature. What was it you said? That it was more\ndifficult to talk about a thing than to do it?\n\nGILBERT (_after a pause_). Yes: I believe I ventured upon that simple\ntruth. Surely you see now that I am right? When man acts he is a\npuppet. When he describes he is a poet. The whole secret lies in that.\nIt was easy enough on the sandy plains by windy Ilion to send the notched\narrow from the painted bow, or to hurl against the shield of hide and\nflamelike brass the long ash-handled spear. It was easy for the\nadulterous queen to spread the Tyrian carpets for her lord, and then, as\nhe lay couched in the marble bath, to throw over his head the purple net,\nand call to her smooth-faced lover to stab through the meshes at the\nheart that should have broken at Aulis. For Antigone even, with Death\nwaiting for her as her bridegroom, it was easy to pass through the\ntainted air at noon, and climb the hill, and strew with kindly earth the\nwretched naked corse that had no tomb. But what of those who wrote about\nthese things? What of those who gave them reality, and made them live\nfor ever? Are they not greater than the men and women they sing of?\n‘Hector that sweet knight is dead,’ and Lucian tells us how in the dim\nunder-world Menippus saw the bleaching skull of Helen, and marvelled that\nit was for so grim a favour that all those horned ships were launched,\nthose beautiful mailed men laid low, those towered cities brought to\ndust. Yet, every day the swanlike daughter of Leda comes out on the\nbattlements, and looks down at the tide of war. The greybeards wonder at\nher loveliness, and she stands by the side of the king. In his chamber\nof stained ivory lies her leman. He is polishing his dainty armour, and\ncombing the scarlet plume. With squire and page, her husband passes from\ntent to tent. She can see his bright hair, and hears, or fancies that\nshe hears, that clear cold voice. In the courtyard below, the son of\nPriam is buckling on his brazen cuirass. The white arms of Andromache\nare around his neck. He sets his helmet on the ground, lest their babe\nshould be frightened. Behind the embroidered curtains of his pavilion\nsits Achilles, in perfumed raiment, while in harness of gilt and silver\nthe friend of his soul arrays himself to go forth to the fight. From a\ncuriously carven chest that his mother Thetis had brought to his\nship-side, the Lord of the Myrmidons takes out that mystic chalice that\nthe lip of man had never touched, and cleanses it with brimstone, and\nwith fresh water cools it, and, having washed his hands, fills with black\nwine its burnished hollow, and spills the thick grape-blood upon the\nground in honour of Him whom at Dodona barefooted prophets worshipped,\nand prays to Him, and knows not that he prays in vain, and that by the\nhands of two knights from Troy, Panthous’ son, Euphorbus, whose\nlove-locks were looped with gold, and the Priamid, the lion-hearted,\nPatroklus, the comrade of comrades, must meet his doom. Phantoms, are\nthey? Heroes of mist and mountain? Shadows in a song? No: they are\nreal. Action! What is action? It dies at the moment of its energy. It\nis a base concession to fact. The world is made by the singer for the\ndreamer.\n\nERNEST. While you talk it seems to me to be so.\n\nGILBERT. It is so in truth. On the mouldering citadel of Troy lies the\nlizard like a thing of green bronze. The owl has built her nest in the\npalace of Priam. Over the empty plain wander shepherd and goatherd with\ntheir flocks, and where, on the wine-surfaced, oily sea, οινοψ πόντος, as\nHomer calls it, copper-prowed and streaked with vermilion, the great\ngalleys of the Danaoi came in their gleaming crescent, the lonely\ntunny-fisher sits in his little boat and watches the bobbing corks of his\nnet. Yet, every morning the doors of the city are thrown open, and on\nfoot, or in horse-drawn chariot, the warriors go forth to battle, and\nmock their enemies from behind their iron masks. All day long the fight\nrages, and when night comes the torches gleam by the tents, and the\ncresset burns in the hall. Those who live in marble or on painted panel,\nknow of life but a single exquisite instant, eternal indeed in its\nbeauty, but limited to one note of passion or one mood of calm. Those\nwhom the poet makes live have their myriad emotions of joy and terror, of\ncourage and despair, of pleasure and of suffering. The seasons come and\ngo in glad or saddening pageant, and with winged or leaden feet the years\npass by before them. They have their youth and their manhood, they are\nchildren, and they grow old. It is always dawn for St. Helena, as\nVeronese saw her at the window. Through the still morning air the angels\nbring her the symbol of God’s pain. The cool breezes of the morning lift\nthe gilt threads from her brow. On that little hill by the city of\nFlorence, where the lovers of Giorgione are lying, it is always the\nsolstice of noon, of noon made so languorous by summer suns that hardly\ncan the slim naked girl dip into the marble tank the round bubble of\nclear glass, and the long fingers of the lute-player rest idly upon the\nchords. It is twilight always for the dancing nymphs whom Corot set free\namong the silver poplars of France. In eternal twilight they move, those\nfrail diaphanous figures, whose tremulous white feet seem not to touch\nthe dew-drenched grass they tread on. But those who walk in epos, drama,\nor romance, see through the labouring months the young moons wax and\nwane, and watch the night from evening unto morning star, and from\nsunrise unto sunsetting can note the shifting day with all its gold and\nshadow. For them, as for us, the flowers bloom and wither, and the\nEarth, that Green-tressed Goddess as Coleridge calls her, alters her\nraiment for their pleasure. The statue is concentrated to one moment of\nperfection. The image stained upon the canvas possesses no spiritual\nelement of growth or change. If they know nothing of death, it is\nbecause they know little of life, for the secrets of life and death\nbelong to those, and those only, whom the sequence of time affects, and\nwho possess not merely the present but the future, and can rise or fall\nfrom a past of glory or of shame. Movement, that problem of the visible\narts, can be truly realised by Literature alone. It is Literature that\nshows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest.\n\nERNEST. Yes; I see now what you mean. But, surely, the higher you place\nthe creative artist, the lower must the critic rank.\n\nGILBERT. Why so?\n\nERNEST. Because the best that he can give us will be but an echo of rich\nmusic, a dim shadow of clear-outlined form. It may, indeed, be that life\nis chaos, as you tell me that it is; that its martyrdoms are mean and its\nheroisms ignoble; and that it is the function of Literature to create,\nfrom the rough material of actual existence, a new world that will be\nmore marvellous, more enduring, and more true than the world that common\neyes look upon, and through which common natures seek to realise their\nperfection. But surely, if this new world has been made by the spirit\nand touch of a great artist, it will be a thing so complete and perfect\nthat there will be nothing left for the critic to do. I quite understand\nnow, and indeed admit most readily, that it is far more difficult to talk\nabout a thing than to do it. But it seems to me that this sound and\nsensible maxim, which is really extremely soothing to one’s feelings, and\nshould be adopted as its motto by every Academy of Literature all over\nthe world, applies only to the relations that exist between Art and Life,\nand not to any relations that there may be between Art and Criticism.\n\nGILBERT. But, surely, Criticism is itself an art. And just as artistic\ncreation implies the working of the critical faculty, and, indeed,\nwithout it cannot be said to exist at all, so Criticism is really\ncreative in the highest sense of the word. Criticism is, in fact, both\ncreative and independent.\n\nERNEST. Independent?\n\nGILBERT. Yes; independent. Criticism is no more to be judged by any low\nstandard of imitation or resemblance than is the work of poet or\nsculptor. The critic occupies the same relation to the work of art that\nhe criticises as the artist does to the visible world of form and colour,\nor the unseen world of passion and of thought. He does not even require\nfor the perfection of his art the finest materials. Anything will serve\nhis purpose. And just as out of the sordid and sentimental amours of the\nsilly wife of a small country doctor in the squalid village of\nYonville-l’Abbaye, near Rouen, Gustave Flaubert was able to create a\nclassic, and make a masterpiece of style, so, from subjects of little or\nof no importance, such as the pictures in this year’s Royal Academy, or\nin any year’s Royal Academy for that matter, Mr. Lewis Morris’s poems, M.\nOhnet’s novels, or the plays of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, the true critic\ncan, if it be his pleasure so to direct or waste his faculty of\ncontemplation, produce work that will be flawless in beauty and instinct\nwith intellectual subtlety. Why not? Dulness is always an irresistible\ntemptation for brilliancy, and stupidity is the permanent _Bestia\nTrionfans_ that calls wisdom from its cave. To an artist so creative as\nthe critic, what does subject-matter signify? No more and no less than\nit does to the novelist and the painter. Like them, he can find his\nmotives everywhere. Treatment is the test. There is nothing that has\nnot in it suggestion or challenge.\n\nERNEST. But is Criticism really a creative art?\n\nGILBERT. Why should it not be? It works with materials, and puts them\ninto a form that is at once new and delightful. What more can one say of\npoetry? Indeed, I would call criticism a creation within a creation.\nFor just as the great artists, from Homer and Æschylus, down to\nShakespeare and Keats, did not go directly to life for their\nsubject-matter, but sought for it in myth, and legend, and ancient tale,\nso the critic deals with materials that others have, as it were, purified\nfor him, and to which imaginative form and colour have been already\nadded. Nay, more, I would say that the highest Criticism, being the\npurest form of personal impression, is in its way more creative than\ncreation, as it has least reference to any standard external to itself,\nand is, in fact, its own reason for existing, and, as the Greeks would\nput it, in itself, and to itself, an end. Certainly, it is never\ntrammelled by any shackles of verisimilitude. No ignoble considerations\nof probability, that cowardly concession to the tedious repetitions of\ndomestic or public life, affect it ever. One may appeal from fiction\nunto fact. But from the soul there is no appeal.\n\nERNEST. From the soul?\n\nGILBERT. Yes, from the soul. That is what the highest criticism really\nis, the record of one’s own soul. It is more fascinating than history,\nas it is concerned simply with oneself. It is more delightful than\nphilosophy, as its subject is concrete and not abstract, real and not\nvague. It is the only civilised form of autobiography, as it deals not\nwith the events, but with the thoughts of one’s life; not with life’s\nphysical accidents of deed or circumstance, but with the spiritual moods\nand imaginative passions of the mind. I am always amused by the silly\nvanity of those writers and artists of our day who seem to imagine that\nthe primary function of the critic is to chatter about their second-rate\nwork. The best that one can say of most modern creative art is that it\nis just a little less vulgar than reality, and so the critic, with his\nfine sense of distinction and sure instinct of delicate refinement, will\nprefer to look into the silver mirror or through the woven veil, and will\nturn his eyes away from the chaos and clamour of actual existence, though\nthe mirror be tarnished and the veil be torn. His sole aim is to\nchronicle his own impressions. It is for him that pictures are painted,\nbooks written, and marble hewn into form.\n\nERNEST. I seem to have heard another theory of Criticism.\n\nGILBERT. Yes: it has been said by one whose gracious memory we all\nrevere, and the music of whose pipe once lured Proserpina from her\nSicilian fields, and made those white feet stir, and not in vain, the\nCumnor cowslips, that the proper aim of Criticism is to see the object as\nin itself it really is. But this is a very serious error, and takes no\ncognisance of Criticism’s most perfect form, which is in its essence\npurely subjective, and seeks to reveal its own secret and not the secret\nof another. For the highest Criticism deals with art not as expressive\nbut as impressive purely.\n\nERNEST. But is that really so?\n\nGILBERT. Of course it is. Who cares whether Mr. Ruskin’s views on\nTurner are sound or not? What does it matter? That mighty and majestic\nprose of his, so fervid and so fiery-coloured in its noble eloquence, so\nrich in its elaborate symphonic music, so sure and certain, at its best,\nin subtle choice of word and epithet, is at least as great a work of art\nas any of those wonderful sunsets that bleach or rot on their corrupted\ncanvases in England’s Gallery; greater indeed, one is apt to think at\ntimes, not merely because its equal beauty is more enduring, but on\naccount of the fuller variety of its appeal, soul speaking to soul in\nthose long-cadenced lines, not through form and colour alone, though\nthrough these, indeed, completely and without loss, but with intellectual\nand emotional utterance, with lofty passion and with loftier thought,\nwith imaginative insight, and with poetic aim; greater, I always think,\neven as Literature is the greater art. Who, again, cares whether Mr.\nPater has put into the portrait of Monna Lisa something that Lionardo\nnever dreamed of? The painter may have been merely the slave of an\narchaic smile, as some have fancied, but whenever I pass into the cool\ngalleries of the Palace of the Louvre, and stand before that strange\nfigure ‘set in its marble chair in that cirque of fantastic rocks, as in\nsome faint light under sea,’ I murmur to myself, ‘She is older than the\nrocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many\ntimes, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep\nseas, and keeps their fallen day about her: and trafficked for strange\nwebs with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of\nTroy, and, as St. Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her\nbut as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with\nwhich it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and\nthe hands.’ And I say to my friend, ‘The presence that thus so strangely\nrose beside the waters is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand\nyears man had come to desire’; and he answers me, ‘Hers is the head upon\nwhich all “the ends of the world are come,” and the eyelids are a little\nweary.’\n\nAnd so the picture becomes more wonderful to us than it really is, and\nreveals to us a secret of which, in truth, it knows nothing, and the\nmusic of the mystical prose is as sweet in our ears as was that\nflute-player’s music that lent to the lips of La Gioconda those subtle\nand poisonous curves. Do you ask me what Lionardo would have said had\nany one told him of this picture that ‘all the thoughts and experience of\nthe world had etched and moulded therein that which they had of power to\nrefine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the\nlust of Rome, the reverie of the Middle Age with its spiritual ambition\nand imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the\nBorgias?’ He would probably have answered that he had contemplated none\nof these things, but had concerned himself simply with certain\narrangements of lines and masses, and with new and curious\ncolour-harmonies of blue and green. And it is for this very reason that\nthe criticism which I have quoted is criticism of the highest kind. It\ntreats the work of art simply as a starting-point for a new creation. It\ndoes not confine itself—let us at least suppose so for the moment—to\ndiscovering the real intention of the artist and accepting that as final.\nAnd in this it is right, for the meaning of any beautiful created thing\nis, at least, as much in the soul of him who looks at it, as it was in\nhis soul who wrought it. Nay, it is rather the beholder who lends to the\nbeautiful thing its myriad meanings, and makes it marvellous for us, and\nsets it in some new relation to the age, so that it becomes a vital\nportion of our lives, and a symbol of what we pray for, or perhaps of\nwhat, having prayed for, we fear that we may receive. The longer I\nstudy, Ernest, the more clearly I see that the beauty of the visible arts\nis, as the beauty of music, impressive primarily, and that it may be\nmarred, and indeed often is so, by any excess of intellectual intention\non the part of the artist. For when the work is finished it has, as it\nwere, an independent life of its own, and may deliver a message far other\nthan that which was put into its lips to say. Sometimes, when I listen\nto the overture to _Tannhäuser_, I seem indeed to see that comely knight\ntreading delicately on the flower-strewn grass, and to hear the voice of\nVenus calling to him from the caverned hill. But at other times it\nspeaks to me of a thousand different things, of myself, it may be, and my\nown life, or of the lives of others whom one has loved and grown weary of\nloving, or of the passions that man has known, or of the passions that\nman has not known, and so has sought for. To-night it may fill one with\nthat ΕΡΩΣ ΤΩΝ ΑΔΥΝΑΤΩΝ, that _Amour de l’Impossible_, which falls like a\nmadness on many who think they live securely and out of reach of harm, so\nthat they sicken suddenly with the poison of unlimited desire, and, in\nthe infinite pursuit of what they may not obtain, grow faint and swoon or\nstumble. To-morrow, like the music of which Aristotle and Plato tell us,\nthe noble Dorian music of the Greek, it may perform the office of a\nphysician, and give us an anodyne against pain, and heal the spirit that\nis wounded, and ‘bring the soul into harmony with all right things.’ And\nwhat is true about music is true about all the arts. Beauty has as many\nmeanings as man has moods. Beauty is the symbol of symbols. Beauty\nreveals everything, because it expresses nothing. When it shows us\nitself, it shows us the whole fiery-coloured world.\n\nERNEST. But is such work as you have talked about really criticism?\n\nGILBERT. It is the highest Criticism, for it criticises not merely the\nindividual work of art, but Beauty itself, and fills with wonder a form\nwhich the artist may have left void, or not understood, or understood\nincompletely.\n\nERNEST. The highest Criticism, then, is more creative than creation, and\nthe primary aim of the critic is to see the object as in itself it really\nis not; that is your theory, I believe?\n\nGILBERT. Yes, that is my theory. To the critic the work of art is\nsimply a suggestion for a new work of his own, that need not necessarily\nbear any obvious resemblance to the thing it criticises. The one\ncharacteristic of a beautiful form is that one can put into it whatever\none wishes, and see in it whatever one chooses to see; and the Beauty,\nthat gives to creation its universal and æsthetic element, makes the\ncritic a creator in his turn, and whispers of a thousand different things\nwhich were not present in the mind of him who carved the statue or\npainted the panel or graved the gem.\n\nIt is sometimes said by those who understand neither the nature of the\nhighest Criticism nor the charm of the highest Art, that the pictures\nthat the critic loves most to write about are those that belong to the\nanecdotage of painting, and that deal with scenes taken out of literature\nor history. But this is not so. Indeed, pictures of this kind are far\ntoo intelligible. As a class, they rank with illustrations, and, even\nconsidered from this point of view are failures, as they do not stir the\nimagination, but set definite bounds to it. For the domain of the\npainter is, as I suggested before, widely different from that of the\npoet. To the latter belongs life in its full and absolute entirety; not\nmerely the beauty that men look at, but the beauty that men listen to\nalso; not merely the momentary grace of form or the transient gladness of\ncolour, but the whole sphere of feeling, the perfect cycle of thought.\nThe painter is so far limited that it is only through the mask of the\nbody that he can show us the mystery of the soul; only through\nconventional images that he can handle ideas; only through its physical\nequivalents that he can deal with psychology. And how inadequately does\nhe do it then, asking us to accept the torn turban of the Moor for the\nnoble rage of Othello, or a dotard in a storm for the wild madness of\nLear! Yet it seems as if nothing could stop him. Most of our elderly\nEnglish painters spend their wicked and wasted lives in poaching upon the\ndomain of the poets, marring their motives by clumsy treatment, and\nstriving to render, by visible form or colour, the marvel of what is\ninvisible, the splendour of what is not seen. Their pictures are, as a\nnatural consequence, insufferably tedious. They have degraded the\ninvisible arts into the obvious arts, and the one thing not worth looking\nat is the obvious. I do not say that poet and painter may not treat of\nthe same subject. They have always done so and will always do so. But\nwhile the poet can be pictorial or not, as he chooses, the painter must\nbe pictorial always. For a painter is limited, not to what he sees in\nnature, but to what upon canvas may be seen.\n\nAnd so, my dear Ernest, pictures of this kind will not really fascinate\nthe critic. He will turn from them to such works as make him brood and\ndream and fancy, to works that possess the subtle quality of suggestion,\nand seem to tell one that even from them there is an escape into a wider\nworld. It is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist’s life is that\nhe cannot realise his ideal. But the true tragedy that dogs the steps of\nmost artists is that they realise their ideal too absolutely. For, when\nthe ideal is realised, it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and\nbecomes simply a new starting-point for an ideal that is other than\nitself. This is the reason why music is the perfect type of art. Music\ncan never reveal its ultimate secret. This, also, is the explanation of\nthe value of limitations in art. The sculptor gladly surrenders\nimitative colour, and the painter the actual dimensions of form, because\nby such renunciations they are able to avoid too definite a presentation\nof the Real, which would be mere imitation, and too definite a\nrealisation of the Ideal, which would be too purely intellectual. It is\nthrough its very incompleteness that art becomes complete in beauty, and\nso addresses itself, not to the faculty of recognition nor to the faculty\nof reason, but to the æsthetic sense alone, which, while accepting both\nreason and recognition as stages of apprehension, subordinates them both\nto a pure synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, and, taking\nwhatever alien emotional elements the work may possess, uses their very\ncomplexity as a means by which a richer unity may be added to the\nultimate impression itself. You see, then, how it is that the æsthetic\ncritic rejects these obvious modes of art that have but one message to\ndeliver, and having delivered it become dumb and sterile, and seeks\nrather for such modes as suggest reverie and mood, and by their\nimaginative beauty make all interpretations true, and no interpretation\nfinal. Some resemblance, no doubt, the creative work of the critic will\nhave to the work that has stirred him to creation, but it will be such\nresemblance as exists, not between Nature and the mirror that the painter\nof landscape or figure may be supposed to hold up to her, but between\nNature and the work of the decorative artist. Just as on the flowerless\ncarpets of Persia, tulip and rose blossom indeed and are lovely to look\non, though they are not reproduced in visible shape or line; just as the\npearl and purple of the sea-shell is echoed in the church of St. Mark at\nVenice; just as the vaulted ceiling of the wondrous chapel at Ravenna is\nmade gorgeous by the gold and green and sapphire of the peacock’s tail,\nthough the birds of Juno fly not across it; so the critic reproduces the\nwork that he criticises in a mode that is never imitative, and part of\nwhose charm may really consist in the rejection of resemblance, and shows\nus in this way not merely the meaning but also the mystery of Beauty,\nand, by transforming each art into literature, solves once for all the\nproblem of Art’s unity.\n\nBut I see it is time for supper. After we have discussed some Chambertin\nand a few ortolans, we will pass on to the question of the critic\nconsidered in the light of the interpreter.\n\nERNEST. Ah! you admit, then, that the critic may occasionally be allowed\nto see the object as in itself it really is.\n\nGILBERT. I am not quite sure. Perhaps I may admit it after supper.\nThere is a subtle influence in supper.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRITIC AS ARTIST\nWITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE\nOF DISCUSSING EVERYTHING\n\n\n _A DIALOGUE_: _Part II._ _Persons_: _the same_.\n _Scene_: _the same_.\n\nERNEST. The ortolans were delightful, and the Chambertin perfect, and\nnow let us return to the point at issue.\n\nGILBERT. Ah! don’t let us do that. Conversation should touch\neverything, but should concentrate itself on nothing. Let us talk about\n_Moral Indignation_, _its Cause and Cure_, a subject on which I think of\nwriting: or about _The Survival of Thersites_, as shown by the English\ncomic papers; or about any topic that may turn up.\n\nERNEST. No; I want to discuss the critic and criticism. You have told\nme that the highest criticism deals with art, not as expressive, but as\nimpressive purely, and is consequently both creative and independent, is\nin fact an art by itself, occupying the same relation to creative work\nthat creative work does to the visible world of form and colour, or the\nunseen world of passion and of thought. Well, now, tell me, will not the\ncritic be sometimes a real interpreter?\n\nGILBERT. Yes; the critic will be an interpreter, if he chooses. He can\npass from his synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, to an\nanalysis or exposition of the work itself, and in this lower sphere, as I\nhold it to be, there are many delightful things to be said and done. Yet\nhis object will not always be to explain the work of art. He may seek\nrather to deepen its mystery, to raise round it, and round its maker,\nthat mist of wonder which is dear to both gods and worshippers alike.\nOrdinary people are ‘terribly at ease in Zion.’ They propose to walk arm\nin arm with the poets, and have a glib ignorant way of saying, ‘Why\nshould we read what is written about Shakespeare and Milton? We can read\nthe plays and the poems. That is enough.’ But an appreciation of Milton\nis, as the late Rector of Lincoln remarked once, the reward of consummate\nscholarship. And he who desires to understand Shakespeare truly must\nunderstand the relations in which Shakespeare stood to the Renaissance\nand the Reformation, to the age of Elizabeth and the age of James; he\nmust be familiar with the history of the struggle for supremacy between\nthe old classical forms and the new spirit of romance, between the school\nof Sidney, and Daniel, and Johnson, and the school of Marlowe and\nMarlowe’s greater son; he must know the materials that were at\nShakespeare’s disposal, and the method in which he used them, and the\nconditions of theatric presentation in the sixteenth and seventeenth\ncentury, their limitations and their opportunities for freedom, and the\nliterary criticism of Shakespeare’s day, its aims and modes and canons;\nhe must study the English language in its progress, and blank or rhymed\nverse in its various developments; he must study the Greek drama, and the\nconnection between the art of the creator of the Agamemnon and the art of\nthe creator of Macbeth; in a word, he must be able to bind Elizabethan\nLondon to the Athens of Pericles, and to learn Shakespeare’s true\nposition in the history of European drama and the drama of the world.\nThe critic will certainly be an interpreter, but he will not treat Art as\na riddling Sphinx, whose shallow secret may be guessed and revealed by\none whose feet are wounded and who knows not his name. Rather, he will\nlook upon Art as a goddess whose mystery it is his province to intensify,\nand whose majesty his privilege to make more marvellous in the eyes of\nmen.\n\nAnd here, Ernest, this strange thing happens. The critic will indeed be\nan interpreter, but he will not be an interpreter in the sense of one who\nsimply repeats in another form a message that has been put into his lips\nto say. For, just as it is only by contact with the art of foreign\nnations that the art of a country gains that individual and separate life\nthat we call nationality, so, by curious inversion, it is only by\nintensifying his own personality that the critic can interpret the\npersonality and work of others, and the more strongly this personality\nenters into the interpretation the more real the interpretation becomes,\nthe more satisfying, the more convincing, and the more true.\n\nERNEST. I would have said that personality would have been a disturbing\nelement.\n\nGILBERT. No; it is an element of revelation. If you wish to understand\nothers you must intensify your own individualism.\n\nERNEST. What, then, is the result?\n\nGILBERT. I will tell you, and perhaps I can tell you best by definite\nexample. It seems to me that, while the literary critic stands of course\nfirst, as having the wider range, and larger vision, and nobler material,\neach of the arts has a critic, as it were, assigned to it. The actor is\na critic of the drama. He shows the poet’s work under new conditions,\nand by a method special to himself. He takes the written word, and\naction, gesture and voice become the media of revelation. The singer or\nthe player on lute and viol is the critic of music. The etcher of a\npicture robs the painting of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of\na new material its true colour-quality, its tones and values, and the\nrelations of its masses, and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the\ncritic is he who exhibits to us a work of art in a form different from\nthat of the work itself, and the employment of a new material is a\ncritical as well as a creative element. Sculpture, too, has its critic,\nwho may be either the carver of a gem, as he was in Greek days, or some\npainter like Mantegna, who sought to reproduce on canvas the beauty of\nplastic line and the symphonic dignity of processional bas-relief. And\nin the case of all these creative critics of art it is evident that\npersonality is an absolute essential for any real interpretation. When\nRubinstein plays to us the _Sonata Appassionata_ of Beethoven, he gives\nus not merely Beethoven, but also himself, and so gives us Beethoven\nabsolutely—Beethoven re-interpreted through a rich artistic nature, and\nmade vivid and wonderful to us by a new and intense personality. When a\ngreat actor plays Shakespeare we have the same experience. His own\nindividuality becomes a vital part of the interpretation. People\nsometimes say that actors give us their own Hamlets, and not\nShakespeare’s; and this fallacy—for it is a fallacy—is, I regret to say,\nrepeated by that charming and graceful writer who has lately deserted the\nturmoil of literature for the peace of the House of Commons, I mean the\nauthor of _Obiter Dicta_. In point of fact, there is no such thing as\nShakespeare’s Hamlet. If Hamlet has something of the definiteness of a\nwork of art, he has also all the obscurity that belongs to life. There\nare as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.\n\nERNEST. As many Hamlets as there are melancholies?\n\nGILBERT. Yes: and as art springs from personality, so it is only to\npersonality that it can be revealed, and from the meeting of the two\ncomes right interpretative criticism.\n\nERNEST. The critic, then, considered as the interpreter, will give no\nless than he receives, and lend as much as he borrows?\n\nGILBERT. He will be always showing us the work of art in some new\nrelation to our age. He will always be reminding us that great works of\nart are living things—are, in fact, the only things that live. So much,\nindeed, will he feel this, that I am certain that, as civilisation\nprogresses and we become more highly organised, the elect spirits of each\nage, the critical and cultured spirits, will grow less and less\ninterested in actual life, and _will seek to gain their impressions\nalmost entirely from what Art has touched_. For life is terribly\ndeficient in form. Its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the\nwrong people. There is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its\ntragedies seem to culminate in farce. One is always wounded when one\napproaches it. Things last either too long, or not long enough.\n\nERNEST. Poor life! Poor human life! Are you not even touched by the\ntears that the Roman poet tells us are part of its essence.\n\nGILBERT. Too quickly touched by them, I fear. For when one looks back\nupon the life that was so vivid in its emotional intensity, and filled\nwith such fervent moments of ecstasy or of joy, it all seems to be a\ndream and an illusion. What are the unreal things, but the passions that\nonce burned one like fire? What are the incredible things, but the\nthings that one has faithfully believed? What are the improbable things?\nThe things that one has done oneself. No, Ernest; life cheats us with\nshadows, like a puppet-master. We ask it for pleasure. It gives it to\nus, with bitterness and disappointment in its train. We come across some\nnoble grief that we think will lend the purple dignity of tragedy to our\ndays, but it passes away from us, and things less noble take its place,\nand on some grey windy dawn, or odorous eve of silence and of silver, we\nfind ourselves looking with callous wonder, or dull heart of stone, at\nthe tress of gold-flecked hair that we had once so wildly worshipped and\nso madly kissed.\n\nERNEST. Life then is a failure?\n\nGILBERT. From the artistic point of view, certainly. And the chief\nthing that makes life a failure from this artistic point of view is the\nthing that lends to life its sordid security, the fact that one can never\nrepeat exactly the same emotion. How different it is in the world of\nArt! On a shelf of the bookcase behind you stands the _Divine Comedy_,\nand I know that, if I open it at a certain place, I shall be filled with\na fierce hatred of some one who has never wronged me, or stirred by a\ngreat love for some one whom I shall never see. There is no mood or\npassion that Art cannot give us, and those of us who have discovered her\nsecret can settle beforehand what our experiences are going to be. We\ncan choose our day and select our hour. We can say to ourselves,\n‘To-morrow, at dawn, we shall walk with grave Virgil through the valley\nof the shadow of death,’ and lo! the dawn finds us in the obscure wood,\nand the Mantuan stands by our side. We pass through the gate of the\nlegend fatal to hope, and with pity or with joy behold the horror of\nanother world. The hypocrites go by, with their painted faces and their\ncowls of gilded lead. Out of the ceaseless winds that drive them, the\ncarnal look at us, and we watch the heretic rending his flesh, and the\nglutton lashed by the rain. We break the withered branches from the tree\nin the grove of the Harpies, and each dull-hued poisonous twig bleeds\nwith red blood before us, and cries aloud with bitter cries. Out of a\nhorn of fire Odysseus speaks to us, and when from his sepulchre of flame\nthe great Ghibelline rises, the pride that triumphs over the torture of\nthat bed becomes ours for a moment. Through the dim purple air fly those\nwho have stained the world with the beauty of their sin, and in the pit\nof loathsome disease, dropsy-stricken and swollen of body into the\nsemblance of a monstrous lute, lies Adamo di Brescia, the coiner of false\ncoin. He bids us listen to his misery; we stop, and with dry and gaping\nlips he tells us how he dreams day and night of the brooks of clear water\nthat in cool dewy channels gush down the green Casentine hills. Sinon,\nthe false Greek of Troy, mocks at him. He smites him in the face, and\nthey wrangle. We are fascinated by their shame, and loiter, till Virgil\nchides us and leads us away to that city turreted by giants where great\nNimrod blows his horn. Terrible things are in store for us, and we go to\nmeet them in Dante’s raiment and with Dante’s heart. We traverse the\nmarshes of the Styx, and Argenti swims to the boat through the slimy\nwaves. He calls to us, and we reject him. When we hear the voice of his\nagony we are glad, and Virgil praises us for the bitterness of our scorn.\nWe tread upon the cold crystal of Cocytus, in which traitors stick like\nstraws in glass. Our foot strikes against the head of Bocca. He will\nnot tell us his name, and we tear the hair in handfuls from the screaming\nskull. Alberigo prays us to break the ice upon his face that he may weep\na little. We pledge our word to him, and when he has uttered his\ndolorous tale we deny the word that we have spoken, and pass from him;\nsuch cruelty being courtesy indeed, for who more base than he who has\nmercy for the condemned of God? In the jaws of Lucifer we see the man\nwho sold Christ, and in the jaws of Lucifer the men who slew Cæsar. We\ntremble, and come forth to re-behold the stars.\n\nIn the land of Purgation the air is freer, and the holy mountain rises\ninto the pure light of day. There is peace for us, and for those who for\na season abide in it there is some peace also, though, pale from the\npoison of the Maremma, Madonna Pia passes before us, and Ismene, with the\nsorrow of earth still lingering about her, is there. Soul after soul\nmakes us share in some repentance or some joy. He whom the mourning of\nhis widow taught to drink the sweet wormwood of pain, tells us of Nella\npraying in her lonely bed, and we learn from the mouth of Buonconte how a\nsingle tear may save a dying sinner from the fiend. Sordello, that noble\nand disdainful Lombard, eyes us from afar like a couchant lion. When he\nlearns that Virgil is one of Mantua’s citizens, he falls upon his neck,\nand when he learns that he is the singer of Rome he falls before his\nfeet. In that valley whose grass and flowers are fairer than cleft\nemerald and Indian wood, and brighter than scarlet and silver, they are\nsinging who in the world were kings; but the lips of Rudolph of Hapsburg\ndo not move to the music of the others, and Philip of France beats his\nbreast and Henry of England sits alone. On and on we go, climbing the\nmarvellous stair, and the stars become larger than their wont, and the\nsong of the kings grows faint, and at length we reach the seven trees of\ngold and the garden of the Earthly Paradise. In a griffin-drawn chariot\nappears one whose brows are bound with olive, who is veiled in white, and\nmantled in green, and robed in a vesture that is coloured like live fire.\nThe ancient flame wakes within us. Our blood quickens through terrible\npulses. We recognise her. It is Beatrice, the woman we have worshipped.\nThe ice congealed about our heart melts. Wild tears of anguish break\nfrom us, and we bow our forehead to the ground, for we know that we have\nsinned. When we have done penance, and are purified, and have drunk of\nthe fountain of Lethe and bathed in the fountain of Eunoe, the mistress\nof our soul raises us to the Paradise of Heaven. Out of that eternal\npearl, the moon, the face of Piccarda Donati leans to us. Her beauty\ntroubles us for a moment, and when, like a thing that falls through\nwater, she passes away, we gaze after her with wistful eyes. The sweet\nplanet of Venus is full of lovers. Cunizza, the sister of Ezzelin, the\nlady of Sordello’s heart, is there, and Folco, the passionate singer of\nProvence, who in sorrow for Azalais forsook the world, and the\nCanaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that Christ redeemed.\nJoachim of Flora stands in the sun, and, in the sun, Aquinas recounts the\nstory of St. Francis and Bonaventure the story of St. Dominic. Through\nthe burning rubies of Mars, Cacciaguida approaches. He tells us of the\narrow that is shot from the bow of exile, and how salt tastes the bread\nof another, and how steep are the stairs in the house of a stranger. In\nSaturn the soul sings not, and even she who guides us dare not smile. On\na ladder of gold the flames rise and fall. At last, we see the pageant\nof the Mystical Rose. Beatrice fixes her eyes upon the face of God to\nturn them not again. The beatific vision is granted to us; we know the\nLove that moves the sun and all the stars.\n\nYes, we can put the earth back six hundred courses and make ourselves one\nwith the great Florentine, kneel at the same altar with him, and share\nhis rapture and his scorn. And if we grow tired of an antique time, and\ndesire to realise our own age in all its weariness and sin, are there not\nbooks that can make us live more in one single hour than life can make us\nlive in a score of shameful years? Close to your hand lies a little\nvolume, bound in some Nile-green skin that has been powdered with gilded\nnenuphars and smoothed with hard ivory. It is the book that Gautier\nloved, it is Baudelaire’s masterpiece. Open it at that sad madrigal that\nbegins\n\n Que m’importe que tu sois sage?\n Sois belle! et sois triste!\n\nand you will find yourself worshipping sorrow as you have never\nworshipped joy. Pass on to the poem on the man who tortures himself, let\nits subtle music steal into your brain and colour your thoughts, and you\nwill become for a moment what he was who wrote it; nay, not for a moment\nonly, but for many barren moonlit nights and sunless sterile days will a\ndespair that is not your own make its dwelling within you, and the misery\nof another gnaw your heart away. Read the whole book, suffer it to tell\neven one of its secrets to your soul, and your soul will grow eager to\nknow more, and will feed upon poisonous honey, and seek to repent of\nstrange crimes of which it is guiltless, and to make atonement for\nterrible pleasures that it has never known. And then, when you are tired\nof these flowers of evil, turn to the flowers that grow in the garden of\nPerdita, and in their dew-drenched chalices cool your fevered brow, and\nlet their loveliness heal and restore your soul; or wake from his\nforgotten tomb the sweet Syrian, Meleager, and bid the lover of Heliodore\nmake you music, for he too has flowers in his song, red pomegranate\nblossoms, and irises that smell of myrrh, ringed daffodils and dark blue\nhyacinths, and marjoram and crinkled ox-eyes. Dear to him was the\nperfume of the bean-field at evening, and dear to him the odorous\neared-spikenard that grew on the Syrian hills, and the fresh green thyme,\nthe wine-cup’s charm. The feet of his love as she walked in the garden\nwere like lilies set upon lilies. Softer than sleep-laden poppy petals\nwere her lips, softer than violets and as scented. The flame-like crocus\nsprang from the grass to look at her. For her the slim narcissus stored\nthe cool rain; and for her the anemones forgot the Sicilian winds that\nwooed them. And neither crocus, nor anemone, nor narcissus was as fair\nas she was.\n\nIt is a strange thing, this transference of emotion. We sicken with the\nsame maladies as the poets, and the singer lends us his pain. Dead lips\nhave their message for us, and hearts that have fallen to dust can\ncommunicate their joy. We run to kiss the bleeding mouth of Fantine, and\nwe follow Manon Lescaut over the whole world. Ours is the love-madness\nof the Tyrian, and the terror of Orestes is ours also. There is no\npassion that we cannot feel, no pleasure that we may not gratify, and we\ncan choose the time of our initiation and the time of our freedom also.\nLife! Life! Don’t let us go to life for our fulfilment or our\nexperience. It is a thing narrowed by circumstances, incoherent in its\nutterance, and without that fine correspondence of form and spirit which\nis the only thing that can satisfy the artistic and critical temperament.\nIt makes us pay too high a price for its wares, and we purchase the\nmeanest of its secrets at a cost that is monstrous and infinite.\n\nERNEST. Must we go, then, to Art for everything?\n\nGILBERT. For everything. Because Art does not hurt us. The tears that\nwe shed at a play are a type of the exquisite sterile emotions that it is\nthe function of Art to awaken. We weep, but we are not wounded. We\ngrieve, but our grief is not bitter. In the actual life of man, sorrow,\nas Spinoza says somewhere, is a passage to a lesser perfection. But the\nsorrow with which Art fills us both purifies and initiates, if I may\nquote once more from the great art critic of the Greeks. It is through\nArt, and through Art only, that we can realise our perfection; through\nArt, and through Art only, that we can shield ourselves from the sordid\nperils of actual existence. This results not merely from the fact that\nnothing that one can imagine is worth doing, and that one can imagine\neverything, but from the subtle law that emotional forces, like the\nforces of the physical sphere, are limited in extent and energy. One can\nfeel so much, and no more. And how can it matter with what pleasure life\ntries to tempt one, or with what pain it seeks to maim and mar one’s\nsoul, if in the spectacle of the lives of those who have never existed\none has found the true secret of joy, and wept away one’s tears over\ntheir deaths who, like Cordelia and the daughter of Brabantio, can never\ndie?\n\nERNEST. Stop a moment. It seems to me that in everything that you have\nsaid there is something radically immoral.\n\nGILBERT. All art is immoral.\n\nERNEST. All art?\n\nGILBERT. Yes. For emotion for the sake of emotion is the aim of art,\nand emotion for the sake of action is the aim of life, and of that\npractical organisation of life that we call society. Society, which is\nthe beginning and basis of morals, exists simply for the concentration of\nhuman energy, and in order to ensure its own continuance and healthy\nstability it demands, and no doubt rightly demands, of each of its\ncitizens that he should contribute some form of productive labour to the\ncommon weal, and toil and travail that the day’s work may be done.\nSociety often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer. The\nbeautiful sterile emotions that art excites in us are hateful in its\neyes, and so completely are people dominated by the tyranny of this\ndreadful social ideal that they are always coming shamelessly up to one\nat Private Views and other places that are open to the general public,\nand saying in a loud stentorian voice, ‘What are you doing?’ whereas\n‘What are you thinking?’ is the only question that any single civilised\nbeing should ever be allowed to whisper to another. They mean well, no\ndoubt, these honest beaming folk. Perhaps that is the reason why they\nare so excessively tedious. But some one should teach them that while,\nin the opinion of society, Contemplation is the gravest sin of which any\ncitizen can be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture it is the\nproper occupation of man.\n\nERNEST. Contemplation?\n\nGILBERT. Contemplation. I said to you some time ago that it was far\nmore difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. Let me say to you\nnow that to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world,\nthe most difficult and the most intellectual. To Plato, with his passion\nfor wisdom, this was the noblest form of energy. To Aristotle, with his\npassion for knowledge, this was the noblest form of energy also. It was\nto this that the passion for holiness led the saint and the mystic of\nmediæval days.\n\nERNEST. We exist, then, to do nothing?\n\nGILBERT. It is to do nothing that the elect exist. Action is limited\nand relative. Unlimited and absolute is the vision of him who sits at\nease and watches, who walks in loneliness and dreams. But we who are\nborn at the close of this wonderful age are at once too cultured and too\ncritical, too intellectually subtle and too curious of exquisite\npleasures, to accept any speculations about life in exchange for life\nitself. To us the _città divina_ is colourless, and the _fruitio Dei_\nwithout meaning. Metaphysics do not satisfy our temperaments, and\nreligious ecstasy is out of date. The world through which the Academic\nphilosopher becomes ‘the spectator of all time and of all existence’ is\nnot really an ideal world, but simply a world of abstract ideas. When we\nenter it, we starve amidst the chill mathematics of thought. The courts\nof the city of God are not open to us now. Its gates are guarded by\nIgnorance, and to pass them we have to surrender all that in our nature\nis most divine. It is enough that our fathers believed. They have\nexhausted the faith-faculty of the species. Their legacy to us is the\nscepticism of which they were afraid. Had they put it into words, it\nmight not live within us as thought. No, Ernest, no. We cannot go back\nto the saint. There is far more to be learned from the sinner. We\ncannot go back to the philosopher, and the mystic leads us astray. Who,\nas Mr. Pater suggests somewhere, would exchange the curve of a single\nrose-leaf for that formless intangible Being which Plato rates so high?\nWhat to us is the Illumination of Philo, the Abyss of Eckhart, the Vision\nof Böhme, the monstrous Heaven itself that was revealed to Swedenborg’s\nblinded eyes? Such things are less than the yellow trumpet of one\ndaffodil of the field, far less than the meanest of the visible arts,\nfor, just as Nature is matter struggling into mind, so Art is mind\nexpressing itself under the conditions of matter, and thus, even in the\nlowliest of her manifestations, she speaks to both sense and soul alike.\nTo the æsthetic temperament the vague is always repellent. The Greeks\nwere a nation of artists, because they were spared the sense of the\ninfinite. Like Aristotle, like Goethe after he had read Kant, we desire\nthe concrete, and nothing but the concrete can satisfy us.\n\nERNEST. What then do you propose?\n\nGILBERT. It seems to me that with the development of the critical spirit\nwe shall be able to realise, not merely our own lives, but the collective\nlife of the race, and so to make ourselves absolutely modern, in the true\nmeaning of the word modernity. For he to whom the present is the only\nthing that is present, knows nothing of the age in which he lives. To\nrealise the nineteenth century, one must realise every century that has\npreceded it and that has contributed to its making. To know anything\nabout oneself one must know all about others. There must be no mood with\nwhich one cannot sympathise, no dead mode of life that one cannot make\nalive. Is this impossible? I think not. By revealing to us the\nabsolute mechanism of all action, and so freeing us from the self-imposed\nand trammelling burden of moral responsibility, the scientific principle\nof Heredity has become, as it were, the warrant for the contemplative\nlife. It has shown us that we are never less free than when we try to\nact. It has hemmed us round with the nets of the hunter, and written\nupon the wall the prophecy of our doom. We may not watch it, for it is\nwithin us. We may not see it, save in a mirror that mirrors the soul.\nIt is Nemesis without her mask. It is the last of the Fates, and the\nmost terrible. It is the only one of the Gods whose real name we know.\n\nAnd yet, while in the sphere of practical and external life it has robbed\nenergy of its freedom and activity of its choice, in the subjective\nsphere, where the soul is at work, it comes to us, this terrible shadow,\nwith many gifts in its hands, gifts of strange temperaments and subtle\nsusceptibilities, gifts of wild ardours and chill moods of indifference,\ncomplex multiform gifts of thoughts that are at variance with each other,\nand passions that war against themselves. And so, it is not our own life\nthat we live, but the lives of the dead, and the soul that dwells within\nus is no single spiritual entity, making us personal and individual,\ncreated for our service, and entering into us for our joy. It is\nsomething that has dwelt in fearful places, and in ancient sepulchres has\nmade its abode. It is sick with many maladies, and has memories of\ncurious sins. It is wiser than we are, and its wisdom is bitter. It\nfills us with impossible desires, and makes us follow what we know we\ncannot gain. One thing, however, Ernest, it can do for us. It can lead\nus away from surroundings whose beauty is dimmed to us by the mist of\nfamiliarity, or whose ignoble ugliness and sordid claims are marring the\nperfection of our development. It can help us to leave the age in which\nwe were born, and to pass into other ages, and find ourselves not exiled\nfrom their air. It can teach us how to escape from our experience, and\nto realise the experiences of those who are greater than we are. The\npain of Leopardi crying out against life becomes our pain. Theocritus\nblows on his pipe, and we laugh with the lips of nymph and shepherd. In\nthe wolfskin of Pierre Vidal we flee before the hounds, and in the armour\nof Lancelot we ride from the bower of the Queen. We have whispered the\nsecret of our love beneath the cowl of Abelard, and in the stained\nraiment of Villon have put our shame into song. We can see the dawn\nthrough Shelley’s eyes, and when we wander with Endymion the Moon grows\namorous of our youth. Ours is the anguish of Atys, and ours the weak\nrage and noble sorrows of the Dane. Do you think that it is the\nimagination that enables us to live these countless lives? Yes: it is\nthe imagination; and the imagination is the result of heredity. It is\nsimply concentrated race-experience.\n\nERNEST. But where in this is the function of the critical spirit?\n\nGILBERT. The culture that this transmission of racial experiences makes\npossible can be made perfect by the critical spirit alone, and indeed may\nbe said to be one with it. For who is the true critic but he who bears\nwithin himself the dreams, and ideas, and feelings of myriad generations,\nand to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional impulse obscure?\nAnd who the true man of culture, if not he who by fine scholarship and\nfastidious rejection has made instinct self-conscious and intelligent,\nand can separate the work that has distinction from the work that has it\nnot, and so by contact and comparison makes himself master of the secrets\nof style and school, and understands their meanings, and listens to their\nvoices, and develops that spirit of disinterested curiosity which is the\nreal root, as it is the real flower, of the intellectual life, and thus\nattains to intellectual clarity, and, having learned ‘the best that is\nknown and thought in the world,’ lives—it is not fanciful to say so—with\nthose who are the Immortals.\n\nYes, Ernest: the contemplative life, the life that has for its aim not\n_doing_ but _being_, and not _being_ merely, but _becoming_—that is what\nthe critical spirit can give us. The gods live thus: either brooding\nover their own perfection, as Aristotle tells us, or, as Epicurus\nfancied, watching with the calm eyes of the spectator the tragicomedy of\nthe world that they have made. We, too, might live like them, and set\nourselves to witness with appropriate emotions the varied scenes that man\nand nature afford. We might make ourselves spiritual by detaching\nourselves from action, and become perfect by the rejection of energy. It\nhas often seemed to me that Browning felt something of this. Shakespeare\nhurls Hamlet into active life, and makes him realise his mission by\neffort. Browning might have given us a Hamlet who would have realised\nhis mission by thought. Incident and event were to him unreal or\nunmeaning. He made the soul the protagonist of life’s tragedy, and\nlooked on action as the one undramatic element of a play. To us, at any\nrate, the ΒΙΟΣ ΘΕΩΡΗΤΙΚΟΣ is the true ideal. From the high tower of\nThought we can look out at the world. Calm, and self-centred, and\ncomplete, the æsthetic critic contemplates life, and no arrow drawn at a\nventure can pierce between the joints of his harness. He at least is\nsafe. He has discovered how to live.\n\nIs such a mode of life immoral? Yes: all the arts are immoral, except\nthose baser forms of sensual or didactic art that seek to excite to\naction of evil or of good. For action of every kind belongs to the\nsphere of ethics. The aim of art is simply to create a mood. Is such a\nmode of life unpractical? Ah! it is not so easy to be unpractical as the\nignorant Philistine imagines. It were well for England if it were so.\nThere is no country in the world so much in need of unpractical people as\nthis country of ours. With us, Thought is degraded by its constant\nassociation with practice. Who that moves in the stress and turmoil of\nactual existence, noisy politician, or brawling social reformer, or poor\nnarrow-minded priest blinded by the sufferings of that unimportant\nsection of the community among whom he has cast his lot, can seriously\nclaim to be able to form a disinterested intellectual judgment about any\none thing? Each of the professions means a prejudice. The necessity for\na career forces every one to take sides. We live in the age of the\noverworked, and the under-educated; the age in which people are so\nindustrious that they become absolutely stupid. And, harsh though it may\nsound, I cannot help saying that such people deserve their doom. The\nsure way of knowing nothing about life is to try to make oneself useful.\n\nERNEST. A charming doctrine, Gilbert.\n\nGILBERT. I am not sure about that, but it has at least the minor merit\nof being true. That the desire to do good to others produces a plentiful\ncrop of prigs is the least of the evils of which it is the cause. The\nprig is a very interesting psychological study, and though of all poses a\nmoral pose is the most offensive, still to have a pose at all is\nsomething. It is a formal recognition of the importance of treating life\nfrom a definite and reasoned standpoint. That Humanitarian Sympathy wars\nagainst Nature, by securing the survival of the failure, may make the man\nof science loathe its facile virtues. The political economist may cry\nout against it for putting the improvident on the same level as the\nprovident, and so robbing life of the strongest, because most sordid,\nincentive to industry. But, in the eyes of the thinker, the real harm\nthat emotional sympathy does is that it limits knowledge, and so prevents\nus from solving any single social problem. We are trying at present to\nstave off the coming crisis, the coming revolution as my friends the\nFabianists call it, by means of doles and alms. Well, when the\nrevolution or crisis arrives, we shall be powerless, because we shall\nknow nothing. And so, Ernest, let us not be deceived. England will\nnever be civilised till she has added Utopia to her dominions. There is\nmore than one of her colonies that she might with advantage surrender for\nso fair a land. What we want are unpractical people who see beyond the\nmoment, and think beyond the day. Those who try to lead the people can\nonly do so by following the mob. It is through the voice of one crying\nin the wilderness that the ways of the gods must be prepared.\n\nBut perhaps you think that in beholding for the mere joy of beholding,\nand contemplating for the sake of contemplation, there is something that\nis egotistic. If you think so, do not say so. It takes a thoroughly\nselfish age, like our own, to deify self-sacrifice. It takes a\nthoroughly grasping age, such as that in which we live, to set above the\nfine intellectual virtues, those shallow and emotional virtues that are\nan immediate practical benefit to itself. They miss their aim, too,\nthese philanthropists and sentimentalists of our day, who are always\nchattering to one about one’s duty to one’s neighbour. For the\ndevelopment of the race depends on the development of the individual, and\nwhere self-culture has ceased to be the ideal, the intellectual standard\nis instantly lowered, and, often, ultimately lost. If you meet at dinner\na man who has spent his life in educating himself—a rare type in our\ntime, I admit, but still one occasionally to be met with—you rise from\ntable richer, and conscious that a high ideal has for a moment touched\nand sanctified your days. But oh! my dear Ernest, to sit next to a man\nwho has spent his life in trying to educate others! What a dreadful\nexperience that is! How appalling is that ignorance which is the\ninevitable result of the fatal habit of imparting opinions! How limited\nin range the creature’s mind proves to be! How it wearies us, and must\nweary himself, with its endless repetitions and sickly reiteration! How\nlacking it is in any element of intellectual growth! In what a vicious\ncircle it always moves!\n\nERNEST. You speak with strange feeling, Gilbert. Have you had this\ndreadful experience, as you call it, lately?\n\nGILBERT. Few of us escape it. People say that the schoolmaster is\nabroad. I wish to goodness he were. But the type of which, after all,\nhe is only one, and certainly the least important, of the\nrepresentatives, seems to me to be really dominating our lives; and just\nas the philanthropist is the nuisance of the ethical sphere, so the\nnuisance of the intellectual sphere is the man who is so occupied in\ntrying to educate others, that he has never had any time to educate\nhimself. No, Ernest, self-culture is the true ideal of man. Goethe saw\nit, and the immediate debt that we owe to Goethe is greater than the debt\nwe owe to any man since Greek days. The Greeks saw it, and have left us,\nas their legacy to modern thought, the conception of the contemplative\nlife as well as the critical method by which alone can that life be truly\nrealised. It was the one thing that made the Renaissance great, and gave\nus Humanism. It is the one thing that could make our own age great also;\nfor the real weakness of England lies, not in incomplete armaments or\nunfortified coasts, not in the poverty that creeps through sunless lanes,\nor the drunkenness that brawls in loathsome courts, but simply in the\nfact that her ideals are emotional and not intellectual.\n\nI do not deny that the intellectual ideal is difficult of attainment,\nstill less that it is, and perhaps will be for years to come, unpopular\nwith the crowd. It is so easy for people to have sympathy with\nsuffering. It is so difficult for them to have sympathy with thought.\nIndeed, so little do ordinary people understand what thought really is,\nthat they seem to imagine that, when they have said that a theory is\ndangerous, they have pronounced its condemnation, whereas it is only such\ntheories that have any true intellectual value. An idea that is not\ndangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.\n\nERNEST. Gilbert, you bewilder me. You have told me that all art is, in\nits essence, immoral. Are you going to tell me now that all thought is,\nin its essence, dangerous?\n\nGILBERT. Yes, in the practical sphere it is so. The security of society\nlies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of the stability\nof society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence of any\nintelligence amongst its members. The great majority of people being\nfully aware of this, rank themselves naturally on the side of that\nsplendid system that elevates them to the dignity of machines, and rage\nso wildly against the intrusion of the intellectual faculty into any\nquestion that concerns life, that one is tempted to define man as a\nrational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act\nin accordance with the dictates of reason. But let us turn from the\npractical sphere, and say no more about the wicked philanthropists, who,\nindeed, may well be left to the mercy of the almond-eyed sage of the\nYellow River Chuang Tsu the wise, who has proved that such well-meaning\nand offensive busybodies have destroyed the simple and spontaneous virtue\nthat there is in man. They are a wearisome topic, and I am anxious to\nget back to the sphere in which criticism is free.\n\nERNEST. The sphere of the intellect?\n\nGILBERT. Yes. You remember that I spoke of the critic as being in his\nown way as creative as the artist, whose work, indeed, may be merely of\nvalue in so far as it gives to the critic a suggestion for some new mood\nof thought and feeling which he can realise with equal, or perhaps\ngreater, distinction of form, and, through the use of a fresh medium of\nexpression, make differently beautiful and more perfect. Well, you\nseemed to be a little sceptical about the theory. But perhaps I wronged\nyou?\n\nERNEST. I am not really sceptical about it, but I must admit that I feel\nvery strongly that such work as you describe the critic producing—and\ncreative such work must undoubtedly be admitted to be—is, of necessity,\npurely subjective, whereas the greatest work is objective always,\nobjective and impersonal.\n\nGILBERT. The difference between objective and subjective work is one of\nexternal form merely. It is accidental, not essential. All artistic\ncreation is absolutely subjective. The very landscape that Corot looked\nat was, as he said himself, but a mood of his own mind; and those great\nfigures of Greek or English drama that seem to us to possess an actual\nexistence of their own, apart from the poets who shaped and fashioned\nthem, are, in their ultimate analysis, simply the poets themselves, not\nas they thought they were, but as they thought they were not; and by such\nthinking came in strange manner, though but for a moment, really so to\nbe. For out of ourselves we can never pass, nor can there be in creation\nwhat in the creator was not. Nay, I would say that the more objective a\ncreation appears to be, the more subjective it really is. Shakespeare\nmight have met Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in the white streets of\nLondon, or seen the serving-men of rival houses bite their thumbs at each\nother in the open square; but Hamlet came out of his soul, and Romeo out\nof his passion. They were elements of his nature to which he gave\nvisible form, impulses that stirred so strongly within him that he had,\nas it were perforce, to suffer them to realise their energy, not on the\nlower plane of actual life, where they would have been trammelled and\nconstrained and so made imperfect, but on that imaginative plane of art\nwhere Love can indeed find in Death its rich fulfilment, where one can\nstab the eavesdropper behind the arras, and wrestle in a new-made grave,\nand make a guilty king drink his own hurt, and see one’s father’s spirit,\nbeneath the glimpses of the moon, stalking in complete steel from misty\nwall to wall. Action being limited would have left Shakespeare\nunsatisfied and unexpressed; and, just as it is because he did nothing\nthat he has been able to achieve everything, so it is because he never\nspeaks to us of himself in his plays that his plays reveal him to us\nabsolutely, and show us his true nature and temperament far more\ncompletely than do those strange and exquisite sonnets, even, in which he\nbares to crystal eyes the secret closet of his heart. Yes, the objective\nform is the most subjective in matter. Man is least himself when he\ntalks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the\ntruth.\n\nERNEST. The critic, then, being limited to the subjective form, will\nnecessarily be less able fully to express himself than the artist, who\nhas always at his disposal the forms that are impersonal and objective.\n\nGILBERT. Not necessarily, and certainly not at all if he recognises that\neach mode of criticism is, in its highest development, simply a mood, and\nthat we are never more true to ourselves than when we are inconsistent.\nThe æsthetic critic, constant only to the principle of beauty in all\nthings, will ever be looking for fresh impressions, winning from the\nvarious schools the secret of their charm, bowing, it may be, before\nforeign altars, or smiling, if it be his fancy, at strange new gods.\nWhat other people call one’s past has, no doubt, everything to do with\nthem, but has absolutely nothing to do with oneself. The man who regards\nhis past is a man who deserves to have no future to look forward to.\nWhen one has found expression for a mood, one has done with it. You\nlaugh; but believe me it is so. Yesterday it was Realism that charmed\none. One gained from it that _nouveau frisson_ which it was its aim to\nproduce. One analysed it, explained it, and wearied of it. At sunset\ncame the _Luministe_ in painting, and the _Symboliste_ in poetry, and the\nspirit of mediævalism, that spirit which belongs not to time but to\ntemperament, woke suddenly in wounded Russia, and stirred us for a moment\nby the terrible fascination of pain. To-day the cry is for Romance, and\nalready the leaves are tremulous in the valley, and on the purple\nhill-tops walks Beauty with slim gilded feet. The old modes of creation\nlinger, of course. The artists reproduce either themselves or each\nother, with wearisome iteration. But Criticism is always moving on, and\nthe critic is always developing.\n\nNor, again, is the critic really limited to the subjective form of\nexpression. The method of the drama is his, as well as the method of the\nepos. He may use dialogue, as he did who set Milton talking to Marvel on\nthe nature of comedy and tragedy, and made Sidney and Lord Brooke\ndiscourse on letters beneath the Penshurst oaks; or adopt narration, as\nMr. Pater is fond of doing, each of whose Imaginary Portraits—is not that\nthe title of the book?—presents to us, under the fanciful guise of\nfiction, some fine and exquisite piece of criticism, one on the painter\nWatteau, another on the philosophy of Spinoza, a third on the Pagan\nelements of the early Renaissance, and the last, and in some respects the\nmost suggestive, on the source of that Aufklärung, that enlightening\nwhich dawned on Germany in the last century, and to which our own culture\nowes so great a debt. Dialogue, certainly, that wonderful literary form\nwhich, from Plato to Lucian, and from Lucian to Giordano Bruno, and from\nBruno to that grand old Pagan in whom Carlyle took such delight, the\ncreative critics of the world have always employed, can never lose for\nthe thinker its attraction as a mode of expression. By its means he can\nboth reveal and conceal himself, and give form to every fancy, and\nreality to every mood. By its means he can exhibit the object from each\npoint of view, and show it to us in the round, as a sculptor shows us\nthings, gaining in this manner all the richness and reality of effect\nthat comes from those side issues that are suddenly suggested by the\ncentral idea in its progress, and really illumine the idea more\ncompletely, or from those felicitous after-thoughts that give a fuller\ncompleteness to the central scheme, and yet convey something of the\ndelicate charm of chance.\n\nERNEST. By its means, too, he can invent an imaginary antagonist, and\nconvert him when he chooses by some absurdly sophistical argument.\n\nGILBERT. Ah! it is so easy to convert others. It is so difficult to\nconvert oneself. To arrive at what one really believes, one must speak\nthrough lips different from one’s own. To know the truth one must\nimagine myriads of falsehoods. For what is Truth? In matters of\nreligion, it is simply the opinion that has survived. In matters of\nscience, it is the ultimate sensation. In matters of art, it is one’s\nlast mood. And you see now, Ernest, that the critic has at his disposal\nas many objective forms of expression as the artist has. Ruskin put his\ncriticism into imaginative prose, and is superb in his changes and\ncontradictions; and Browning put his into blank verse and made painter\nand poet yield us their secret; and M. Renan uses dialogue, and Mr. Pater\nfiction, and Rossetti translated into sonnet-music the colour of\nGiorgione and the design of Ingres, and his own design and colour also,\nfeeling, with the instinct of one who had many modes of utterance; that\nthe ultimate art is literature, and the finest and fullest medium that of\nwords.\n\nERNEST. Well, now that you have settled that the critic has at his\ndisposal all objective forms, I wish you would tell me what are the\nqualities that should characterise the true critic.\n\nGILBERT. What would you say they were?\n\nERNEST. Well, I should say that a critic should above all things be\nfair.\n\nGILBERT. Ah! not fair. A critic cannot be fair in the ordinary sense of\nthe word. It is only about things that do not interest one that one can\ngive a really unbiassed opinion, which is no doubt the reason why an\nunbiassed opinion is always absolutely valueless. The man who sees both\nsides of a question, is a man who sees absolutely nothing at all. Art is\na passion, and, in matters of art, Thought is inevitably coloured by\nemotion, and so is fluid rather than fixed, and, depending upon fine\nmoods and exquisite moments, cannot be narrowed into the rigidity of a\nscientific formula or a theological dogma. It is to the soul that Art\nspeaks, and the soul may be made the prisoner of the mind as well as of\nthe body. One should, of course, have no prejudices; but, as a great\nFrenchman remarked a hundred years ago, it is one’s business in such\nmatters to have preferences, and when one has preferences one ceases to\nbe fair. It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire\nall schools of Art. No; fairness is not one of the qualities of the true\ncritic. It is not even a condition of criticism. Each form of Art with\nwhich we come in contact dominates us for the moment to the exclusion of\nevery other form. We must surrender ourselves absolutely to the work in\nquestion, whatever it may be, if we wish to gain its secret. For the\ntime, we must think of nothing else, can think of nothing else, indeed.\n\nERNEST. The true critic will be rational, at any rate, will he not?\n\nGILBERT. Rational? There are two ways of disliking art, Ernest. One is\nto dislike it. The other, to like it rationally. For Art, as Plato saw,\nand not without regret, creates in listener and spectator a form of\ndivine madness. It does not spring from inspiration, but it makes others\ninspired. Reason is not the faculty to which it appeals. If one loves\nArt at all, one must love it beyond all other things in the world, and\nagainst such love, the reason, if one listened to it, would cry out.\nThere is nothing sane about the worship of beauty. It is too splendid to\nbe sane. Those of whose lives it forms the dominant note will always\nseem to the world to be pure visionaries.\n\nERNEST. Well, at least, the critic will be sincere.\n\nGILBERT. A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it\nis absolutely fatal. The true critic will, indeed, always be sincere in\nhis devotion to the principle of beauty, but he will seek for beauty in\nevery age and in each school, and will never suffer himself to be limited\nto any settled custom of thought or stereotyped mode of looking at\nthings. He will realise himself in many forms, and by a thousand\ndifferent ways, and will ever be curious of new sensations and fresh\npoints of view. Through constant change, and through constant change\nalone, he will find his true unity. He will not consent to be the slave\nof his own opinions. For what is mind but motion in the intellectual\nsphere? The essence of thought, as the essence of life, is growth. You\nmust not be frightened by word, Ernest. What people call insincerity is\nsimply a method by which we can multiply our personalities.\n\nERNEST. I am afraid I have not been fortunate in my suggestions.\n\nGILBERT. Of the three qualifications you mentioned, two, sincerity and\nfairness, were, if not actually moral, at least on the borderland of\nmorals, and the first condition of criticism is that the critic should be\nable to recognise that the sphere of Art and the sphere of Ethics are\nabsolutely distinct and separate. When they are confused, Chaos has come\nagain. They are too often confused in England now, and though our modern\nPuritans cannot destroy a beautiful thing, yet, by means of their\nextraordinary prurience, they can almost taint beauty for a moment. It\nis chiefly, I regret to say, through journalism that such people find\nexpression. I regret it because there is much to be said in favour of\nmodern journalism. By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, it keeps\nus in touch with the ignorance of the community. By carefully\nchronicling the current events of contemporary life, it shows us of what\nvery little importance such events really are. By invariably discussing\nthe unnecessary it makes us understand what things are requisite for\nculture, and what are not. But it should not allow poor Tartuffe to\nwrite articles upon modern art. When it does this it stultifies itself.\nAnd yet Tartuffe’s articles and Chadband’s notes do this good, at least.\nThey serve to show how extremely limited is the area over which ethics,\nand ethical considerations, can claim to exercise influence. Science is\nout of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon eternal truths.\nArt is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon things\nbeautiful and immortal and ever-changing. To morals belong the lower and\nless intellectual spheres. However, let these mouthing Puritans pass;\nthey have their comic side. Who can help laughing when an ordinary\njournalist seriously proposes to limit the subject-matter at the disposal\nof the artist? Some limitation might well, and will soon, I hope, be\nplaced upon some of our newspapers and newspaper writers. For they give\nus the bald, sordid, disgusting facts of life. They chronicle, with\ndegrading avidity, the sins of the second-rate, and with the\nconscientiousness of the illiterate give us accurate and prosaic details\nof the doings of people of absolutely no interest whatsoever. But the\nartist, who accepts the facts of life, and yet transforms them into\nshapes of beauty, and makes them vehicles of pity or of awe, and shows\ntheir colour-element, and their wonder, and their true ethical import\nalso, and builds out of them a world more real than reality itself, and\nof loftier and more noble import—who shall set limits to him? Not the\napostles of that new Journalism which is but the old vulgarity ‘writ\nlarge.’ Not the apostles of that new Puritanism, which is but the whine\nof the hypocrite, and is both writ and spoken badly. The mere suggestion\nis ridiculous. Let us leave these wicked people, and proceed to the\ndiscussion of the artistic qualifications necessary for the true critic.\n\nERNEST. And what are they? Tell me yourself.\n\nGILBERT. Temperament is the primary requisite for the critic—a\ntemperament exquisitely susceptible to beauty, and to the various\nimpressions that beauty gives us. Under what conditions, and by what\nmeans, this temperament is engendered in race or individual, we will not\ndiscuss at present. It is sufficient to note that it exists, and that\nthere is in us a beauty-sense, separate from the other senses and above\nthem, separate from the reason and of nobler import, separate from the\nsoul and of equal value—a sense that leads some to create, and others,\nthe finer spirits as I think, to contemplate merely. But to be purified\nand made perfect, this sense requires some form of exquisite environment.\nWithout this it starves, or is dulled. You remember that lovely passage\nin which Plato describes how a young Greek should be educated, and with\nwhat insistence he dwells upon the importance of surroundings, telling us\nhow the lad is to be brought up in the midst of fair sights and sounds,\nso that the beauty of material things may prepare his soul for the\nreception of the beauty that is spiritual. Insensibly, and without\nknowing the reason why, he is to develop that real love of beauty which,\nas Plato is never weary of reminding us, is the true aim of education.\nBy slow degrees there is to be engendered in him such a temperament as\nwill lead him naturally and simply to choose the good in preference to\nthe bad, and, rejecting what is vulgar and discordant, to follow by fine\ninstinctive taste all that possesses grace and charm and loveliness.\nUltimately, in its due course, this taste is to become critical and\nself-conscious, but at first it is to exist purely as a cultivated\ninstinct, and ‘he who has received this true culture of the inner man\nwill with clear and certain vision perceive the omissions and faults in\nart or nature, and with a taste that cannot err, while he praises, and\nfinds his pleasure in what is good, and receives it into his soul, and so\nbecomes good and noble, he will rightly blame and hate the bad, now in\nthe days of his youth, even before he is able to know the reason why’:\nand so, when, later on, the critical and self-conscious spirit develops\nin him, he ‘will recognise and salute it as a friend with whom his\neducation has made him long familiar.’ I need hardly say, Ernest, how\nfar we in England have fallen short of this ideal, and I can imagine the\nsmile that would illuminate the glossy face of the Philistine if one\nventured to suggest to him that the true aim of education was the love of\nbeauty, and that the methods by which education should work were the\ndevelopment of temperament, the cultivation of taste, and the creation of\nthe critical spirit.\n\nYet, even for us, there is left some loveliness of environment, and the\ndulness of tutors and professors matters very little when one can loiter\nin the grey cloisters at Magdalen, and listen to some flute-like voice\nsinging in Waynfleete’s chapel, or lie in the green meadow, among the\nstrange snake-spotted fritillaries, and watch the sunburnt noon smite to\na finer gold the tower’s gilded vanes, or wander up the Christ Church\nstaircase beneath the vaulted ceiling’s shadowy fans, or pass through the\nsculptured gateway of Laud’s building in the College of St. John. Nor is\nit merely at Oxford, or Cambridge, that the sense of beauty can be formed\nand trained and perfected. All over England there is a Renaissance of\nthe decorative Arts. Ugliness has had its day. Even in the houses of\nthe rich there is taste, and the houses of those who are not rich have\nbeen made gracious and comely and sweet to live in. Caliban, poor noisy\nCaliban, thinks that when he has ceased to make mows at a thing, the\nthing ceases to exist. But if he mocks no longer, it is because he has\nbeen met with mockery, swifter and keener than his own, and for a moment\nhas been bitterly schooled into that silence which should seal for ever\nhis uncouth distorted lips. What has been done up to now, has been\nchiefly in the clearing of the way. It is always more difficult to\ndestroy than it is to create, and when what one has to destroy is\nvulgarity and stupidity, the task of destruction needs not merely courage\nbut also contempt. Yet it seems to me to have been, in a measure, done.\nWe have got rid of what was bad. We have now to make what is beautiful.\nAnd though the mission of the æsthetic movement is to lure people to\ncontemplate, not to lead them to create, yet, as the creative instinct is\nstrong in the Celt, and it is the Celt who leads in art, there is no\nreason why in future years this strange Renaissance should not become\nalmost as mighty in its way as was that new birth of Art that woke many\ncenturies ago in the cities of Italy.\n\nCertainly, for the cultivation of temperament, we must turn to the\ndecorative arts: to the arts that touch us, not to the arts that teach\nus. Modern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at. At least,\nsome of them are. But they are quite impossible to live with; they are\ntoo clever, too assertive, too intellectual. Their meaning is too\nobvious, and their method too clearly defined. One exhausts what they\nhave to say in a very short time, and then they become as tedious as\none’s relations. I am very fond of the work of many of the Impressionist\npainters of Paris and London. Subtlety and distinction have not yet left\nthe school. Some of their arrangements and harmonies serve to remind one\nof the unapproachable beauty of Gautier’s immortal _Symphonie en Blanc\nMajeur_, that flawless masterpiece of colour and music which may have\nsuggested the type as well as the titles of many of their best pictures.\nFor a class that welcomes the incompetent with sympathetic eagerness, and\nthat confuses the bizarre with the beautiful, and vulgarity with truth,\nthey are extremely accomplished. They can do etchings that have the\nbrilliancy of epigrams, pastels that are as fascinating as paradoxes, and\nas for their portraits, whatever the commonplace may say against them, no\none can deny that they possess that unique and wonderful charm which\nbelongs to works of pure fiction. But even the Impressionists, earnest\nand industrious as they are, will not do. I like them. Their white\nkeynote, with its variations in lilac, was an era in colour. Though the\nmoment does not make the man, the moment certainly makes the\nImpressionist, and for the moment in art, and the ‘moment’s monument,’ as\nRossetti phrased it, what may not be said? They are suggestive also. If\nthey have not opened the eyes of the blind, they have at least given\ngreat encouragement to the short-sighted, and while their leaders may\nhave all the inexperience of old age, their young men are far too wise to\nbe ever sensible. Yet they will insist on treating painting as if it\nwere a mode of autobiography invented for the use of the illiterate, and\nare always prating to us on their coarse gritty canvases of their\nunnecessary selves and their unnecessary opinions, and spoiling by a\nvulgar over-emphasis that fine contempt of nature which is the best and\nonly modest thing about them. One tires, at the end, of the work of\nindividuals whose individuality is always noisy, and generally\nuninteresting. There is far more to be said in favour of that newer\nschool at Paris, the _Archaicistes_, as they call themselves, who,\nrefusing to leave the artist entirely at the mercy of the weather, do not\nfind the ideal of art in mere atmospheric effect, but seek rather for the\nimaginative beauty of design and the loveliness of fair colour, and\nrejecting the tedious realism of those who merely paint what they see,\ntry to see something worth seeing, and to see it not merely with actual\nand physical vision, but with that nobler vision of the soul which is as\nfar wider in spiritual scope as it is far more splendid in artistic\npurpose. They, at any rate, work under those decorative conditions that\neach art requires for its perfection, and have sufficient æsthetic\ninstinct to regret those sordid and stupid limitations of absolute\nmodernity of form which have proved the ruin of so many of the\nImpressionists. Still, the art that is frankly decorative is the art to\nlive with. It is, of all our visible arts, the one art that creates in\nus both mood and temperament. Mere colour, unspoiled by meaning, and\nunallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand\ndifferent ways. The harmony that resides in the delicate proportions of\nlines and masses becomes mirrored in the mind. The repetitions of\npattern give us rest. The marvels of design stir the imagination. In\nthe mere loveliness of the materials employed there are latent elements\nof culture. Nor is this all. By its deliberate rejection of Nature as\nthe ideal of beauty, as well as of the imitative method of the ordinary\npainter, decorative art not merely prepares the soul for the reception of\ntrue imaginative work, but develops in it that sense of form which is the\nbasis of creative no less than of critical achievement. For the real\nartist is he who proceeds, not from feeling to form, but from form to\nthought and passion. He does not first conceive an idea, and then say to\nhimself, ‘I will put my idea into a complex metre of fourteen lines,’\nbut, realising the beauty of the sonnet-scheme, he conceives certain\nmodes of music and methods of rhyme, and the mere form suggests what is\nto fill it and make it intellectually and emotionally complete. From\ntime to time the world cries out against some charming artistic poet,\nbecause, to use its hackneyed and silly phrase, he has ‘nothing to say.’\nBut if he had something to say, he would probably say it, and the result\nwould be tedious. It is just because he has no new message, that he can\ndo beautiful work. He gains his inspiration from form, and from form\npurely, as an artist should. A real passion would ruin him. Whatever\nactually occurs is spoiled for art. All bad poetry springs from genuine\nfeeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be\ninartistic.\n\nERNEST. I wonder do you really believe what you say?\n\nGILBERT. Why should you wonder? It is not merely in art that the body\nis the soul. In every sphere of life Form is the beginning of things.\nThe rhythmic harmonious gestures of dancing convey, Plato tells us, both\nrhythm and harmony into the mind. Forms are the food of faith, cried\nNewman in one of those great moments of sincerity that make us admire and\nknow the man. He was right, though he may not have known how terribly\nright he was. The Creeds are believed, not because they are rational,\nbut because they are repeated. Yes: Form is everything. It is the\nsecret of life. Find expression for a sorrow, and it will become dear to\nyou. Find expression for a joy, and you intensify its ecstasy. Do you\nwish to love? Use Love’s Litany, and the words will create the yearning\nfrom which the world fancies that they spring. Have you a grief that\ncorrodes your heart? Steep yourself in the Language of grief, learn its\nutterance from Prince Hamlet and Queen Constance, and you will find that\nmere expression is a mode of consolation, and that Form, which is the\nbirth of passion, is also the death of pain. And so, to return to the\nsphere of Art, it is Form that creates not merely the critical\ntemperament, but also the æsthetic instinct, that unerring instinct that\nreveals to one all things under their conditions of beauty. Start with\nthe worship of form, and there is no secret in art that will not be\nrevealed to you, and remember that in criticism, as in creation,\ntemperament is everything, and that it is, not by the time of their\nproduction, but by the temperaments to which they appeal, that the\nschools of art should be historically grouped.\n\nERNEST. Your theory of education is delightful. But what influence will\nyour critic, brought up in these exquisite surroundings, possess? Do you\nreally think that any artist is ever affected by criticism?\n\nGILBERT. The influence of the critic will be the mere fact of his own\nexistence. He will represent the flawless type. In him the culture of\nthe century will see itself realised. You must not ask of him to have\nany aim other than the perfecting of himself. The demand of the\nintellect, as has been well said, is simply to feel itself alive. The\ncritic may, indeed, desire to exercise influence; but, if so, he will\nconcern himself not with the individual, but with the age, which he will\nseek to wake into consciousness, and to make responsive, creating in it\nnew desires and appetites, and lending it his larger vision and his\nnobler moods. The actual art of to-day will occupy him less than the art\nof to-morrow, far less than the art of yesterday, and as for this or that\nperson at present toiling away, what do the industrious matter? They do\ntheir best, no doubt, and consequently we get the worst from them. It is\nalways with the best intentions that the worst work is done. And\nbesides, my dear Ernest, when a man reaches the age of forty, or becomes\na Royal Academician, or is elected a member of the Athenæum Club, or is\nrecognised as a popular novelist, whose books are in great demand at\nsuburban railway stations, one may have the amusement of exposing him,\nbut one cannot have the pleasure of reforming him. And this is, I dare\nsay, very fortunate for him; for I have no doubt that reformation is a\nmuch more painful process than punishment, is indeed punishment in its\nmost aggravated and moral form—a fact which accounts for our entire\nfailure as a community to reclaim that interesting phenomenon who is\ncalled the confirmed criminal.\n\nERNEST. But may it not be that the poet is the best judge of poetry, and\nthe painter of painting? Each art must appeal primarily to the artist\nwho works in it. His judgment will surely be the most valuable?\n\nGILBERT. The appeal of all art is simply to the artistic temperament.\nArt does not address herself to the specialist. Her claim is that she is\nuniversal, and that in all her manifestations she is one. Indeed, so far\nfrom its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really\ngreat artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can\nhardly, in fact, judge of his own. That very concentration of vision\nthat makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of\nfine appreciation. The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his\nown goal. The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around\nhim. The gods are hidden from each other. They can recognise their\nworshippers. That is all.\n\nERNEST. You say that a great artist cannot recognise the beauty of work\ndifferent from his own.\n\nGILBERT. It is impossible for him to do so. Wordsworth saw in\n_Endymion_ merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with his\ndislike of actuality, was deaf to Wordsworth’s message, being repelled by\nits form, and Byron, that great passionate human incomplete creature,\ncould appreciate neither the poet of the cloud nor the poet of the lake,\nand the wonder of Keats was hidden from him. The realism of Euripides\nwas hateful to Sophokles. Those droppings of warm tears had no music for\nhim. Milton, with his sense of the grand style, could not understand the\nmethod of Shakespeare, any more than could Sir Joshua the method of\nGainsborough. Bad artists always admire each other’s work. They call it\nbeing large-minded and free from prejudice. But a truly great artist\ncannot conceive of life being shown, or beauty fashioned, under any\nconditions other than those that he has selected. Creation employs all\nits critical faculty within its own sphere. It may not use it in the\nsphere that belongs to others. It is exactly because a man cannot do a\nthing that he is the proper judge of it.\n\nERNEST. Do you really mean that?\n\nGILBERT. Yes, for creation limits, while contemplation widens, the\nvision.\n\nERNEST. But what about technique? Surely each art has its separate\ntechnique?\n\nGILBERT. Certainly: each art has its grammar and its materials. There\nis no mystery about either, and the incompetent can always be correct.\nBut, while the laws upon which Art rests may be fixed and certain, to\nfind their true realisation they must be touched by the imagination into\nsuch beauty that they will seem an exception, each one of them.\nTechnique is really personality. That is the reason why the artist\ncannot teach it, why the pupil cannot learn it, and why the æsthetic\ncritic can understand it. To the great poet, there is only one method of\nmusic—his own. To the great painter, there is only one manner of\npainting—that which he himself employs. The æsthetic critic, and the\næsthetic critic alone, can appreciate all forms and modes. It is to him\nthat Art makes her appeal.\n\nERNEST. Well, I think I have put all my questions to you. And now I\nmust admit—\n\nGILBERT. Ah! don’t say that you agree with me. When people agree with\nme I always feel that I must be wrong.\n\nERNEST. In that case I certainly won’t tell you whether I agree with you\nor not. But I will put another question. You have explained to me that\ncriticism is a creative art. What future has it?\n\nGILBERT. It is to criticism that the future belongs. The subject-matter\nat the disposal of creation becomes every day more limited in extent and\nvariety. Providence and Mr. Walter Besant have exhausted the obvious.\nIf creation is to last at all, it can only do so on the condition of\nbecoming far more critical than it is at present. The old roads and\ndusty highways have been traversed too often. Their charm has been worn\naway by plodding feet, and they have lost that element of novelty or\nsurprise which is so essential for romance. He who would stir us now by\nfiction must either give us an entirely new background, or reveal to us\nthe soul of man in its innermost workings. The first is for the moment\nbeing done for us by Mr. Rudyard Kipling. As one turns over the pages of\nhis _Plain Tales from the Hills_, one feels as if one were seated under a\npalm-tree reading life by superb flashes of vulgarity. The bright\ncolours of the bazaars dazzle one’s eyes. The jaded, second-rate\nAnglo-Indians are in exquisite incongruity with their surroundings. The\nmere lack of style in the story-teller gives an odd journalistic realism\nto what he tells us. From the point of view of literature Mr. Kipling is\na genius who drops his aspirates. From the point of view of life, he is\na reporter who knows vulgarity better than any one has ever known it.\nDickens knew its clothes and its comedy. Mr. Kipling knows its essence\nand its seriousness. He is our first authority on the second-rate, and\nhas seen marvellous things through keyholes, and his backgrounds are real\nworks of art. As for the second condition, we have had Browning, and\nMeredith is with us. But there is still much to be done in the sphere of\nintrospection. People sometimes say that fiction is getting too morbid.\nAs far as psychology is concerned, it has never been morbid enough. We\nhave merely touched the surface of the soul, that is all. In one single\nivory cell of the brain there are stored away things more marvellous and\nmore terrible than even they have dreamed of, who, like the author of _Le\nRouge et le Noir_, have sought to track the soul into its most secret\nplaces, and to make life confess its dearest sins. Still, there is a\nlimit even to the number of untried backgrounds, and it is possible that\na further development of the habit of introspection may prove fatal to\nthat creative faculty to which it seeks to supply fresh material. I\nmyself am inclined to think that creation is doomed. It springs from too\nprimitive, too natural an impulse. However this may be, it is certain\nthat the subject-matter at the disposal of creation is always\ndiminishing, while the subject-matter of criticism increases daily.\nThere are always new attitudes for the mind, and new points of view. The\nduty of imposing form upon chaos does not grow less as the world\nadvances. There was never a time when Criticism was more needed than it\nis now. It is only by its means that Humanity can become conscious of\nthe point at which it has arrived.\n\nHours ago, Ernest, you asked me the use of Criticism. You might just as\nwell have asked me the use of thought. It is Criticism, as Arnold points\nout, that creates the intellectual atmosphere of the age. It is\nCriticism, as I hope to point out myself some day, that makes the mind a\nfine instrument. We, in our educational system, have burdened the memory\nwith a load of unconnected facts, and laboriously striven to impart our\nlaboriously-acquired knowledge. We teach people how to remember, we\nnever teach them how to grow. It has never occurred to us to try and\ndevelop in the mind a more subtle quality of apprehension and\ndiscernment. The Greeks did this, and when we come in contact with the\nGreek critical intellect, we cannot but be conscious that, while our\nsubject-matter is in every respect larger and more varied than theirs,\ntheirs is the only method by which this subject-matter can be\ninterpreted. England has done one thing; it has invented and established\nPublic Opinion, which is an attempt to organise the ignorance of the\ncommunity, and to elevate it to the dignity of physical force. But\nWisdom has always been hidden from it. Considered as an instrument of\nthought, the English mind is coarse and undeveloped. The only thing that\ncan purify it is the growth of the critical instinct.\n\nIt is Criticism, again, that, by concentration, makes culture possible.\nIt takes the cumbersome mass of creative work, and distils it into a\nfiner essence. Who that desires to retain any sense of form could\nstruggle through the monstrous multitudinous books that the world has\nproduced, books in which thought stammers or ignorance brawls? The\nthread that is to guide us across the wearisome labyrinth is in the hands\nof Criticism. Nay more, where there is no record, and history is either\nlost, or was never written, Criticism can re-create the past for us from\nthe very smallest fragment of language or art, just as surely as the man\nof science can from some tiny bone, or the mere impress of a foot upon a\nrock, re-create for us the winged dragon or Titan lizard that once made\nthe earth shake beneath its tread, can call Behemoth out of his cave, and\nmake Leviathan swim once more across the startled sea. Prehistoric\nhistory belongs to the philological and archæological critic. It is to\nhim that the origins of things are revealed. The self-conscious deposits\nof an age are nearly always misleading. Through philological criticism\nalone we know more of the centuries of which no actual record has been\npreserved, than we do of the centuries that have left us their scrolls.\nIt can do for us what can be done neither by physics nor metaphysics. It\ncan give us the exact science of mind in the process of becoming. It can\ndo for us what History cannot do. It can tell us what man thought before\nhe learned how to write. You have asked me about the influence of\nCriticism. I think I have answered that question already; but there is\nthis also to be said. It is Criticism that makes us cosmopolitan. The\nManchester school tried to make men realise the brotherhood of humanity,\nby pointing out the commercial advantages of peace. It sought to degrade\nthe wonderful world into a common market-place for the buyer and the\nseller. It addressed itself to the lowest instincts, and it failed. War\nfollowed upon war, and the tradesman’s creed did not prevent France and\nGermany from clashing together in blood-stained battle. There are others\nof our own day who seek to appeal to mere emotional sympathies, or to the\nshallow dogmas of some vague system of abstract ethics. They have their\nPeace Societies, so dear to the sentimentalists, and their proposals for\nunarmed International Arbitration, so popular among those who have never\nread history. But mere emotional sympathy will not do. It is too\nvariable, and too closely connected with the passions; and a board of\narbitrators who, for the general welfare of the race, are to be deprived\nof the power of putting their decisions into execution, will not be of\nmuch avail. There is only one thing worse than Injustice, and that is\nJustice without her sword in her hand. When Right is not Might, it is\nEvil.\n\nNo: the emotions will not make us cosmopolitan, any more than the greed\nfor gain could do so. It is only by the cultivation of the habit of\nintellectual criticism that we shall be able to rise superior to\nrace-prejudices. Goethe—you will not misunderstand what I say—was a\nGerman of the Germans. He loved his country—no man more so. Its people\nwere dear to him; and he led them. Yet, when the iron hoof of Napoleon\ntrampled upon vineyard and cornfield, his lips were silent. ‘How can one\nwrite songs of hatred without hating?’ he said to Eckermann, ‘and how\ncould I, to whom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, hate a\nnation which is among the most cultivated of the earth and to which I owe\nso great a part of my own cultivation?’ This note, sounded in the modern\nworld by Goethe first, will become, I think, the starting point for the\ncosmopolitanism of the future. Criticism will annihilate\nrace-prejudices, by insisting upon the unity of the human mind in the\nvariety of its forms. If we are tempted to make war upon another nation,\nwe shall remember that we are seeking to destroy an element of our own\nculture, and possibly its most important element. As long as war is\nregarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is\nlooked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular. The change will of\ncourse be slow, and people will not be conscious of it. They will not\nsay ‘We will not war against France because her prose is perfect,’ but\nbecause the prose of France is perfect, they will not hate the land.\nIntellectual criticism will bind Europe together in bonds far closer than\nthose that can be forged by shopman or sentimentalist. It will give us\nthe peace that springs from understanding.\n\nNor is this all. It is Criticism that, recognising no position as final,\nand refusing to bind itself by the shallow shibboleths of any sect or\nschool, creates that serene philosophic temper which loves truth for its\nown sake, and loves it not the less because it knows it to be\nunattainable. How little we have of this temper in England, and how much\nwe need it! The English mind is always in a rage. The intellect of the\nrace is wasted in the sordid and stupid quarrels of second-rate\npoliticians or third-rate theologians. It was reserved for a man of\nscience to show us the supreme example of that ‘sweet reasonableness’ of\nwhich Arnold spoke so wisely, and, alas! to so little effect. The author\nof the _Origin of Species_ had, at any rate, the philosophic temper. If\none contemplates the ordinary pulpits and platforms of England, one can\nbut feel the contempt of Julian, or the indifference of Montaigne. We\nare dominated by the fanatic, whose worst vice is his sincerity.\nAnything approaching to the free play of the mind is practically unknown\namongst us. People cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful,\nbut the stupid, who are our shame. There is no sin except stupidity.\n\nERNEST. Ah! what an antinomian you are!\n\nGILBERT. The artistic critic, like the mystic, is an antinomian always.\nTo be good, according to the vulgar standard of goodness, is obviously\nquite easy. It merely requires a certain amount of sordid terror, a\ncertain lack of imaginative thought, and a certain low passion for\nmiddle-class respectability. Æsthetics are higher than ethics. They\nbelong to a more spiritual sphere. To discern the beauty of a thing is\nthe finest point to which we can arrive. Even a colour-sense is more\nimportant, in the development of the individual, than a sense of right\nand wrong. Æsthetics, in fact, are to Ethics in the sphere of conscious\ncivilisation, what, in the sphere of the external world, sexual is to\nnatural selection. Ethics, like natural selection, make existence\npossible. Æsthetics, like sexual selection, make life lovely and\nwonderful, fill it with new forms, and give it progress, and variety and\nchange. And when we reach the true culture that is our aim, we attain to\nthat perfection of which the saints have dreamed, the perfection of those\nto whom sin is impossible, not because they make the renunciations of the\nascetic, but because they can do everything they wish without hurt to the\nsoul, and can wish for nothing that can do the soul harm, the soul being\nan entity so divine that it is able to transform into elements of a\nricher experience, or a finer susceptibility, or a newer mode of thought,\nacts or passions that with the common would be commonplace, or with the\nuneducated ignoble, or with the shameful vile. Is this dangerous? Yes;\nit is dangerous—all ideas, as I told you, are so. But the night wearies,\nand the light flickers in the lamp. One more thing I cannot help saying\nto you. You have spoken against Criticism as being a sterile thing. The\nnineteenth century is a turning point in history, simply on account of\nthe work of two men, Darwin and Renan, the one the critic of the Book of\nNature, the other the critic of the books of God. Not to recognise this\nis to miss the meaning of one of the most important eras in the progress\nof the world. Creation is always behind the age. It is Criticism that\nleads us. The Critical Spirit and the World-Spirit are one.\n\nERNEST. And he who is in possession of this spirit, or whom this spirit\npossesses, will, I suppose, do nothing?\n\nGILBERT. Like the Persephone of whom Landor tells us, the sweet pensive\nPersephone around whose white feet the asphodel and amaranth are\nblooming, he will sit contented ‘in that deep, motionless quiet which\nmortals pity, and which the gods enjoy.’ He will look out upon the world\nand know its secret. By contact with divine things he will become\ndivine. His will be the perfect life, and his only.\n\nERNEST. You have told me many strange things to-night, Gilbert. You\nhave told me that it is more difficult to talk about a thing than to do\nit, and that to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the\nworld; you have told me that all Art is immoral, and all thought\ndangerous; that criticism is more creative than creation, and that the\nhighest criticism is that which reveals in the work of Art what the\nartist had not put there; that it is exactly because a man cannot do a\nthing that he is the proper judge of it; and that the true critic is\nunfair, insincere, and not rational. My friend, you are a dreamer.\n\nGILBERT. Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find\nhis way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before\nthe rest of the world.\n\nERNEST. His punishment?\n\nGILBERT. And his reward. But, see, it is dawn already. Draw back the\ncurtains and open the windows wide. How cool the morning air is!\nPiccadilly lies at our feet like a long riband of silver. A faint purple\nmist hangs over the Park, and the shadows of the white houses are purple.\nIt is too late to sleep. Let us go down to Covent Garden and look at the\nroses. Come! I am tired of thought.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRUTH OF MASKS\nA NOTE ON ILLUSION\n\n\nIN many of the somewhat violent attacks that have recently been made on\nthat splendour of mounting which now characterises our Shakespearian\nrevivals in England, it seems to have been tacitly assumed by the critics\nthat Shakespeare himself was more or less indifferent to the costumes of\nhis actors, and that, could he see Mrs. Langtry’s production of _Antony\nand Cleopatra_, he would probably say that the play, and the play only,\nis the thing, and that everything else is leather and prunella. While,\nas regards any historical accuracy in dress, Lord Lytton, in an article\nin the _Nineteenth Century_, has laid it down as a dogma of art that\narchæology is entirely out of place in the presentation of any of\nShakespeare’s plays, and the attempt to introduce it one of the stupidest\npedantries of an age of prigs.\n\nLord Lytton’s position I shall examine later on; but, as regards the\ntheory that Shakespeare did not busy himself much about the\ncostume-wardrobe of his theatre, anybody who cares to study Shakespeare’s\nmethod will see that there is absolutely no dramatist of the French,\nEnglish, or Athenian stage who relies so much for his illusionist effects\non the dress of his actors as Shakespeare does himself.\n\nKnowing how the artistic temperament is always fascinated by beauty of\ncostume, he constantly introduces into his plays masques and dances,\npurely for the sake of the pleasure which they give the eye; and we have\nstill his stage-directions for the three great processions in _Henry the\nEighth_, directions which are characterised by the most extraordinary\nelaborateness of detail down to the collars of S.S. and the pearls in\nAnne Boleyn’s hair. Indeed it would be quite easy for a modern manager\nto reproduce these pageants absolutely as Shakespeare had them designed;\nand so accurate were they that one of the court officials of the time,\nwriting an account of the last performance of the play at the Globe\nTheatre to a friend, actually complains of their realistic character,\nnotably of the production on the stage of the Knights of the Garter in\nthe robes and insignia of the order as being calculated to bring ridicule\non the real ceremonies; much in the same spirit in which the French\nGovernment, some time ago, prohibited that delightful actor, M.\nChristian, from appearing in uniform, on the plea that it was prejudicial\nto the glory of the army that a colonel should be caricatured. And\nelsewhere the gorgeousness of apparel which distinguished the English\nstage under Shakespeare’s influence was attacked by the contemporary\ncritics, not as a rule, however, on the grounds of the democratic\ntendencies of realism, but usually on those moral grounds which are\nalways the last refuge of people who have no sense of beauty.\n\nThe point, however, which I wish to emphasise is, not that Shakespeare\nappreciated the value of lovely costumes in adding picturesqueness to\npoetry, but that he saw how important costume is as a means of producing\ncertain dramatic effects. Many of his plays, such as _Measure for\nMeasure_, _Twelfth Night_, _The Two Gentleman of Verona_, _All’s Well\nthat Ends Well_, _Cymbeline_, and others, depend for their illusion on\nthe character of the various dresses worn by the hero or the heroine; the\ndelightful scene in _Henry the Sixth_, on the modern miracles of healing\nby faith, loses all its point unless Gloster is in black and scarlet; and\nthe _dénoûment_ of the _Merry Wives of Windsor_ hinges on the colour of\nAnne Page’s gown. As for the uses Shakespeare makes of disguises the\ninstances are almost numberless. Posthumus hides his passion under a\npeasant’s garb, and Edgar his pride beneath an idiot’s rags; Portia wears\nthe apparel of a lawyer, and Rosalind is attired in ‘all points as a\nman’; the cloak-bag of Pisanio changes Imogen to the Youth Fidele;\nJessica flees from her father’s house in boy’s dress, and Julia ties up\nher yellow hair in fantastic love-knots, and dons hose and doublet; Henry\nthe Eighth woos his lady as a shepherd, and Romeo his as a pilgrim;\nPrince Hal and Poins appear first as footpads in buckram suits, and then\nin white aprons and leather jerkins as the waiters in a tavern: and as\nfor Falstaff, does he not come on as a highwayman, as an old woman, as\nHerne the Hunter, and as the clothes going to the laundry?\n\nNor are the examples of the employment of costume as a mode of\nintensifying dramatic situation less numerous. After slaughter of\nDuncan, Macbeth appears in his night-gown as if aroused from sleep; Timon\nends in rags the play he had begun in splendour; Richard flatters the\nLondon citizens in a suit of mean and shabby armour, and, as soon as he\nhas stepped in blood to the throne, marches through the streets in crown\nand George and Garter; the climax of _The Tempest_ is reached when\nProspero, throwing off his enchanter’s robes, sends Ariel for his hat and\nrapier, and reveals himself as the great Italian Duke; the very Ghost in\n_Hamlet_ changes his mystical apparel to produce different effects; and\nas for Juliet, a modern playwright would probably have laid her out in\nher shroud, and made the scene a scene of horror merely, but Shakespeare\narrays her in rich and gorgeous raiment, whose loveliness makes the vault\n‘a feasting presence full of light,’ turns the tomb into a bridal\nchamber, and gives the cue and motive for Romeo’s speech of the triumph\nof Beauty over Death.\n\nEven small details of dress, such as the colour of a major-domo’s\nstockings, the pattern on a wife’s handkerchief, the sleeve of a young\nsoldier, and a fashionable woman’s bonnets, become in Shakespeare’s hands\npoints of actual dramatic importance, and by some of them the action of\nthe play in question is conditioned absolutely. Many other dramatists\nhave availed themselves of costume as a method of expressing directly to\nthe audience the character of a person on his entrance, though hardly so\nbrilliantly as Shakespeare has done in the case of the dandy Parolles,\nwhose dress, by the way, only an archæologist can understand; the fun of\na master and servant exchanging coats in presence of the audience, of\nshipwrecked sailors squabbling over the division of a lot of fine\nclothes, and of a tinker dressed up like a duke while he is in his cups,\nmay be regarded as part of that great career which costume has always\nplayed in comedy from the time of Aristophanes down to Mr. Gilbert; but\nnobody from the mere details of apparel and adornment has ever drawn such\nirony of contrast, such immediate and tragic effect, such pity and such\npathos, as Shakespeare himself. Armed cap-à-pie, the dead King stalks on\nthe battlements of Elsinore because all is not right with Denmark;\nShylock’s Jewish gaberdine is part of the stigma under which that wounded\nand embittered nature writhes; Arthur begging for his life can think of\nno better plea than the handkerchief he had given Hubert—\n\n Have you the heart? when your head did but ache,\n I knit my handkerchief about your brows,\n (The best I had, a princess wrought it me)\n And I did never ask it you again;\n\nand Orlando’s blood-stained napkin strikes the first sombre note in that\nexquisite woodland idyll, and shows us the depth of feeling that\nunderlies Rosalind’s fanciful wit and wilful jesting.\n\n Last night ’twas on my arm; I kissed it;\n I hope it be not gone to tell my lord\n That I kiss aught but he,\n\nsays Imogen, jesting on the loss of the bracelet which was already on its\nway to Rome to rob her of her husband’s faith; the little Prince passing\nto the Tower plays with the dagger in his uncle’s girdle; Duncan sends a\nring to Lady Macbeth on the night of his own murder, and the ring of\nPortia turns the tragedy of the merchant into a wife’s comedy. The great\nrebel York dies with a paper crown on his head; Hamlet’s black suit is a\nkind of colour-motive in the piece, like the mourning of the Chimène in\nthe _Cid_; and the climax of Antony’s speech is the production of Cæsar’s\ncloak:—\n\n I remember\n The first time ever Cæsar put it on.\n ’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,\n The day he overcame the Nervii:—\n Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:\n See what a rent the envious Casca made:\n Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed. . . .\n Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold\n Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded?\n\nThe flowers which Ophelia carries with her in her madness are as pathetic\nas the violets that blossom on a grave; the effect of Lear’s wandering on\nthe heath is intensified beyond words by his fantastic attire; and when\nCloten, stung by the taunt of that simile which his sister draws from her\nhusband’s raiment, arrays himself in that husband’s very garb to work\nupon her the deed of shame, we feel that there is nothing in the whole of\nmodern French realism, nothing even in _Thérèse Raquin_, that masterpiece\nof horror, which for terrible and tragic significance can compare with\nthis strange scene in _Cymbeline_.\n\nIn the actual dialogue also some of the most vivid passages are those\nsuggested by costume. Rosalind’s\n\n Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet\n and hose in my disposition?\n\nConstance’s\n\n Grief fills the place of my absent child,\n Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;\n\nand the quick sharp cry of Elizabeth—\n\n Ah! cut my lace asunder!—\n\nare only a few of the many examples one might quote. One of the finest\neffects I have ever seen on the stage was Salvini, in the last act of\n_Lear_, tearing the plume from Kent’s cap and applying it to Cordelia’s\nlips when he came to the line,\n\n This feather stirs; she lives!\n\nMr. Booth, whose Lear had many noble qualities of passion, plucked, I\nremember, some fur from his archæologically-incorrect ermine for the same\nbusiness; but Salvini’s was the finer effect of the two, as well as the\ntruer. And those who saw Mr. Irving in the last act of _Richard the\nThird_ have not, I am sure, forgotten how much the agony and terror of\nhis dream was intensified, by contrast, through the calm and quiet that\npreceded it, and the delivery of such lines as\n\n What, is my beaver easier than it was?\n And all my armour laid into my tent?\n Look that my staves be sound and not too heavy—\n\nlines which had a double meaning for the audience, remembering the last\nwords which Richard’s mother called after him as he was marching to\nBosworth:—\n\n Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,\n Which in the day of battle tire thee more\n Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st.\n\nAs regards the resources which Shakespeare had at his disposal, it is to\nbe remarked that, while he more than once complains of the smallness of\nthe stage on which he has to produce big historical plays, and of the\nwant of scenery which obliges him to cut out many effective open-air\nincidents, he always writes as a dramatist who had at his disposal a most\nelaborate theatrical wardrobe, and who could rely on the actors taking\npains about their make-up. Even now it is difficult to produce such a\nplay as the _Comedy of Errors_; and to the picturesque accident of Miss\nEllen Terry’s brother resembling herself we owe the opportunity of seeing\n_Twelfth Night_ adequately performed. Indeed, to put any play of\nShakespeare’s on the stage, absolutely as he himself wished it to be\ndone, requires the services of a good property-man, a clever wig-maker, a\ncostumier with a sense of colour and a knowledge of textures, a master of\nthe methods of making-up, a fencing-master, a dancing-master, and an\nartist to direct personally the whole production. For he is most careful\nto tell us the dress and appearance of each character. ‘Racine abhorre\nla réalité,’ says Auguste Vacquerie somewhere; ‘il ne daigne pas\ns’occuper de son costume. Si l’on s’en rapportait aux indications du\npoète, Agamemnon serait vêtu d’un sceptre et Achille d’une épée.’ But\nwith Shakespeare it is very different. He gives us directions about the\ncostumes of Perdita, Florizel, Autolycus, the Witches in _Macbeth_, and\nthe apothecary in _Romeo and Juliet_, several elaborate descriptions of\nhis fat knight, and a detailed account of the extraordinary garb in which\nPetruchio is to be married. Rosalind, he tells us, is tall, and is to\ncarry a spear and a little dagger; Celia is smaller, and is to paint her\nface brown so as to look sunburnt. The children who play at fairies in\nWindsor Forest are to be dressed in white and green—a compliment, by the\nway, to Queen Elizabeth, whose favourite colours they were—and in white,\nwith green garlands and gilded vizors, the angels are to come to\nKatherine in Kimbolton. Bottom is in homespun, Lysander is distinguished\nfrom Oberon by his wearing an Athenian dress, and Launce has holes in his\nboots. The Duchess of Gloucester stands in a white sheet with her\nhusband in mourning beside her. The motley of the Fool, the scarlet of\nthe Cardinal, and the French lilies broidered on the English coats, are\nall made occasion for jest or taunt in the dialogue. We know the\npatterns on the Dauphin’s armour and the Pucelle’s sword, the crest on\nWarwick’s helmet and the colour of Bardolph’s nose. Portia has golden\nhair, Phoebe is black-haired, Orlando has chestnut curls, and Sir Andrew\nAguecheek’s hair hangs like flax on a distaff, and won’t curl at all.\nSome of the characters are stout, some lean, some straight, some\nhunchbacked, some fair, some dark, and some are to blacken their faces.\nLear has a white beard, Hamlet’s father a grizzled, and Benedick is to\nshave his in the course of the play. Indeed, on the subject of stage\nbeards Shakespeare is quite elaborate; tells us of the many different\ncolours in use, and gives a hint to actors always to see that their own\nare properly tied on. There is a dance of reapers in rye-straw hats, and\nof rustics in hairy coats like satyrs; a masque of Amazons, a masque of\nRussians, and a classical masque; several immortal scenes over a weaver\nin an ass’s head, a riot over the colour of a coat which it takes the\nLord Mayor of London to quell, and a scene between an infuriated husband\nand his wife’s milliner about the slashing of a sleeve.\n\nAs for the metaphors Shakespeare draws from dress, and the aphorisms he\nmakes on it, his hits at the costume of his age, particularly at the\nridiculous size of the ladies’ bonnets, and the many descriptions of the\n_mundus muliebris_, from the long of Autolycus in the _Winter’s Tale_\ndown to the account of the Duchess of Milan’s gown in _Much Ado About\nNothing_, they are far too numerous to quote; though it may be worth\nwhile to remind people that the whole of the Philosophy of Clothes is to\nbe found in Lear’s scene with Edgar—a passage which has the advantage of\nbrevity and style over the grotesque wisdom and somewhat mouthing\nmetaphysics of _Sartor Resartus_. But I think that from what I have\nalready said it is quite clear that Shakespeare was very much interested\nin costume. I do not mean in that shallow sense by which it has been\nconcluded from his knowledge of deeds and daffodils that he was the\nBlackstone and Paxton of the Elizabethan age; but that he saw that\ncostume could be made at once impressive of a certain effect on the\naudience and expressive of certain types of character, and is one of the\nessential factors of the means which a true illusionist has at his\ndisposal. Indeed to him the deformed figure of Richard was of as much\nvalue as Juliet’s loveliness; he sets the serge of the radical beside the\nsilks of the lord, and sees the stage effects to be got from each: he has\nas much delight in Caliban as he has in Ariel, in rags as he has in cloth\nof gold, and recognises the artistic beauty of ugliness.\n\nThe difficulty Ducis felt about translating _Othello_ in consequence of\nthe importance given to such a vulgar thing as a handkerchief, and his\nattempt to soften its grossness by making the Moor reiterate ‘Le bandeau!\nle bandeau!’ may be taken as an example of the difference between _la\ntragédie philosophique_ and the drama of real life; and the introduction\nfor the first time of the word _mouchoir_ at the Théâtre Français was an\nera in that romantic-realistic movement of which Hugo is the father and\nM. Zola the _enfant terrible_, just as the classicism of the earlier part\nof the century was emphasised by Talma’s refusal to play Greek heroes any\nlonger in a powdered periwig—one of the many instances, by the way, of\nthat desire for archæological accuracy in dress which has distinguished\nthe great actors of our age.\n\nIn criticising the importance given to money in _La Comédie Humaine_,\nThéophile Gautier says that Balzac may claim to have invented a new hero\nin fiction, _le héros métallique_. Of Shakespeare it may be said he was\nthe first to see the dramatic value of doublets, and that a climax may\ndepend on a crinoline.\n\nThe burning of the Globe Theatre—an event due, by the way, to the results\nof the passion for illusion that distinguished Shakespeare’s\nstage-management—has unfortunately robbed us of many important documents;\nbut in the inventory, still in existence, of the costume-wardrobe of a\nLondon theatre in Shakespeare’s time, there are mentioned particular\ncostumes for cardinals, shepherds, kings, clowns, friars, and fools;\ngreen coats for Robin Hood’s men, and a green gown for Maid Marian; a\nwhite and gold doublet for Henry the Fifth, and a robe for Longshanks;\nbesides surplices, copes, damask gowns, gowns of cloth of gold and of\ncloth of silver, taffeta gowns, calico gowns, velvet coats, satin coats,\nfrieze coats, jerkins of yellow leather and of black leather, red suits,\ngrey suits, French Pierrot suits, a robe ‘for to goo invisibell,’ which\nseems inexpensive at £3, 10s., and four incomparable fardingales—all of\nwhich show a desire to give every character an appropriate dress. There\nare also entries of Spanish, Moorish and Danish costumes, of helmets,\nlances, painted shields, imperial crowns, and papal tiaras, as well as of\ncostumes for Turkish Janissaries, Roman Senators, and all the gods and\ngoddesses of Olympus, which evidence a good deal of archæological\nresearch on the part of the manager of the theatre. It is true that\nthere is a mention of a bodice for Eve, but probably the _donnée_ of the\nplay was after the Fall.\n\nIndeed, anybody who cares to examine the age of Shakespeare will see that\narchæology was one of its special characteristics. After that revival of\nthe classical forms of architecture which was one of the notes of the\nRenaissance, and the printing at Venice and elsewhere of the masterpieces\nof Greek and Latin literature, had come naturally an interest in the\nornamentation and costume of the antique world. Nor was it for the\nlearning that they could acquire, but rather for the loveliness that they\nmight create, that the artists studied these things. The curious objects\nthat were being constantly brought to light by excavations were not left\nto moulder in a museum, for the contemplation of a callous curator, and\nthe _ennui_ of a policeman bored by the absence of crime. They were used\nas motives for the production of a new art, which was to be not beautiful\nmerely, but also strange.\n\nInfessura tells us that in 1485 some workmen digging on the Appian Way\ncame across an old Roman sarcophagus inscribed with the name ‘Julia,\ndaughter of Claudius.’ On opening the coffer they found within its\nmarble womb the body of a beautiful girl of about fifteen years of age,\npreserved by the embalmer’s skill from corruption and the decay of time.\nHer eyes were half open, her hair rippled round her in crisp curling\ngold, and from her lips and cheek the bloom of maidenhood had not yet\ndeparted. Borne back to the Capitol, she became at once the centre of a\nnew cult, and from all parts of the city crowded pilgrims to worship at\nthe wonderful shrine, till the Pope, fearing lest those who had found the\nsecret of beauty in a Pagan tomb might forget what secrets Judæa’s rough\nand rock-hewn sepulchre contained, had the body conveyed away by night,\nand in secret buried. Legend though it may be, yet the story is none the\nless valuable as showing us the attitude of the Renaissance towards the\nantique world. Archæology to them was not a mere science for the\nantiquarian; it was a means by which they could touch the dry dust of\nantiquity into the very breath and beauty of life, and fill with the new\nwine of romanticism forms that else had been old and outworn. From the\npulpit of Niccola Pisano down to Mantegna’s ‘Triumph of Cæsar,’ and the\nservice Cellini designed for King Francis, the influence of this spirit\ncan be traced; nor was it confined merely to the immobile arts—the arts\nof arrested movement—but its influence was to be seen also in the great\nGræco-Roman masques which were the constant amusement of the gay courts\nof the time, and in the public pomps and processions with which the\ncitizens of big commercial towns were wont to greet the princes that\nchanced to visit them; pageants, by the way, which were considered so\nimportant that large prints were made of them and published—a fact which\nis a proof of the general interest at the time in matters of such kind.\n\nAnd this use of archæology in shows, so far from being a bit of priggish\npedantry, is in every way legitimate and beautiful. For the stage is not\nmerely the meeting-place of all the arts, but is also the return of art\nto life. Sometimes in an archæological novel the use of strange and\nobsolete terms seems to hide the reality beneath the learning, and I dare\nsay that many of the readers of _Notre Dame de Paris_ have been much\npuzzled over the meaning of such expressions as _la casaque à mahoitres_,\n_les voulgiers_, _le gallimard taché d’encre_, _les craaquiniers_, and\nthe like; but with the stage how different it is! The ancient world\nwakes from its sleep, and history moves as a pageant before our eyes,\nwithout obliging us to have recourse to a dictionary or an encyclopædia\nfor the perfection of our enjoyment. Indeed, there is not the slightest\nnecessity that the public should know the authorities for the mounting of\nany piece. From such materials, for instance, as the disk of Theodosius,\nmaterials with which the majority of people are probably not very\nfamiliar, Mr. E. W. Godwin, one of the most artistic spirits of this\ncentury in England, created the marvellous loveliness of the first act of\n_Claudian_, and showed us the life of Byzantium in the fourth century,\nnot by a dreary lecture and a set of grimy casts, not by a novel which\nrequires a glossary to explain it, but by the visible presentation before\nus of all the glory of that great town. And while the costumes were true\nto the smallest points of colour and design, yet the details were not\nassigned that abnormal importance which they must necessarily be given in\na piecemeal lecture, but were subordinated to the rules of lofty\ncomposition and the unity of artistic effect. Mr. Symonds, speaking of\nthat great picture of Mantegna’s, now in Hampton Court, says that the\nartist has converted an antiquarian motive into a theme for melodies of\nline. The same could have been said with equal justice of Mr. Godwin’s\nscene. Only the foolish called it pedantry, only those who would neither\nlook nor listen spoke of the passion of the play being killed by its\npaint. It was in reality a scene not merely perfect in its\npicturesqueness, but absolutely dramatic also, getting rid of any\nnecessity for tedious descriptions, and showing us, by the colour and\ncharacter of Claudian’s dress, and the dress of his attendants, the whole\nnature and life of the man, from what school of philosophy he affected,\ndown to what horses he backed on the turf.\n\nAnd indeed archæology is only really delightful when transfused into some\nform of art. I have no desire to underrate the services of laborious\nscholars, but I feel that the use Keats made of Lemprière’s Dictionary is\nof far more value to us than Professor Max Müller’s treatment of the same\nmythology as a disease of language. Better _Endymion_ than any theory,\nhowever sound, or, as in the present instance, unsound, of an epidemic\namong adjectives! And who does not feel that the chief glory of\nPiranesi’s book on Vases is that it gave Keats the suggestion for his\n‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’? Art, and art only, can make archæology\nbeautiful; and the theatric art can use it most directly and most\nvividly, for it can combine in one exquisite presentation the illusion of\nactual life with the wonder of the unreal world. But the sixteenth\ncentury was not merely the age of Vitruvius; it was the age of Vecellio\nalso. Every nation seems suddenly to have become interested in the dress\nof its neighbours. Europe began to investigate its own clothes, and the\namount of books published on national costumes is quite extraordinary.\nAt the beginning of the century the _Nuremberg Chronicle_, with its two\nthousand illustrations, reached its fifth edition, and before the century\nwas over seventeen editions were published of Munster’s _Cosmography_.\nBesides these two books there were also the works of Michael Colyns, of\nHans Weigel, of Amman, and of Vecellio himself, all of them well\nillustrated, some of the drawings in Vecellio being probably from the\nhand of Titian.\n\nNor was it merely from books and treatises that they acquired their\nknowledge. The development of the habit of foreign travel, the increased\ncommercial intercourse between countries, and the frequency of diplomatic\nmissions, gave every nation many opportunities of studying the various\nforms of contemporary dress. After the departure from England, for\ninstance, of the ambassadors from the Czar, the Sultan and the Prince of\nMorocco, Henry the Eighth and his friends gave several masques in the\nstrange attire of their visitors. Later on London saw, perhaps too\noften, the sombre splendour of the Spanish Court, and to Elizabeth came\nenvoys from all lands, whose dress, Shakespeare tells us, had an\nimportant influence on English costume.\n\nAnd the interest was not confined merely to classical dress, or the dress\nof foreign nations; there was also a good deal of research, amongst\ntheatrical people especially, into the ancient costume of England itself:\nand when Shakespeare, in the prologue to one of his plays, expresses his\nregret at being unable to produce helmets of the period, he is speaking\nas an Elizabethan manager and not merely as an Elizabethan poet. At\nCambridge, for instance, during his day, a play of _Richard The Third_\nwas performed, in which the actors were attired in real dresses of the\ntime, procured from the great collection of historical costume in the\nTower, which was always open to the inspection of managers, and sometimes\nplaced at their disposal. And I cannot help thinking that this\nperformance must have been far more artistic, as regards costume, than\nGarrick’s mounting of Shakespeare’s own play on the subject, in which he\nhimself appeared in a nondescript fancy dress, and everybody else in the\ncostume of the time of George the Third, Richmond especially being much\nadmired in the uniform of a young guardsman.\n\nFor what is the use to the stage of that archæology which has so\nstrangely terrified the critics, but that it, and it alone, can give us\nthe architecture and apparel suitable to the time in which the action of\nthe play passes? It enables us to see a Greek dressed like a Greek, and\nan Italian like an Italian; to enjoy the arcades of Venice and the\nbalconies of Verona; and, if the play deals with any of the great eras in\nour country’s history, to contemplate the age in its proper attire, and\nthe king in his habit as he lived. And I wonder, by the way, what Lord\nLytton would have said some time ago, at the Princess’s Theatre, had the\ncurtain risen on his father’s Brutus reclining in a Queen Anne chair,\nattired in a flowing wig and a flowered dressing-gown, a costume which in\nthe last century was considered peculiarly appropriate to an antique\nRoman! For in those halcyon days of the drama no archæology troubled the\nstage, or distressed the critics, and our inartistic grandfathers sat\npeaceably in a stifling atmosphere of anachronisms, and beheld with the\ncalm complacency of the age of prose an Iachimo in powder and patches, a\nLear in lace ruffles, and a Lady Macbeth in a large crinoline. I can\nunderstand archæology being attacked on the ground of its excessive\nrealism, but to attack it as pedantic seems to be very much beside the\nmark. However, to attack it for any reason is foolish; one might just as\nwell speak disrespectfully of the equator. For archæology, being a\nscience, is neither good nor bad, but a fact simply. Its value depends\nentirely on how it is used, and only an artist can use it. We look to\nthe archæologist for the materials, to the artist for the method.\n\nIn designing the scenery and costumes for any of Shakespeare’s plays, the\nfirst thing the artist has to settle is the best date for the drama.\nThis should be determined by the general spirit of the play, more than by\nany actual historical references which may occur in it. Most _Hamlets_ I\nhave seen were placed far too early. _Hamlet_ is essentially a scholar\nof the Revival of Learning; and if the allusion to the recent invasion of\nEngland by the Danes puts it back to the ninth century, the use of foils\nbrings it down much later. Once, however, that the date has been fixed,\nthen the archæologist is to supply us with the facts which the artist is\nto convert into effects.\n\nIt has been said that the anachronisms in the plays themselves show us\nthat Shakespeare was indifferent to historical accuracy, and a great deal\nof capital has been made out of Hector’s indiscreet quotation from\nAristotle. Upon the other hand, the anachronisms are really few in\nnumber, and not very important, and, had Shakespeare’s attention been\ndrawn to them by a brother artist, he would probably have corrected them.\nFor, though they can hardly be called blemishes, they are certainly not\nthe great beauties of his work; or, at least, if they are, their\nanachronistic charm cannot be emphasised unless the play is accurately\nmounted according to its proper date. In looking at Shakespeare’s plays\nas a whole, however, what is really remarkable is their extraordinary\nfidelity as regards his personages and his plots. Many of his _dramatis\npersonæ_ are people who had actually existed, and some of them might have\nbeen seen in real life by a portion of his audience. Indeed the most\nviolent attack that was made on Shakespeare in his time was for his\nsupposed caricature of Lord Cobham. As for his plots, Shakespeare\nconstantly draws them either from authentic history, or from the old\nballads and traditions which served as history to the Elizabethan public,\nand which even now no scientific historian would dismiss as absolutely\nuntrue. And not merely did he select fact instead of fancy as the basis\nof much of his imaginative work, but he always gives to each play the\ngeneral character, the social atmosphere in a word, of the age in\nquestion. Stupidity he recognises as being one of the permanent\ncharacteristics of all European civilisations; so he sees no difference\nbetween a London mob of his own day and a Roman mob of pagan days,\nbetween a silly watchman in Messina and a silly Justice of the Peace in\nWindsor. But when he deals with higher characters, with those exceptions\nof each age which are so fine that they become its types, he gives them\nabsolutely the stamp and seal of their time. Virgilia is one of those\nRoman wives on whose tomb was written ‘Domi mansit, lanam fecit,’ as\nsurely as Juliet is the romantic girl of the Renaissance. He is even\ntrue to the characteristics of race. Hamlet has all the imagination and\nirresolution of the Northern nations, and the Princess Katharine is as\nentirely French as the heroine of _Divorçons_. Harry the Fifth is a pure\nEnglishman, and Othello a true Moor.\n\nAgain when Shakespeare treats of the history of England from the\nfourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, it is wonderful how careful he is\nto have his facts perfectly right—indeed he follows Holinshed with\ncurious fidelity. The incessant wars between France and England are\ndescribed with extraordinary accuracy down to the names of the besieged\ntowns, the ports of landing and embarkation, the sites and dates of the\nbattles, the titles of the commanders on each side, and the lists of the\nkilled and wounded. And as regards the Civil Wars of the Roses we have\nmany elaborate genealogies of the seven sons of Edward the Third; the\nclaims of the rival Houses of York and Lancaster to the throne are\ndiscussed at length; and if the English aristocracy will not read\nShakespeare as a poet, they should certainly read him as a sort of early\nPeerage. There is hardly a single title in the Upper House, with the\nexception of course of the uninteresting titles assumed by the law lords,\nwhich does not appear in Shakespeare along with many details of family\nhistory, creditable and discreditable. Indeed if it be really necessary\nthat the School Board children should know all about the Wars of the\nRoses, they could learn their lessons just as well out of Shakespeare as\nout of shilling primers, and learn them, I need not say, far more\npleasurably. Even in Shakespeare’s own day this use of his plays was\nrecognised. ‘The historical plays teach history to those who cannot read\nit in the chronicles,’ says Heywood in a tract about the stage, and yet I\nam sure that sixteenth-century chronicles were much more delightful\nreading than nineteenth-century primers are.\n\nOf course the æsthetic value of Shakespeare’s plays does not, in the\nslightest degree, depend on their facts, but on their Truth, and Truth is\nindependent of facts always, inventing or selecting them at pleasure.\nBut still Shakespeare’s use of facts is a most interesting part of his\nmethod of work, and shows us his attitude towards the stage, and his\nrelations to the great art of illusion. Indeed he would have been very\nmuch surprised at any one classing his plays with ‘fairy tales,’ as Lord\nLytton does; for one of his aims was to create for England a national\nhistorical drama, which should deal with incidents with which the public\nwas well acquainted, and with heroes that lived in the memory of a\npeople. Patriotism, I need hardly say, is not a necessary quality of\nart; but it means, for the artist, the substitution of a universal for an\nindividual feeling, and for the public the presentation of a work of art\nin a most attractive and popular form. It is worth noticing that\nShakespeare’s first and last successes were both historical plays.\n\nIt may be asked, what has this to do with Shakespeare’s attitude towards\ncostume? I answer that a dramatist who laid such stress on historical\naccuracy of fact would have welcomed historical accuracy of costume as a\nmost important adjunct to his illusionist method. And I have no\nhesitation in saying that he did so. The reference to helmets of the\nperiod in the prologue to _Henry the Fifth_ may be considered fanciful,\nthough Shakespeare must have often seen\n\n The very casque\n That did affright the air at Agincourt,\n\nwhere it still hangs in the dusky gloom of Westminster Abbey, along with\nthe saddle of that ‘imp of fame,’ and the dinted shield with its torn\nblue velvet lining and its tarnished lilies of gold; but the use of\nmilitary tabards in _Henry the Sixth_ is a bit of pure archæology, as\nthey were not worn in the sixteenth century; and the King’s own tabard, I\nmay mention, was still suspended over his tomb in St. George’s Chapel,\nWindsor, in Shakespeare’s day. For, up to the time of the unfortunate\ntriumph of the Philistines in 1645, the chapels and cathedrals of England\nwere the great national museums of archæology, and in them were kept the\narmour and attire of the heroes of English history. A good deal was of\ncourse preserved in the Tower, and even in Elizabeth’s day tourists were\nbrought there to see such curious relics of the past as Charles Brandon’s\nhuge lance, which is still, I believe, the admiration of our country\nvisitors; but the cathedrals and churches were, as a rule, selected as\nthe most suitable shrines for the reception of the historic antiquities.\nCanterbury can still show us the helm of the Black Prince, Westminster\nthe robes of our kings, and in old St. Paul’s the very banner that had\nwaved on Bosworth field was hung up by Richmond himself.\n\nIn fact, everywhere that Shakespeare turned in London, he saw the apparel\nand appurtenances of past ages, and it is impossible to doubt that he\nmade use of his opportunities. The employment of lance and shield, for\ninstance, in actual warfare, which is so frequent in his plays, is drawn\nfrom archæology, and not from the military accoutrements of his day; and\nhis general use of armour in battle was not a characteristic of his age,\na time when it was rapidly disappearing before firearms. Again, the\ncrest on Warwick’s helmet, of which such a point is made in _Henry the\nSixth_, is absolutely correct in a fifteenth-century play when crests\nwere generally worn, but would not have been so in a play of\nShakespeare’s own time, when feathers and plumes had taken their place—a\nfashion which, as he tells us in _Henry the Eighth_, was borrowed from\nFrance. For the historical plays, then, we may be sure that archæology\nwas employed, and as for the others I feel certain that it was the case\nalso. The appearance of Jupiter on his eagle, thunderbolt in hand, of\nJuno with her peacocks, and of Iris with her many-coloured bow; the\nAmazon masque and the masque of the Five Worthies, may all be regarded as\narchæological; and the vision which Posthumus sees in prison of Sicilius\nLeonatus—‘an old man, attired like a warrior, leading an ancient\nmatron’—is clearly so. Of the ‘Athenian dress’ by which Lysander is\ndistinguished from Oberon I have already spoken; but one of the most\nmarked instances is in the case of the dress of Coriolanus, for which\nShakespeare goes directly to Plutarch. That historian, in his Life of\nthe great Roman, tells us of the oak-wreath with which Caius Marcius was\ncrowned, and of the curious kind of dress in which, according to ancient\nfashion, he had to canvass his electors; and on both of these points he\nenters into long disquisitions, investigating the origin and meaning of\nthe old customs. Shakespeare, in the spirit of the true artist, accepts\nthe facts of the antiquarian and converts them into dramatic and\npicturesque effects: indeed the gown of humility, the ‘woolvish gown,’ as\nShakespeare calls it, is the central note of the play. There are other\ncases I might quote, but this one is quite sufficient for my purpose; and\nit is evident from it at any rate that, in mounting a play in the\naccurate costume of the time, according to the best authorities, we are\ncarrying out Shakespeare’s own wishes and method.\n\nEven if it were not so, there is no more reason that we should continue\nany imperfections which may be supposed to have characterised\nShakespeare’s stage mounting than that we should have Juliet played by a\nyoung man, or give up the advantage of changeable scenery. A great work\nof dramatic art should not merely be made expressive of modern passion by\nmeans of the actor, but should be presented to us in the form most\nsuitable to the modern spirit. Racine produced his Roman plays in Louis\nQuatorze dress on a stage crowded with spectators; but we require\ndifferent conditions for the enjoyment of his art. Perfect accuracy of\ndetail, for the sake of perfect illusion, is necessary for us. What we\nhave to see is that the details are not allowed to usurp the principal\nplace. They must be subordinate always to the general motive of the\nplay. But subordination in art does not mean disregard of truth; it\nmeans conversion of fact into effect, and assigning to each detail its\nproper relative value\n\n ‘Les petits détails d’histoire et de vie domestique (says Hugo)\n doivent être scrupuleusement étudiés et reproduits par le poète, mais\n uniquement comme des moyens d’accroître la réalité de l’ensemble, et\n de faire pénétrer jusque dans les coins les plus obscurs de l’œuvre\n cette vie générale et puissante au milieu de laquelle les personnages\n sont plus vrais, et les catastrophes, par conséqueut, plus\n poignantes. Tout doit être subordonné à ce but. L’Homme sur le\n premier plan, le reste au fond.’\n\nThis passage is interesting as coming from the first great French\ndramatist who employed archæology on the stage, and whose plays, though\nabsolutely correct in detail, are known to all for their passion, not for\ntheir pedantry—for their life, not for their learning. It is true that\nhe has made certain concessions in the case of the employment of curious\nor strange expressions. Ruy Blas talks of M, de Priego as ‘sujet du roi’\ninstead of ‘noble du roi,’ and Angelo Malipieri speaks of ‘la croix\nrouge’ instead of ‘la croix de gueules.’ But they are concessions made\nto the public, or rather to a section of it. ‘J’en offre ici toute mes\nexcuses aux spectateurs intelligents,’ he says in a note to one of the\nplays; ‘espérons qu’un jour un seigneur vénitien pourra dire tout\nbonnement sans péril son blason sur le théâtre. C’est un progrès qui\nviendra.’ And, though the description of the crest is not couched in\naccurate language, still the crest itself was accurately right. It may,\nof course, be said that the public do not notice these things; upon the\nother hand, it should be remembered that Art has no other aim but her own\nperfection, and proceeds simply by her own laws, and that the play which\nHamlet describes as being caviare to the general is a play he highly\npraises. Besides, in England, at any rate, the public have undergone a\ntransformation; there is far more appreciation of beauty now than there\nwas a few years ago; and though they may not be familiar with the\nauthorities and archæological data for what is shown to them, still they\nenjoy whatever loveliness they look at. And this is the important thing.\nBetter to take pleasure in a rose than to put its root under a\nmicroscope. Archæological accuracy is merely a condition of illusionist\nstage effect; it is not its quality. And Lord Lytton’s proposal that the\ndresses should merely be beautiful without being accurate is founded on a\nmisapprehension of the nature of costume, and of its value on the stage.\nThis value is twofold, picturesque and dramatic; the former depends on\nthe colour of the dress, the latter on its design and character. But so\ninterwoven are the two that, whenever in our own day historical accuracy\nhas been disregarded, and the various dresses in a play taken from\ndifferent ages, the result has been that the stage has been turned into\nthat chaos of costume, that caricature of the centuries, the Fancy Dress\nBall, to the entire ruin of all dramatic and picturesque effect. For the\ndresses of one age do not artistically harmonise with the dresses of\nanother: and, as far as dramatic value goes, to confuse the costumes is\nto confuse the play. Costume is a growth, an evolution, and a most\nimportant, perhaps the most important, sign of the manners, customs and\nmode of life of each century. The Puritan dislike of colour, adornment\nand grace in apparel was part of the great revolt of the middle classes\nagainst Beauty in the seventeenth century. A historian who disregarded\nit would give us a most inaccurate picture of the time, and a dramatist\nwho did not avail himself of it would miss a most vital element in\nproducing an illusionist effect. The effeminacy of dress that\ncharacterised the reign of Richard the Second was a constant theme of\ncontemporary authors. Shakespeare, writing two hundred years after,\nmakes the king’s fondness for gay apparel and foreign fashions a point in\nthe play, from John of Gaunt’s reproaches down to Richard’s own speech in\nthe third act on his deposition from the throne. And that Shakespeare\nexamined Richard’s tomb in Westminster Abbey seems to me certain from\nYork’s speech:—\n\n See, see, King Richard doth himself appear\n As doth the blushing discontented sun\n From out the fiery portal of the east,\n When he perceives the envious clouds are bent\n To dim his glory.\n\nFor we can still discern on the King’s robe his favourite badge—the sun\nissuing from a cloud. In fact, in every age the social conditions are so\nexemplified in costume, that to produce a sixteenth-century play in\nfourteenth-century attire, or _vice versa_, would make the performance\nseem unreal because untrue. And, valuable as beauty of effect on the\nstage is, the highest beauty is not merely comparable with absolute\naccuracy of detail, but really dependent on it. To invent, an entirely\nnew costume is almost impossible except in burlesque or extravaganza, and\nas for combining the dress of different centuries into one, the\nexperiment would be dangerous, and Shakespeare’s opinion of the artistic\nvalue of such a medley may be gathered from his incessant satire of the\nElizabethan dandies for imagining that they were well dressed because\nthey got their doublets in Italy, their hats in Germany, and their hose\nin France. And it should be noted that the most lovely scenes that have\nbeen produced on our stage have been those that have been characterised\nby perfect accuracy, such as Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft’s eighteenth-century\nrevivals at the Haymarket, Mr. Irying’s superb production of _Much Ado\nAbout Nothing_, and Mr. Barrett’s _Claudian_. Besides, and this is\nperhaps the most complete answer to Lord Lytton’s theory, it must be\nremembered that neither in costume nor in dialogue is beauty the\ndramatist’s primary aim at all. The true dramatist aims first at what is\ncharacteristic, and no more desires that all his personages should be\nbeautifully attired than he desires that they should all have beautiful\nnatures or speak beautiful English. The true dramatist, in fact, shows\nus life under the conditions of art, not art in the form of life. The\nGreek dress was the loveliest dress the world has ever seen, and the\nEnglish dress of the last century one of the most monstrous; yet we\ncannot costume a play by Sheridan as we would costume a play by\nSophokles. For, as Polonius says in his excellent lecture, a lecture to\nwhich I am glad to have the opportunity of expressing my obligations, one\nof the first qualities of apparel is its expressiveness. And the\naffected style of dress in the last century was the natural\ncharacteristic of a society of affected manners and affected\nconversation—a characteristic which the realistic dramatist will highly\nvalue down to the smallest detail of accuracy, and the materials for\nwhich he can get only from archæology.\n\nBut it is not enough that a dress should be accurate; it must be also\nappropriate to the stature and appearance of the actor, and to his\nsupposed condition, as well as to his necessary action in the play. In\nMr. Hare’s production of _As You Like It_ at the St. James’s Theatre, for\ninstance, the whole point of Orlando’s complaint that he is brought up\nlike a peasant, and not like a gentleman, was spoiled by the gorgeousness\nof his dress, and the splendid apparel worn by the banished Duke and his\nfriends was quite out of place. Mr. Lewis Wingfield’s explanation that\nthe sumptuary laws of the period necessitated their doing so, is, I am\nafraid, hardly sufficient. Outlaws, lurking in a forest and living by\nthe chase, are not very likely to care much about ordinances of dress.\nThey were probably attired like Robin Hood’s men, to whom, indeed, they\nare compared in the course of the play. And that their dress was not\nthat of wealthy noblemen may be seen by Orlando’s words when he breaks in\nupon them. He mistakes them for robbers, and is amazed to find that they\nanswer him in courteous and gentle terms. Lady Archibald Campbell’s\nproduction, under Mr. E. W. Godwin’s direction, of the same play in\nCoombe Wood was, as regards mounting, far more artistic. At least it\nseemed so to me. The Duke and his companions were dressed in serge\ntunics, leathern jerkins, high boots and gauntlets, and wore bycocket\nhats and hoods. And as they were playing in a real forest, they found, I\nam sure, their dresses extremely convenient. To every character in the\nplay was given a perfectly appropriate attire, and the brown and green of\ntheir costumes harmonised exquisitely with the ferns through which they\nwandered, the trees beneath which they lay, and the lovely English\nlandscape that surrounded the Pastoral Players. The perfect naturalness\nof the scene was due to the absolute accuracy and appropriateness of\neverything that was worn. Nor could archæology have been put to a\nseverer test, or come out of it more triumphantly. The whole production\nshowed once for all that, unless a dress is archæologically correct, and\nartistically appropriate, it always looks unreal, unnatural, and\ntheatrical in the sense of artificial.\n\nNor, again, is it enough that there should be accurate and appropriate\ncostumes of beautiful colours; there must be also beauty of colour on the\nstage as a whole, and as long as the background is painted by one artist,\nand the foreground figures independently designed by another, there is\nthe danger of a want of harmony in the scene as a picture. For each\nscene the colour-scheme should be settled as absolutely as for the\ndecoration of a room, and the textures which it is proposed to use should\nbe mixed and re-mixed in every possible combination, and what is\ndiscordant removed. Then, as regards the particular kinds of colours,\nthe stage is often too glaring, partly through the excessive use of hot,\nviolent reds, and partly through the costumes looking too new.\nShabbiness, which in modern life is merely the tendency of the lower\norders towards tone, is not without its artistic value, and modern\ncolours are often much improved by being a little faded. Blue also is\ntoo frequently used: it is not merely a dangerous colour to wear by\ngaslight, but it is really difficult in England to get a thoroughly good\nblue. The fine Chinese blue, which we all so much admire, takes two\nyears to dye, and the English public will not wait so long for a colour.\nPeacock blue, of course, has been employed on the stage, notably at the\nLyceum, with great advantage; but all attempts at a good light blue, or\ngood dark blue, which I have seen have been failures. The value of black\nis hardly appreciated; it was used effectively by Mr. Irving in _Hamlet_\nas the central note of a composition, but as a tone-giving neutral its\nimportance is not recognised. And this is curious, considering the\ngeneral colour of the dress of a century in which, as Baudelaire says,\n‘Nous célébrons tous quelque enterrement.’ The archæologist of the\nfuture will probably point to this age as the time when the beauty of\nblack was understood; but I hardly think that, as regards stage-mounting\nor house decoration, it really is. Its decorative value is, of course,\nthe same as that of white or gold; it can separate and harmonise colours.\nIn modern plays the black frock-coat of the hero becomes important in\nitself, and should be given a suitable background. But it rarely is.\nIndeed the only good background for a play in modern dress which I have\never seen was the dark grey and cream-white scene of the first act of the\n_Princesse Georges_ in Mrs. Langtry’s production. As a rule, the hero is\nsmothered in _bric-à-brac_ and palm-trees, lost in the gilded abyss of\nLouis Quatorze furniture, or reduced to a mere midge in the midst of\nmarqueterie; whereas the background should always be kept as a\nbackground, and colour subordinated to effect. This, of course, can only\nbe done when there is one single mind directing the whole production.\nThe facts of art are diverse, but the essence of artistic effect is\nunity. Monarchy, Anarchy, and Republicanism may contend for the\ngovernment of nations; but a theatre should be in the power of a cultured\ndespot. There may be division of labour, but there must be no division\nof mind. Whoever understands the costume of an age understands of\nnecessity its architecture and its surroundings also, and it is easy to\nsee from the chairs of a century whether it was a century of crinolines\nor not. In fact, in art there is no specialism, and a really artistic\nproduction should bear the impress of one master, and one master only,\nwho not merely should design and arrange everything, but should have\ncomplete control over the way in which each dress is to be worn.\n\nMademoiselle Mars, in the first production of _Hernani_, absolutely\nrefused to call her lover ‘_Mon Lion_!’ unless she was allowed to wear a\nlittle fashionable _toque_ then much in vogue on the Boulevards; and many\nyoung ladies on our own stage insist to the present day on wearing stiff\nstarched petticoats under Greek dresses, to the entire ruin of all\ndelicacy of line and fold; but these wicked things should not be allowed.\nAnd there should be far more dress rehearsals than there are now. Actors\nsuch as Mr. Forbes-Robertson, Mr. Conway, Mr. George Alexander, and\nothers, not to mention older artists, can move with ease and elegance in\nthe attire of any century; but there are not a few who seem dreadfully\nembarrassed about their hands if they have no side pockets, and who\nalways wear their dresses as if they were costumes. Costumes, of course,\nthey are to the designer; but dresses they should be to those that wear\nthem. And it is time that a stop should be put to the idea, very\nprevalent on the stage, that the Greeks and Romans always went about\nbareheaded in the open air—a mistake the Elizabethan managers did not\nfall into, for they gave hoods as well as gowns to their Roman senators.\n\nMore dress rehearsals would also be of value in explaining to the actors\nthat there is a form of gesture and movement that is not merely\nappropriate to each style of dress, but really conditioned by it. The\nextravagant use of the arms in the eighteenth century, for instance, was\nthe necessary result of the large hoop, and the solemn dignity of\nBurleigh owed as much to his ruff as to his reason. Besides until an\nactor is at home in his dress, he is not at home in his part.\n\nOf the value of beautiful costume in creating an artistic temperament in\nthe audience, and producing that joy in beauty for beauty’s sake without\nwhich the great masterpieces of art can never be understood, I will not\nhere speak; though it is worth while to notice how Shakespeare\nappreciated that side of the question in the production of his tragedies,\nacting them always by artificial light, and in a theatre hung with black;\nbut what I have tried to point out is that archæology is not a pedantic\nmethod, but a method of artistic illusion, and that costume is a means of\ndisplaying character without description, and of producing dramatic\nsituations and dramatic effects. And I think it is a pity that so many\ncritics should have set themselves to attack one of the most important\nmovements on the modern stage before that movement has at all reached its\nproper perfection. That it will do so, however, I feel as certain as\nthat we shall require from our dramatic critics in the future higher\nqualification than that they can remember Macready or have seen Benjamin\nWebster; we shall require of them, indeed, that they cultivate a sense of\nbeauty. _Pour être plus difficile_, _la tâche n’en est que plus\nglorieuse_. And if they will not encourage, at least they must not\noppose, a movement of which Shakespeare of all dramatists would have most\napproved, for it has the illusion of truth for its method, and the\nillusion of beauty for its result. Not that I agree with everything that\nI have said in this essay. There is much with which I entirely disagree.\nThe essay simply represents an artistic standpoint, and in æsthetic\ncriticism attitude is everything. For in art there is no such thing as a\nuniversal truth. A Truth in art is that whose contradictory is also\ntrue. And just as it is only in art-criticism, and through it, that we\ncan apprehend the Platonic theory of ideas, so it is only in\nart-criticism, and through it, that we can realise Hegel’s system of\ncontraries. 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'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: The Picture of Dorian Gray\n\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\n\nRelease Date: October 1, 2008 [EBook #26740]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY ***\n\n\n\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Chuck Greif and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY\n\nBY\n\nOSCAR WILDE\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL,\n\nHAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.\n\nPARIS\n\nON SALE AT YE OLD PARIS BOOKE SHOPPE\n\n11 RUE DE CHÂTEAUDUN\n\n_Registered at Stationers\' Hall and protected\nunder the Copyright Law Act.\n\nFirst published in complete book form in 1891 by\nMessrs. Ward, Lock & Co. (London),\n\nFirst printed in this Edition April 1913,\nReprinted June 1913, September 1913,\nJune 1914, January 1916\nOctober 1916._\n\n_See the Bibliographical Note on certain Pirated and Mutilated\nEditions of "Dorian Gray" at the end of this present volume._\n\n\n\n\nTHE PREFACE\n\n\nThe artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal\nthe artist is art\'s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another\nmanner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.\n\nThe highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of\nautobiography.\n\nThose who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without\nbeing charming. This is a fault.\n\nThose who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the\ncultivated. For these there is hope.\n\nThey are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.\n\nThere is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well\nwritten, or badly written. That is all.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing\nhis own face in a glass.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not\nseeing his own face in a glass.\n\nThe moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist,\nbut the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect\nmedium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true\ncan be proved.\n\nNo artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an\nunpardonable mannerism of style.\n\nNo artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.\n\nThought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.\n\nVice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.\n\nFrom the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of\nthe musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor\'s craft is\nthe type.\n\nAll art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface\ndo so at their peril.\n\nThose who read the symbol do so at their peril.\n\nIt is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of\nopinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and\nvital.\n\nWhen critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.\n\nWe can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not\nadmire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one\nadmires it intensely.\n\nAll art is quite useless.\n\nOSCAR WILDE.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light\nsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through\nthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume\nof the pink-flowering thorn.\n\nFrom the corner of the divan of Persian saddlebags on which he was\nlying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry\nWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured\nblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to\nbear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then\nthe fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long\ntussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,\nproducing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of\nthose pallid jade-faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an\nart that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness\nand motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through\nthe long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the\ndusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the\nstillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon\nnote of a distant organ.\n\nIn the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the\nfull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,\nand in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist\nhimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago\ncaused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many\nstrange conjectures.\n\nAs the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so\nskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his\nface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and,\nclosing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought\nto imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he\nmight awake.\n\n"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said\nLord Henry, languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the\nGrosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone\nthere, there have been either so many people that I have not been able\nto see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have\nnot been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is\nreally the only place."\n\n"I don\'t think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head\nback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at\nOxford. "No: I won\'t send it anywhere."\n\nLord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazement through\nthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls\nfrom his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear\nfellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You\ndo anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,\nyou seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only\none thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not\nbeing talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the\nyoung men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are\never capable of any emotion."\n\n"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can\'t exhibit\nit. I have put too much of myself into it."\n\nLord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.\n\n"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same."\n\n"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn\'t know you were\nso vain; and I really can\'t see any resemblance between you, with your\nrugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who\nlooks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear\nBasil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an\nintellectual expression, and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends\nwhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode\nof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one\nsits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something\nhorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.\nHow perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But\nthen in the Church they don\'t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age\nof eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as\na natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your\nmysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose\npicture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that.\nHe is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should be always here in\nwinter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer\nwhen we want something to chill our intelligence. Don\'t flatter\nyourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him."\n\n"You don\'t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am\nnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to\nlook like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.\nThere is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the\nsort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps\nof kings. It is better not to be different from one\'s fellows. The ugly\nand the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their\nease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at\nleast spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live,\nundisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin\nupon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth,\nHarry; my brains, such as they are--my art, whatever it may be worth;\nDorian Gray\'s good looks--we shall all suffer for what the gods have\ngiven us, suffer terribly."\n\n"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the\nstudio towards Basil Hallward.\n\n"Yes, that is his name. I didn\'t intend to tell it to you."\n\n"But why not?"\n\n"Oh, I can\'t explain. When I like people immensely I never tell their\nnames to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to\nlove secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life\nmysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one\nonly hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am\ngoing. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I\ndaresay, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into\none\'s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?"\n\n"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem\nto forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it\nmakes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I\nnever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.\nWhen we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go\ndown to the Duke\'s--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the\nmost serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact,\nthan I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But\nwhen she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she\nwould; but she merely laughs at me."\n\n"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil\nHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I\nbelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you are\nthoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow.\nYou never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your\ncynicism is simply a pose."\n\n"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,"\ncried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the\ngarden together, and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that\nstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the\npolished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.\n\nAfter a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be\ngoing, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering\na question I put to you some time ago."\n\n"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.\n\n"You know quite well."\n\n"I do not, Harry."\n\n"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you\nwon\'t exhibit Dorian Gray\'s picture. I want the real reason."\n\n"I told you the real reason."\n\n"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself\nin it. Now, that is childish."\n\n"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every\nportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not\nof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is\nnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on\nthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this\npicture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own\nsoul."\n\nLord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.\n\n"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came\nover his face.\n\n"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.\n\n"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;\n"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly\nbelieve it."\n\nLord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from\nthe grass, and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he\nreplied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, "and\nas for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is\nquite incredible."\n\nThe wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms,\nwith their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A\ngrasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long\nthin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt\nas if he could hear Basil Hallward\'s heart beating, and wondered what\nwas coming.\n\n"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two\nmonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon\'s. You know we poor artists\nhave to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the\npublic that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as\nyou told me once, anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for\nbeing civilised. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes,\ntalking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I\nsuddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned\nhalfway round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes\nmet, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came\nover me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere\npersonality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would\nabsorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not\nwant any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how\nindependent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at\nleast always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then---- but I don\'t know\nhow to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the\nverge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate\nhad in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid,\nand turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so;\nit was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to\nescape."\n\n"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience\nis the trade-name of the firm. That is all."\n\n"I don\'t believe that, Harry, and I don\'t believe you do either.\nHowever, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used\nto be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I\nstumbled against Lady Brandon. \'You are not going to run away so soon,\nMr. Hallward?\' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?"\n\n"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry,\npulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers.\n\n"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, and people\nwith Stars and Garters, and elderly ladles with gigantic tiaras and\nparrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her\nonce before, but she took it into her head to lionise me. I believe some\npicture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been\nchattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century\nstandard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the\nyoung man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite\nclose, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I\nasked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so\nreckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to\neach other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me\nso afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other."\n\n"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his\ncompanion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her\nguests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old\ngentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my\near, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to\neverybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I\nlike to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests\nexactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them\nentirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants\nto know."\n\n"Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallward,\nlistlessly.\n\n"My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in\nopening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she\nsay about Mr. Dorian Gray?"\n\n"Oh, something like, \'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely\ninseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn\'t do\nanything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?\'\nNeither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once."\n\n"Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far\nthe best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy.\n\nHallward shook his head. "You don\'t understand what friendship is,\nHarry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like\neveryone; that is to say, you are indifferent to everyone."\n\n"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back,\nand looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy\nwhite silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer\nsky. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between\npeople. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for\ntheir good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man\ncannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one\nwho is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and\nconsequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it\nis rather vain."\n\n"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be\nmerely an acquaintance."\n\n"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance."\n\n"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?"\n\n"Oh, brothers! I don\'t care for brothers. My elder brother won\'t die,\nand my younger brothers seem never to do anything else."\n\n"Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning.\n\n"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can\'t help detesting my\nrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand\nother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathise\nwith the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices\nof the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and\nimmorality should be their own special property, and that if anyone of\nus makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. When poor\nSouthwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite\nmagnificent. And yet I don\'t suppose that ten per cent. of the\nproletariat live correctly."\n\n"I don\'t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more,\nHarry, I feel sure you don\'t either."\n\nLord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his\npatent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "How English you are,\nBasil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one\nputs forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to do--he\nnever dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only\nthing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself.\nNow, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the\nsincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are\nthat the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will\nthe idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his\nwants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don\'t propose to\ndiscuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons\nbetter than principles, and I like persons with no principles better\nthan anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray. How\noften do you see him?"\n\n"Every day. I couldn\'t be happy if I didn\'t see him every day. He is\nabsolutely necessary to me."\n\n"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your\nart."\n\n"He is all my art to me now," said the painter, gravely. "I sometimes\nthink, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the\nworld\'s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,\nand the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What\nthe invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinoüs\nwas to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day\nbe to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, sketch\nfrom him. Of course I have done all that. But he is much more to me\nthan a model or a sitter. I won\'t tell you that I am dissatisfied with\nwhat I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that Art cannot\nexpress it. There is nothing that Art cannot express, and I know that\nthe work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best\nwork of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder will you understand\nme?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art,\nan entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them\ndifferently. I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me,\nbefore. \'A dream of form in days of thought:\'--who is it who says that?\nI forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible\npresence of this lad--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though\nhe is really over twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can\nyou realise all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the\nlines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion\nof the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek.\nThe harmony of soul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have\nseparated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an\nideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to\nme! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such\na huge price, but which I would not part with? It is one of the best\nthings I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting\nit, Dorian Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to\nme, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the\nwonder I had always looked for, and always missed."\n\n"Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray."\n\nHallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the garden. After\nsome time he came back. "Harry," he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simply\na motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.\nHe is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.\nHe is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the\ncurves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain\ncolours. That is all."\n\n"Then why won\'t you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry.\n\n"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of\nall this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never\ncared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know\nanything about it. But the world might guess it; and I will not bare my\nsoul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under\ntheir microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry--too\nmuch of myself!"\n\n"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is\nfor publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions."\n\n"I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create beautiful\nthings, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an\nage when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of\nautobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I\nwill show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall\nnever see my portrait of Dorian Gray."\n\n"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won\'t argue with you. It is only\nthe intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very\nfond of you?"\n\nThe painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered,\nafter a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully.\nI find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be\nsorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in\nthe studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is\nhorribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me\npain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to\nsomeone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit\nof decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer\'s day."\n\n"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry.\n"Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think\nof, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That\naccounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate\nourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something\nthat endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the\nsilly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man--that\nis the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is\na dreadful thing. It is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust,\nwith everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire\nfirst, all the same. Some day you will look at your friend, and he will\nseem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won\'t like his tone of\ncolour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart,\nand seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time\nhe calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great\npity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a\nromance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of\nany kind is that it leaves one so unromantic."\n\n"Harry, don\'t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of\nDorian Gray will dominate me. You can\'t feel what I feel. You change too\noften."\n\n"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are\nfaithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who\nknow love\'s tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver\ncase, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied\nair, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of\nchirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the\nblue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How\npleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people\'s\nemotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him.\nOne\'s own soul, and the passions of one\'s friends--those were the\nfascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent amusement\nthe tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil\nHallward. Had he gone to his aunt\'s he would have been sure to have met\nLord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about\nthe feeding of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses.\nEach class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for\nwhose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The rich would\nhave spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the\ndignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he\nthought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to\nHallward, and said, "My dear fellow, I have just remembered."\n\n"Remembered what, Harry?"\n\n"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray."\n\n"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown.\n\n"Don\'t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha\'s. She told\nme she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her\nin the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state\nthat she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation\nof good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very\nearnest, and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a\ncreature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping\nabout on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend."\n\n"I am very glad you didn\'t, Harry."\n\n"Why?"\n\n"I don\'t want you to meet him."\n\n"You don\'t want me to meet him?"\n\n"No."\n\n"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into\nthe garden.\n\n"You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing.\n\nThe painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.\n"Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The man\nbowed, and went up the walk.\n\nThen he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he\nsaid. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right\nin what she said of him. Don\'t spoil him. Don\'t try to influence him.\nYour influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous\npeople in it. Don\'t take away from me the one person who gives to my art\nwhatever charm it possesses; my life as an artist depends on him. Mind,\nHarry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung\nout of him almost against his will.\n\n"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and, taking Hallward\nby the arm, he almost led him into the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nAs they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with\nhis back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann\'s\n"Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to\nlearn them. They are perfectly charming."\n\n"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian."\n\n"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don\'t want a life-sized portrait of\nmyself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a\nwilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint\nblush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your\npardon, Basil, but I didn\'t know you had anyone with you."\n\n"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have\njust been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have\nspoiled everything."\n\n"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord\nHenry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often\nspoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid,\none of her victims also."\n\n"I am in Lady Agatha\'s black books at present," answered Dorian, with a\nfunny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with\nher last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have\nplayed a duet together--three duets, I believe. I don\'t know what she\nwill say to me. I am far too frightened to call."\n\n"Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.\nAnd I don\'t think it really matters about your not being there. The\naudience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to\nthe piano she makes quite enough noise for two people."\n\n"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian,\nlaughing.\n\nLord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,\nwith his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold\nhair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once.\nAll the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth\'s passionate\npurity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No\nwonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.\n\n"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray--far too\ncharming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened\nhis cigarette-case.\n\nThe painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes\nready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry\'s last\nremark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry,\nI want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of\nme if I asked you to go away?"\n\nLord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he\nasked.\n\n"Oh, please don\'t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky\nmoods; and I can\'t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell\nme why I should not go in for philanthropy."\n\n"I don\'t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a\nsubject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly\nshall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don\'t really\nmind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters\nto have someone to chat to."\n\nHallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.\nDorian\'s whims are laws to everybody, except himself."\n\nLord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil,\nbut I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.\nGood-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I\nam nearly always at home at five o\'clock. Write to me when you are\ncoming. I should be sorry to miss you."\n\n"Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes I shall go too.\nYou never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull\nstanding on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I\ninsist upon it."\n\n"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing\nintently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am\nworking, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for\nmy unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay."\n\n"But what about my man at the Orleans?"\n\nThe painter laughed. "I don\'t think there will be any difficulty about\nthat. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,\nand don\'t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry\nsays. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single\nexception of myself."\n\nDorian Gray stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek\nmartyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he\nhad rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful\ncontrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said\nto him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as\nBasil says?"\n\n"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is\nimmoral--immoral from the scientific point of view."\n\n"Why?"\n\n"Because to influence a person is to give him one\'s own soul. He does\nnot think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His\nvirtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins,\nare borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else\'s music, an actor of a\npart that has not been written for him. The aim of life is\nself-development. To realise one\'s nature perfectly--that is what each\nof us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have\nforgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one\'s\nself. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe\nthe beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone\nout of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,\nwhich is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of\nreligion--these are the two things that govern us. And yet----"\n\n"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good\nboy," said the painter, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look\nhad come into the lad\'s face that he had never seen there before.\n\n"And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with\nthat graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him,\nand that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were\nto live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every\nfeeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--I believe\nthat the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would\nforget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the Hellenic\nideal--to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be.\nBut the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of\nthe savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our\nlives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to\nstrangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has\ndone with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains\nthen but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The\nonly way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and\nyour soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to\nitself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and\nunlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place\nin the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great\nsins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with\nyour rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions\nthat have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror,\nday-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek\nwith shame----"\n\n"Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don\'t know what\nto say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don\'t speak.\nLet me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think."\n\nFor nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips, and\neyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh\ninfluences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come\nreally from himself. The few words that Basil\'s friend had said to\nhim--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in\nthem--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,\nbut that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.\n\nMusic had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But\nmusic was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another\nchaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!\nHow clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet\nwhat a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a\nplastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as\nsweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real\nas words?\n\nYes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.\nHe understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It\nseemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?\n\nWith his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise\npsychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.\nHe was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and,\nremembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which\nhad revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered\nwhether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had\nmerely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating\nthe lad was!\n\nHallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had\nthe true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate, comes\nonly from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.\n\n"Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. "I must go\nout and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here."\n\n"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can\'t think of\nanything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I\nhave caught the effect I wanted--the half-parted lips, and the bright\nlook in the eyes. I don\'t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he\nhas certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he\nhas been paying you compliments. You mustn\'t believe a word that he\nsays."\n\n"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the\nreason that I don\'t believe anything he has told me."\n\n"You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his\ndreamy, languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is\nhorribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,\nsomething with strawberries in it."\n\n"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will\ntell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I\nwill join you later on. Don\'t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in\nbetter form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my\nmasterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands."\n\nLord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his\nface in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their\nperfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand\nupon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured.\n"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the\nsenses but the soul."\n\nThe lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had\ntossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There\nwas a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are\nsuddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some\nhidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.\n\n"Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of\nlife--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means\nof the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think\nyou know, just as you know less than you want to know."\n\nDorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking\nthe tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic\nolive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was\nsomething in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His\ncool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,\nas he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But\nhe felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left\nfor a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for\nmonths, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly\nthere had come someone across his life who seemed to have disclosed to\nhim life\'s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not\na schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.\n\n"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought\nout the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be\nquite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not\nallow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming."\n\n"What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the\nseat at the end of the garden.\n\n"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray."\n\n"Why?"\n\n"Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing\nworth having."\n\n"I don\'t feel that, Lord Henry."\n\n"No, you don\'t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and\nugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion\nbranded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will\nfeel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it\nalways be so?... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don\'t\nfrown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius--is higher, indeed, than\nGenius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the\nworld, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters\nof that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has\nits divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.\nYou smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won\'t smile.... People say\nsometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least\nit is not so superficial as Thought is. To me, Beauty is the wonder of\nwonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The\ntrue mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr.\nGray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they\nquickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really,\nperfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it,\nand then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for\nyou, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the\nmemory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as\nit wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of\nyou, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become\nsallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly....\nAh! realise your youth while you have it. Don\'t squander the gold of\nyour days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless\nfailure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the\nvulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live!\nLive the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be\nalways searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new\nHedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible\nsymbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The\nworld belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that\nyou were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really\nmight be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must\ntell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if\nyou were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will\nlast--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they\nblossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In\na month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year\nthe green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never\nget back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes\nsluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous\npuppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much\nafraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to\nyield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but\nyouth!"\n\nDorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell\nfrom his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for\na moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of\nthe tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial\nthings that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid,\nor when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find\nexpression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to\nthe brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He\nsaw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The\nflower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.\n\nSuddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio, and made\nstaccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and\nsmiled.\n\n"I am waiting," he cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and\nyou can bring your drinks."\n\nThey rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white\nbutterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of\nthe garden a thrush began to sing.\n\n"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at\nhim.\n\n"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?"\n\n"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.\nWomen are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to\nmake it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only\ndifference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice\nlasts a little longer."\n\nAs they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry\'s\narm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured,\nflushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and\nresumed his pose.\n\nLord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.\nThe sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that\nbroke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to\nlook at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed\nthrough the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent\nof the roses seemed to brood over everything.\n\nAfter about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a\nlong time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,\nbiting the end of one of his huge brushes, and frowning. "It is quite\nfinished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long\nvermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.\n\nLord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a\nwonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.\n\n"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "It is the\nfinest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at\nyourself."\n\nThe lad started, as if awakened from some dream. "Is it really\nfinished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform.\n\n"Quite finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly to-day.\nI am awfully obliged to you."\n\n"That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn\'t it, Mr. Gray?"\n\nDorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture,\nand turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks\nflushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as\nif he had recognised himself for the first time. He stood there\nmotionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to\nhim, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own\nbeauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil\nHallward\'s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming\nexaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them,\nforgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord\nHenry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning\nof its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood\ngazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the\ndescription flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face\nwould be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of\nhis figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his\nlips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his\nsoul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.\n\nAs he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a\nknife, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes\ndeepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as\nif a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.\n\n"Don\'t you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad\'s\nsilence, not understanding what it meant.\n\n"Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn\'t like it? It is\none of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you\nlike to ask for it. I must have it."\n\n"It is not my property, Harry."\n\n"Whose property is it?"\n\n"Dorian\'s, of course," answered the painter.\n\n"He is a very lucky fellow."\n\n"How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon\nhis own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and\ndreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be\nolder than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other\nway! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was\nto grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there is\nnothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for\nthat!"\n\n"You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord\nHenry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work."\n\n"I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward.\n\nDorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You\nlike your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green\nbronze figure. Hardly as much, I daresay."\n\nThe painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like\nthat. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and\nhis cheeks burning.\n\n"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your\nsilver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till\nI have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses\none\'s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your\npicture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth\nis the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I\nshall kill myself."\n\nHallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried,\n"don\'t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I\nshall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,\nare you?--you who are finer than any of them!"\n\n"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of\nthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must\nlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives\nsomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could\nchange, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It\nwill mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his\neyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he\nburied his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.\n\n"This is your doing, Harry," said the painter, bitterly.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray--that is\nall."\n\n"It is not."\n\n"If it is not, what have I to do with it?"\n\n"You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered.\n\n"I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry\'s answer.\n\n"Harry, I can\'t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between\nyou both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever\ndone, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will\nnot let it come across our three lives and mar them."\n\nDorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face\nand tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over to the deal\npainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was\nhe doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin\ntubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long\npalette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at\nlast. He was going to rip up the canvas.\n\nWith a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to\nHallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the\nstudio. "Don\'t, Basil, don\'t!" he cried. "It would be murder!"\n\n"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter,\ncoldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you\nwould."\n\n"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I\nfeel that."\n\n"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and\nsent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked\nacross the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of\ncourse, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple\npleasures?"\n\n"I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge\nof the complex. But I don\'t like scenes, except on the stage. What\nabsurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as\na rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man\nis many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all:\nthough I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had\nmuch better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn\'t really want\nit, and I really do."\n\n"If you let anyone have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!"\ncried Dorian Gray; "and I don\'t allow people to call me a silly boy."\n\n"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it\nexisted."\n\n"And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don\'t\nreally object to being reminded that you are extremely young."\n\n"I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry."\n\n"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then."\n\nThere came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden\ntea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle\nof cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two\nglobe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went\nover and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the\ntable, and examined what was under the covers.\n\n"Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to\nbe something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White\'s, but it\nis only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am\nill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent\nengagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have\nall the surprise of candour."\n\n"It is such a bore putting on one\'s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward.\n"And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."\n\n"Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth\ncentury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only\nreal colour-element left in modern life."\n\n"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry."\n\n"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one\nin the picture?"\n\n"Before either."\n\n"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the\nlad.\n\n"Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won\'t you?"\n\n"I can\'t really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."\n\n"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray."\n\n"I should like that awfully."\n\nThe painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I\nshall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.\n\n"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling\nacross to him. "Am I really like that?"\n\n"Yes; you are just like that."\n\n"How wonderful, Basil!"\n\n"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,"\nsighed Hallward. "That is something."\n\n"What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why,\neven in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to\ndo with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old\nmen want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say."\n\n"Don\'t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and\ndine with me."\n\n"I can\'t, Basil."\n\n"Why?"\n\n"Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him."\n\n"He won\'t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always\nbreaks his own. I beg you not to go."\n\nDorian Gray laughed and shook his head.\n\n"I entreat you."\n\nThe lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them\nfrom the tea-table with an amused smile.\n\n"I must go, Basil," he answered.\n\n"Very well," said Hallward; and he went over and laid down his cup on\nthe tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better\nlose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.\nCome to-morrow."\n\n"Certainly."\n\n"You won\'t forget?"\n\n"No, of course not," cried Dorian.\n\n"And... Harry!"\n\n"Yes, Basil?"\n\n"Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning."\n\n"I have forgotten it."\n\n"I trust you."\n\n"I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr.\nGray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.\nGood-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon."\n\nAs the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a\nsofa, and a look of pain came into his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nAt half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon\nStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if\nsomewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called\nselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was\nconsidered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His\nfather had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young, and\nPrim unthought of, but had retired from the Diplomatic Service in a\ncapricious moment of annoyance at not being offered the Embassy at\nParis, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by\nreason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his despatches,\nand his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his\nfather\'s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat\nfoolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months\nlater to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great\naristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town\nhouses, but preferred to live in chambers, as it was less trouble, and\ntook most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the\nmanagement of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself\nfor this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of\nhaving coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of\nburning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when\nthe Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them\nfor being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied\nhim, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.\nOnly England could have produced him, and he always said that the\ncountry was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but\nthere was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.\n\nWhen Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough\nshooting coat, smoking a cheroot, and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well,\nHarry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought\nyou dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five."\n\n"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get\nsomething out of you."\n\n"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sit down\nand tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is\neverything."\n\n"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his buttonhole in his coat; "and\nwhen they grow older they know it. But I don\'t want money. It is only\npeople who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay\nmine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly\nupon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor\'s tradesmen, and\nconsequently they never bother me. What I want is information; not\nuseful information, of course; useless information."\n\n"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue-book, Harry,\nalthough those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in\nthe Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now\nby examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug\nfrom beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough,\nand if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him."\n\n"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue-books, Uncle George," said Lord\nHenry, languidly.\n\n"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy\nwhite eyebrows.\n\n"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who\nhe is. He is the last Lord Kelso\'s grandson. His mother was a Devereux;\nLady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was\nshe like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your\ntime, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray\nat present. I have only just met him."\n\n"Kelso\'s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman.--"Kelso\'s grandson!... Of\ncourse.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her\nchristening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret\nDevereux; and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless\nyoung fellow; a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or\nsomething of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it\nhappened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa, a few\nmonths after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said\nKelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his\nson-in-law in public; paid him, sir, to do it, paid him; and that the\nfellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed\nup, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time\nafterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she\nnever spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died\ntoo; died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten\nthat. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother he must be a\ngood-looking chap."\n\n"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry.\n\n"I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He\nshould have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing\nby him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property came to her,\nthrough her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean\ndog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was\nashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was\nalways quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a\nstory of it. I didn\'t dare to show my face at Court for a month. I hope\nhe treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."\n\n"I don\'t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well\noff. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And...\nhis mother was very beautiful?"\n\n"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry.\nWhat on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could\nunderstand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad\nafter her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were.\nThe men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington\nwent on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and\nthere wasn\'t a girl in London at the time who wasn\'t after him. And by\nthe way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your\nfather tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain\'t\nEnglish girls good enough for him?"\n\n"It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George."\n\n"I\'ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor,\nstriking the table with his fist.\n\n"The betting is on the Americans."\n\n"They don\'t last, I am told," muttered his uncle.\n\n"A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a\nsteeplechase. They take things flying. I don\'t think Dartmoor has a\nchance."\n\n"Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?"\n\nLord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing\ntheir parents as English women are at concealing their past," he said,\nrising to go.\n\n"They are pork-packers, I suppose?"\n\n"I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor\'s sake. I am told that\npork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after\npolitics."\n\n"Is she pretty?"\n\n"She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the\nsecret of their charm."\n\n"Why can\'t these American women stay in their own country? They are\nalways telling us that it is the Paradise for women."\n\n"It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively\nanxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I\nshall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the\ninformation I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new\nfriends, and nothing about my old ones."\n\n"Where are you lunching, Harry?"\n\n"At Aunt Agatha\'s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest\n_protégé_."\n\n"Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her\ncharity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I\nhave nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads."\n\n"All right, Uncle George, I\'ll tell her, but it won\'t have any effect.\nPhilanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their\ndistinguishing characteristic."\n\nThe old gentleman growled approvingly, and rang the bell for his\nservant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street, and\nturned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.\n\nSo that was the story of Dorian Gray\'s parentage. Crudely as it had been\ntold to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange,\nalmost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad\npassion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous,\ntreacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in\npain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and\nthe tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting\nbackground. It posed the lad, made him more perfect as it were. Behind\nevery exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds\nhad to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... And how\ncharming he had been at dinner the night before, as, with startled eyes\nand lips parted in frightened pleasure, he had sat opposite to him at\nthe club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening\nwonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite\nviolin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was\nsomething terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other\nactivity was like it. To project one\'s soul into some gracious form, and\nlet it tarry there for a moment; to hear one\'s own intellectual views\nechoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to\nconvey one\'s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid\nor a strange perfume; there was a real joy in that--perhaps the most\nsatisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an\nage grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims....\nHe was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he\nhad met in Basil\'s studio; or could be fashioned into a marvellous type,\nat any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty\nsuch as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could\nnot do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was\nthat such beauty was destined to fade!... And Basil? From a\npsychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in\nart, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the\nmerely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent\nspirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field,\nsuddenly showing herself, Dryad-like and not afraid, because in his soul\nwho sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to\nwhich alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns\nof things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of\nsymbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other\nand more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all\nwas! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that\nartist in thought, who had first analysed it? Was it not Buonarotti who\nhad carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our\nown century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray\nwhat, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned\nthe wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him--had already,\nindeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There\nwas something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.\n\nSuddenly he stopped, and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had\npassed his aunt\'s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.\nWhen he entered the somewhat sombre hall the butler told him that they\nhad gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick, and\npassed into the dining-room.\n\n"Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.\n\nHe invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to\nher, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from\nthe end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.\nOpposite was the Duchess of Harley; a lady of admirable good-nature and\ngood temper, much liked by everyone who knew her, and of those ample\narchitectural proportions that in women who are not Duchesses are\ndescribed by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on\nher right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who\nfollowed his leader in public life, and in private life followed the\nbest cooks, dining with the Tories, and thinking with the Liberals, in\naccordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was\noccupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable\ncharm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,\nhaving, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had\nto say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one\nof his aunt\'s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so\ndreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.\nFortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most\nintelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a Ministerial statement\nin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely\nearnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once\nhimself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of\nthem ever quite escape.\n\n"We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the Duchess,\nnodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really\nmarry this fascinating young person?"\n\n"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."\n\n"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, someone should\ninterfere."\n\n"I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American\ndry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.\n\n"My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas."\n\n"Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the Duchess, raising her\nlarge hands in wonder, and accentuating the verb.\n\n"American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.\n\nThe Duchess looked puzzled.\n\n"Don\'t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means\nanything that he says."\n\n"When America was discovered," said the Radical member, and he began to\ngive some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject,\nhe exhausted his listeners. The Duchess sighed, and exercised her\nprivilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been\ndiscovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance\nnowadays. It is most unfair."\n\n"Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr.\nErskine. "I myself would say that it had merely been detected."\n\n"Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the\nDuchess, vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely\npretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I\nwish I could afford to do the same."\n\n"They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir\nThomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour\'s cast-off clothes.\n\n"Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the\nDuchess.\n\n"They go to America," murmured Lord Henry.\n\nSir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against\nthat great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over\nit, in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are\nextremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it."\n\n"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr.\nErskine, plaintively. "I don\'t feel up to the journey."\n\nSir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his\nshelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them.\nThe Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely\nreasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes,\nMr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no\nnonsense about the Americans."\n\n"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute\nreason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It\nis hitting below the intellect."\n\n"I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.\n\n"I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.\n\n"Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the Baronet.\n\n"Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it\nwas. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we\nmust see it on the tight-rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can\njudge them."\n\n"Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can\nmake out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with\nyou. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the\nEast End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his\nplaying."\n\n"I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked\ndown the table and caught a bright answering glance.\n\n"But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha.\n\n"I can sympathise with everything, except suffering," said Lord Henry,\nshrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathise with that. It is too ugly,\ntoo horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the\nmodern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the\nbeauty, the joy of life. The less said about life\'s sores the better."\n\n"Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas,\nwith a grave shake of the head.\n\n"Quite so," answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, and\nwe try to solve it by amusing the slaves."\n\nThe politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, then?"\nhe asked.\n\nLord Henry laughed. "I don\'t desire to change anything in England except\nthe weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophic\ncontemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through\nan over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal\nto Science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that\nthey lead us astray, and the advantage of Science is that it is not\nemotional."\n\n"But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur,\ntimidly.\n\n"Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha.\n\nLord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity takes itself too\nseriously. It is the world\'s original sin. If the caveman had known how\nto laugh, History would have been different."\n\n"You are really very comforting," warbled the Duchess. "I have always\nfelt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no\ninterest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look\nher in the face without a blush."\n\n"A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry.\n\n"Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman like myself\nblushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me\nhow to become young again."\n\nHe thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that you\ncommitted in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across\nthe table.\n\n"A great many, I fear," she cried.\n\n"Then commit them over again," he said, gravely. "To get back one\'s\nyouth, one has merely to repeat one\'s follies."\n\n"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice."\n\n"A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas\'s tight lips. Lady Agatha\nshook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.\n\n"Yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays\nmost people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it\nis too late that the only things one never regrets are one\'s mistakes."\n\nA laugh ran round the table.\n\nHe played with the idea, and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and\ntransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with\nfancy, and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on,\nsoared into a philosophy, and Philosophy herself became young, and\ncatching the mad music of Pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her\nwine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the\nhills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled\nbefore her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge\npress at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round\nher bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over\nthe vat\'s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary\nimprovisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,\nand the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose\ntemperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and\nto lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,\nirresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they\nfollowed his pipe laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but\nsat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and\nwonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.\n\nAt last, liveried in the costume of the age, Reality entered the room in\nthe shape of a servant to tell the Duchess that her carriage was\nwaiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. "How annoying!" she cried.\n"I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to\nsome absurd meeting at Willis\'s Rooms, where he is going to be in the\nchair. If I am late, he is sure to be furious, and I couldn\'t have a\nscene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it.\nNo, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite\ndelightful, and dreadfully demoralising. I am sure I don\'t know what to\nsay about your views. You must come and dine with us some night.\nTuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?"\n\n"For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess," said Lord Henry, with a\nbow.\n\n"Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you\ncome;" and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the\nother ladies.\n\nWhen Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking\na chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.\n\n"You talk books away," he said; "why don\'t you write one?"\n\n"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I\nshould like to write a novel certainly; a novel that would be as lovely\nas a Persian carpet, and as unreal. But there is no literary public in\nEngland for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopædias. Of\nall people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty\nof literature."\n\n"I fear you are right," answered Mr. Erskine. "I myself used to have\nliterary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young\nfriend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really\nmeant all that you said to us at lunch?"\n\n"I quite forget what I said," smiled Lord Henry. "Was it all very bad?"\n\n"Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if\nanything happens to our good Duchess we shall all look on you as being\nprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The\ngeneration into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are\ntired of London, come down to Treadley, and expound to me your\nphilosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate\nenough to possess."\n\n"I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It\nhas a perfect host, and a perfect library."\n\n"You will complete it," answered the old gentleman, with a courteous\nbow. "And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at\nthe Athenæum. It is the hour when we sleep there."\n\n"All of you, Mr. Erskine?"\n\n"Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English\nAcademy of Letters."\n\nLord Henry laughed, and rose. "I am going to the Park," he cried.\n\nAs he was passing out of the door Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.\n"Let me come with you," he murmured.\n\n"But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,"\nanswered Lord Henry.\n\n"I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let\nme. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so\nwonderfully as you do."\n\n"Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day," said Lord Henry, smiling.\n"All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me,\nif you care to."\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nOne afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious\narm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry\'s house in Mayfair. It\nwas, in its way, a very charming room, with its high-panelled\nwainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling\nof raised plaster-work, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk\nlong-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette\nby Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "_Les Cent Nouvelles_," bound\nfor Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies\nthat Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and\nparrot-tulips were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small\nleaded panels of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a\nsummer day in London.\n\nLord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his\nprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was\nlooking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages\nof an elaborately-illustrated edition of "_Manon Lescaut_" that he had\nfound in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the\nLouis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going\naway.\n\nAt last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are,\nHarry!" he murmured.\n\n"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice.\n\nHe glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I\nthought----"\n\n"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me\nintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my\nhusband has got seventeen of them."\n\n"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"\n\n"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the\nOpera." She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her\nvague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always\nlooked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.\nShe was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never\nreturned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque,\nbut only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a\nperfect mania for going to church.\n\n"That was at \'Lohengrin,\' Lady Henry, I think?"\n\n"Yes; it was at dear \'Lohengrin.\' I like Wagner\'s music better than\nanybody\'s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other\npeople hearing what one says. That is a great advantage: don\'t you think\nso, Mr. Gray?"\n\nThe same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her\nfingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.\n\nDorian smiled, and shook his head: "I am afraid I don\'t think so, Lady\nHenry. I never talk during music, at least, during good music. If one\nhears bad music, it is one\'s duty to drown it in conversation."\n\n"Ah! that is one of Harry\'s views, isn\'t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear\nHarry\'s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of\nthem. But you must not think I don\'t like good music. I adore it, but I\nam afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped\npianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don\'t know what it\nis about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are,\nain\'t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after\na time, don\'t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to\nart. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn\'t it? You have never been to any\nof my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can\'t afford\norchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one\'s rooms\nlook so picturesque. But here is Harry!--Harry, I came in to look for\nyou, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and I found Mr. Gray\nhere. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the\nsame ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been\nmost pleasant. I am so glad I\'ve seen him."\n\n"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his\ndark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused\nsmile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old\nbrocade in Wardour Street, and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays\npeople know the price of everything, and the value of nothing."\n\n"I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward\nsilence with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive with the\nDuchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I\nsuppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury\'s."\n\n"I daresay, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her, as,\nlooking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain,\nshe flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then\nhe lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa.\n\n"Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said, after a\nfew puffs.\n\n"Why, Harry?"\n\n"Because they are so sentimental."\n\n"But I like sentimental people."\n\n"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,\nbecause they are curious; both are disappointed."\n\n"I don\'t think I am likely to marry, Henry. I am too much in love. That\nis one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do\neverything that you say."\n\n"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry, after a pause.\n\n"With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace\n_début_."\n\n"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."\n\n"Who is she?"\n\n"Her name is Sibyl Vane."\n\n"Never heard of her."\n\n"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."\n\n"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They\nnever have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent\nthe triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of\nmind over morals."\n\n"Harry, how can you?"\n\n"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at the present,\nso I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was.\nI find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain\nand the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a\nreputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to\nsupper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,\nhowever. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers\npainted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used\nto go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten\nyears younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for\nconversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and\ntwo of these can\'t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me\nabout your genius. How long have you known her?"\n\n"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me."\n\n"Never mind that. How long have you known her?"\n\n"About three weeks."\n\n"And where did you come across her?"\n\n"I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn\'t be unsympathetic about it.\nAfter all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled\nme with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I\nmet you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the\nPark, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who\npassed me, and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they\nled. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was\nan exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well,\none evening about seven o\'clock, I determined to go out in search of\nsome adventure. I felt that this grey, monstrous London of ours, with\nits myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you\nonce phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a\nthousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I\nremembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we\nfirst dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret\nof life. I don\'t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered\neastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black,\ngrassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little\ntheatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous\nJew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was\nstanding at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets,\nand an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. \'Have a\nbox, my Lord?\' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an\nair of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that\namused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I\nreally went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the\npresent day I can\'t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn\'t--my dear\nHarry, if I hadn\'t, I should have missed the greatest romance of my\nlife. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!"\n\n"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you\nshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the\nfirst romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will\nalways be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of\npeople who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes\nof a country. Don\'t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for\nyou. This is merely the beginning."\n\n"Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray, angrily.\n\n"No; I think your nature so deep."\n\n"How do you mean?"\n\n"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really\nthe shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I\ncall either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.\nFaithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of\nthe intellect--simply a confession of failures. Faithfulness! I must\nanalyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many\nthings that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might\npick them up. But I don\'t want to interrupt you. Go on with your story."\n\n"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a\nvulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the\ncurtain, and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and\ncornucopias, like a third-rate wedding cake. The gallery and pit were\nfairy full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there\nwas hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle.\nWomen went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible\nconsumption of nuts going on."\n\n"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British Drama."\n\n"Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what\non earth I should do, when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you\nthink the play was, Harry?"\n\n"I should think \'The Idiot Boy, or Dumb but Innocent.\' Our fathers used\nto like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the\nmore keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not\ngood enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont toujours\ntort_."\n\n"This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was \'Romeo and Juliet.\' I\nmust admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare\ndone in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a\nsort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There\nwas a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a\ncracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was\ndrawn up, and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with\ncorked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel.\nMercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had\nintroduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit.\nThey were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had\ncome out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly\nseventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small Greek\nhead with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells\nof passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the\nloveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that\npathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your\neyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the\nmist of tears that came across me. And her voice--I never heard such a\nvoice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes, that seemed to\nfall singly upon one\'s ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded\nlike a flute or a distant hautbois. In the garden-scene it had all the\ntremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are\nsinging. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of\nviolins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of\nSibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my\neyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don\'t\nknow which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her.\nShe is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play.\nOne evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have\nseen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from\nher lover\'s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of\nArden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She\nhas been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given\nhim rue to wear, and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent,\nand the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat. I\nhave seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never\nappeal to one\'s imagination. They are limited to their century. No\nglamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one\nknows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in\nany of them. They ride in the Park in the morning, and chatter at\ntea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile, and\ntheir fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How\ndifferent an actress is! Harry! why didn\'t you tell me that the only\nthing worth loving is an actress?"\n\n"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian."\n\n"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces."\n\n"Don\'t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary\ncharm in them, sometimes," said Lord Henry.\n\n"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane."\n\n"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you\nwill tell me everything you do."\n\n"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.\nYou have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would\ncome and confess it to you. You would understand me."\n\n"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don\'t commit crimes,\nDorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now\ntell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy: thanks:--what are your\nactual relations with Sibyl Vane?"\n\nDorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.\n"Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!"\n\n"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian," said\nLord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But why should\nyou be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is\nin love, one always begins by deceiving one\'s self, and one always ends\nby deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know\nher, at any rate, I suppose?"\n\n"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the\nhorrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and\noffered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was\nfurious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of\nyears, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think,\nfrom his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that\nI had taken too much champagne, or something."\n\n"I am not surprised."\n\n"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I\nnever even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and\nconfided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy\nagainst him, and that they were every one of them to be bought."\n\n"I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other\nhand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all\nexpensive."\n\n"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian.\n"By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,\nand I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly\nrecommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the\nplace again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that I\nwas a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he\nhad an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an\nair of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to \'The\nBard,\' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a\ndistinction."\n\n"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most people\nbecome bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of\nlife. To have ruined one\'s self over poetry is an honour. But when did\nyou first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"\n\n"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going\nround. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least\nI fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined\nto take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know\nher, wasn\'t it?"\n\n"No; I don\'t think so."\n\n"My dear Harry, why?"\n\n"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl."\n\n"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child\nabout her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what\nI thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her\npower. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning\nat the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about\nus both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would\ninsist on calling me \'My Lord,\' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not\nanything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, \'You look more like a\nprince. I must call you Prince Charming.\'"\n\n"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."\n\n"You don\'t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in\na play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded\ntired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta\ndressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better\ndays."\n\n"I know that look. It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining his\nrings.\n\n"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest\nme."\n\n"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about\nother people\'s tragedies."\n\n"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came\nfrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and\nentirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every\nnight she is more marvellous."\n\n"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I\nthought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is\nnot quite what I expected."\n\n"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have\nbeen to the Opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his blue\neyes in wonder.\n\n"You always come dreadfully late."\n\n"Well, I can\'t help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is\nonly for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think\nof the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I\nam filled with awe."\n\n"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can\'t you?"\n\nHe shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow\nnight she will be Juliet."\n\n"When is she Sibyl Vane?"\n\n"Never."\n\n"I congratulate you."\n\n"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one.\nShe is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has\ngenius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the\nsecrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to\nmake Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our\nlaughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their\ndust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry,\nhow I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.\nHectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.\n\nLord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he\nwas now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward\'s\nstudio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of\nscarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and\nDesire had come to meet it on the way.\n\n"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry, at last.\n\n"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have\nnot the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her\ngenius. Then we must get her out of the Jew\'s hands. She is bound to him\nfor three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the\npresent time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all\nthat is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out\nproperly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me."\n\n"That would be impossible, my dear boy?"\n\n"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her,\nbut she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is\npersonalities, not principles, that move the age."\n\n"Well, what night shall we go?"\n\n"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet\nto-morrow."\n\n"All right. The Bristol at eight o\'clock; and I will get Basil."\n\n"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the\ncurtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets\nRomeo."\n\n"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or\nreading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before\nseven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to\nhim?"\n\n"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid\nof me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame,\nspecially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the\npicture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I\ndelight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don\'t want to see\nhim alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice."\n\nLord Henry smiled. "People are very fond of giving away what they need\nmost themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity."\n\n"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit\nof a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that."\n\n"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his\nwork. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his\nprejudices, his principles, and his common-sense. The only artists I\nhave ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good\nartists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly\nuninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is\nthe most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely\nfascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look.\nThe mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a\nman quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The\nothers write the poetry that they dare not realise."\n\n"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some\nperfume on his handkerchief out of a large gold-topped bottle that stood\non the table. "It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. Imogen is\nwaiting for me. Don\'t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye."\n\nAs he left the room, Lord Henry\'s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to\nthink. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian\nGray, and yet the lad\'s mad adoration of some one else caused him not\nthe slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It\nmade him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by the\nmethods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that\nscience had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun\nby vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human\nlife--that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. Compared\nto it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as one\nwatched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not\nwear over one\'s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes from\ntroubling the brain, and making the imagination turbid with monstrous\nfancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know\ntheir properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so\nstrange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand\ntheir nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful\nthe whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of\npassion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect--to observe\nwhere they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in\nunison, and at what point they were at discord--there was a delight in\nthat! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a\nprice for any sensation.\n\nHe was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his\nbrown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical\nwords said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray\'s soul had turned to\nthis white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent the\nlad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something.\nOrdinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to\nthe few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the\nveil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly\nof the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and\nthe intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and\nassumed the office of art; was indeed, in its way, a real work of art,\nLife having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or\nsculpture, or painting.\n\nYes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was\nyet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was\nbecoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his\nbeautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It\nwas no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one\nof those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be\nremote from one, but whose sorrows stir one\'s sense of beauty, and whose\nwounds are like red roses.\n\nSoul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was\nanimalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.\nThe senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say\nwhere the fleshly impulse ceased, or the physical impulse began? How\nshallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And\nyet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!\nWas the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really\nin the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from\nmatter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery\nalso.\n\nHe began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a\nscience that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it\nwas, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others.\nExperience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to\ntheir mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of\nwarning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation\nof character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow\nand showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in\nexperience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.\nAll that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as\nour past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would\ndo many times, and with joy.\n\nIt was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by\nwhich one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and\ncertainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to\npromise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane\nwas a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt\nthat curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new\nexperiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion.\nWhat there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been\ntransformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something\nthat seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for\nthat very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose\norigin we deceived ourselves that tyrannised most strongly over us. Our\nweakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often\nhappened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were\nreally experimenting on ourselves.\n\nWhile Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door,\nand his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner.\nHe got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into\nscarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed\nlike plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He\nthought of his friend\'s young fiery-coloured life, and wondered how it\nwas all going to end.\n\nWhen he arrived home, about half-past twelve o\'clock, he saw a telegram\nlying on the hall table. He opened it, and found it was from Dorian\nGray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl\nVane.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n"Mother, mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in\nthe lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the\nshrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their\ndingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you\nmust be happy too!"\n\nMrs. Vane winced, and put her thin bismuth-whitened hands on her\ndaughter\'s head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I\nsee you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs\nhas been very good to us, and we owe him money."\n\nThe girl looked up and pouted. "Money, mother?" she cried, "what does\nmoney matter? Love is more than money."\n\n"Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts, and to\nget a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty\npounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate."\n\n"He is not a gentleman, mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said\nthe girl, rising to her feet, and going over to the window.\n\n"I don\'t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder\nwoman, querulously.\n\nSibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don\'t want him any more,\nmother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose\nshook in her blood, and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the\npetals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept\nover her, and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she\nsaid, simply.\n\n"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.\nThe waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the\nwords.\n\nThe girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her\neyes caught the melody, and echoed it in radiance; then closed for a\nmoment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a\ndream had passed across them.\n\nThin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence,\nquoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common\nsense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her\nprince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on Memory to\nremake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought\nhim back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm\nwith his breath.\n\nThen Wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This\nyoung man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against\nthe shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of\ncraft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.\n\nSuddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.\n"Mother, mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? I know why I\nlove him. I love him because he is like what Love himself should be. But\nwhat does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet--why, I cannot\ntell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don\'t feel humble. I feel\nproud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince\nCharming?"\n\nThe elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her\ncheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sibyl rushed to\nher, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, mother.\nI know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you\nbecause you loved him so much. Don\'t look so sad. I am as happy to-day\nas you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!"\n\n"My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,\nwhat do you know of this young man? You don\'t even know his name. The\nwhole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away\nto Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should\nhave shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is\nrich...."\n\n"Ah! Mother, mother, let me be happy!"\n\nMrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical\ngestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player,\nclasped her in her arms. At this moment the door opened, and a young lad\nwith rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure,\nand his hands and feet were large, and somewhat clumsy in movement. He\nwas not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the\nclose relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes\non him, and intensified the smile. She mentally elevated her son to the\ndignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was\ninteresting.\n\n"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the\nlad, with a good-natured grumble.\n\n"Ah! but you don\'t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a\ndreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him.\n\nJames Vane looked into his sister\'s face with tenderness. "I want you to\ncome out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don\'t suppose I shall ever see\nthis horrid London again. I am sure I don\'t want to."\n\n"My son, don\'t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up\na tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She\nfelt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would\nhave increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.\n\n"Why not, mother? I mean it."\n\n"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a\nposition of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the\nColonies, nothing that I would call society; so when you have made your\nfortune you must come back and assert yourself in London."\n\n"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don\'t want to know anything about that.\nI should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I\nhate it."\n\n"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really\ngoing for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going\nto say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, who gave you that\nhideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is\nvery sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go?\nLet us go to the Park."\n\n"I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the\nPark."\n\n"Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.\n\nHe hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don\'t be\ntoo long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her\nsinging as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.\n\nHe walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the\nstill figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked.\n\n"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For\nsome months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this\nrough, stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when\ntheir eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The\nsilence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.\nShe began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as\nthey attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be\ncontented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must\nremember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a\nsolicitor\'s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the\ncountry often dine with the best families."\n\n"I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite\nright. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don\'t\nlet her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her."\n\n"James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl."\n\n"I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre, and goes behind to\ntalk to her. Is that right? What about that?"\n\n"You are speaking about things you don\'t understand, James. In the\nprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying\nattention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was\nwhen acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at\npresent whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt\nthat the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always most\npolite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the\nflowers he sends are lovely."\n\n"You don\'t know his name, though," said the lad, harshly.\n\n"No," answered his mother, with a placid expression in her face. "He has\nnot yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He\nis probably a member of the aristocracy."\n\nJames Vane bit his lip. "Watch over Sibyl, mother," he cried, "watch\nover her."\n\n"My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special\ncare. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why\nshe should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the\naristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a\nmost brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.\nHis good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them."\n\nThe lad muttered something to himself, and drummed on the window-pane\nwith his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something, when\nthe door opened, and Sibyl ran in.\n\n"How serious you both are!" she cried. "What is the matter?"\n\n"Nothing," he answered. "I suppose one must be serious sometimes.\nGood-bye, mother; I will have my dinner at five o\'clock. Everything is\npacked, except my shirts, so you need not trouble."\n\n"Good-bye, my son," she answered, with a bow of strained stateliness.\n\nShe was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and there\nwas something in his look that had made her feel afraid.\n\n"Kiss me, mother," said the girl. Her flower-like lips touched the\nwithered cheek, and warmed its frost.\n\n"My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in\nsearch of an imaginary gallery.\n\n"Come, Sibyl," said her brother, impatiently. He hated his mother\'s\naffectations.\n\nThey went out into the flickering wind-blown sunlight, and strolled down\nthe dreary Euston Road. The passers-by glanced in wonder at the sullen,\nheavy youth, who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the company of\nsuch a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common gardener\nwalking with a rose.\n\nJim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of\nsome stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at which comes on\ngeniuses late in life, and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,\nwas quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was\ntrembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming,\nand, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him\nbut prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about\nthe gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life\nhe was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not\nto remain a sailor, or a super-cargo, or whatever he was going to be.\nOh, no! A sailor\'s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a\nhorrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a\nblack wind blowing the masts down, and tearing the sails into long\nscreaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite\ngood-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a\nweek was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure gold, the\nlargest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the\ncoast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers were\nto attack them three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. Or,\nno. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid places,\nwhere men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used\nbad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he\nwas riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off\nby a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. Of course\nshe would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get\nmarried, and come home, and live in an immense house in London. Yes,\nthere were delightful things in store for him. But he must be very good,\nand not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. She was only a\nyear older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. He must be\nsure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his prayers each\nnight before he went to sleep. God was very good, and would watch over\nhim. She would pray for him, too, and in a few years he would come back\nquite rich and happy.\n\nThe lad listened sulkily to her, and made no answer. He was heart-sick\nat leaving home.\n\nYet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.\nInexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger\nof Sibyl\'s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could\nmean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated\nhim through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,\nand which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was\nconscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother\'s nature, and\nin that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl\'s happiness. Children\nbegin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them;\nsometimes they forgive them.\n\nHis mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that\nhe had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he\nhad heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears\none night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of\nhorrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a\nhunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like\nfurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his under-lip.\n\n"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl, "and I\nam making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something."\n\n"What do you want me to say?"\n\n"Oh! that you will be a good boy, and not forget us," she answered,\nsmiling at him.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. "You are more likely to forget me, than I am\nto forget you, Sibyl."\n\nShe flushed. "What do you mean, Jim?" she asked.\n\n"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me\nabout him? He means you no good."\n\n"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against him. I\nlove him."\n\n"Why, you don\'t even know his name," answered the lad. "Who is he? I\nhave a right to know."\n\n"He is called Prince Charming. Don\'t you like the name? Oh! you silly\nboy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think\nhim the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet him:\nwhen you come back from Australia. You will like him so much. Everybody\nlikes him, and I... love him. I wish you could come to the theatre\nto-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh! how I\nshall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have him\nsitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten the\ncompany, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass one\'s\nself. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting \'genius\' to his loafers\nat the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will announce me\nas a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only, Prince\nCharming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor beside\nhim. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the door,\nlove flies in through the window. Our proverbs want re-writing. They\nwere made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I think,\na very dance of blossoms in blue skies."\n\n"He is a gentleman," said the lad, sullenly.\n\n"A Prince!" she cried, musically. "What more do you want?"\n\n"He wants to enslave you."\n\n"I shudder at the thought of being free."\n\n"I want you to beware of him."\n\n"To see him is to worship him, to know him is to trust him."\n\n"Sibyl, you are mad about him."\n\nShe laughed, and took his arm. "You dear old Jim, you talk as if you\nwere a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will\nknow what it is. Don\'t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to think\nthat, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have ever\nbeen before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and\ndifficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,\nand I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the\nsmart people go by."\n\nThey took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across\nthe road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust, tremulous\ncloud of orris-root it seemed, hung in the panting air. The\nbrightly-coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.\n\nShe made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He spoke\nslowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as players at a\ngame pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not communicate her\njoy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could\nwin. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of\ngolden hair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies\nDorian Gray drove past.\n\nShe started to her feet. "There he is!" she cried.\n\n"Who?" said Jim Vane.\n\n"Prince Charming," she answered, looking after the victoria.\n\nHe jumped up, and seized her roughly by the arm. "Show him to me. Which\nis he? Point him out. I must see him!" he exclaimed; but at that moment\nthe Duke of Berwick\'s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left\nthe space clear, the carriage had swept out of the Park.\n\n"He is gone," murmured Sibyl, sadly. "I wish you had seen him."\n\n"I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does\nyou any wrong I shall kill him."\n\nShe looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air\nlike a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to\nher tittered.\n\n"Come away, Jim; come away," she whispered. He followed her doggedly, as\nshe passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.\n\nWhen they reached the Achilles Statue she turned round. There was pity\nin her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at him.\n"You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all.\nHow can you say such horrible things? You don\'t know what you are\ntalking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you would\nfall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was wicked."\n\n"I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother is no\nhelp to you. She doesn\'t understand how to look after you. I wish now\nthat I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck\nthe whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn\'t been signed."\n\n"Oh, don\'t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those\nsilly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going\nto quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect\nhappiness. We won\'t quarrel. I know you would never harm anyone I love,\nwould you?"\n\n"Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer.\n\n"I shall love him for ever!" she cried.\n\n"And he?"\n\n"For ever, too!"\n\n"He had better."\n\nShe shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He\nwas merely a boy.\n\nAt the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to\ntheir shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o\'clock, and\nSibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted\nthat she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when\ntheir mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he\ndetested scenes of every kind.\n\nIn Sibyl\'s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad\'s heart,\nand a fierce, murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,\nhad come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck,\nand her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened, and kissed her\nwith real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs.\n\nHis mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality,\nas he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. The\nflies buzzed round the table, and crawled over the stained cloth.\nThrough the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he\ncould hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him.\n\nAfter some time, he thrust away his plate, and put his head in his\nhands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to\nhim before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother\nwatched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace\nhandkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got\nup, and went to the door. Then he turned back, and looked at her. Their\neyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.\n\n"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered\nvaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a\nright to know. Were you married to my father?"\n\nShe heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,\nthe moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,\nhad come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed in some measure it\nwas a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question\ncalled for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up\nto. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.\n\n"No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.\n\n"My father was a scoundrel then?" cried the lad, clenching his fists.\n\nShe shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very\nmuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don\'t speak\nagainst him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed he was\nhighly connected."\n\nAn oath broke from his lips. "I don\'t care for myself," he exclaimed,\n"but don\'t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn\'t it, who is in love\nwith her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose."\n\nFor a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her\nhead drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a\nmother," she murmured; "I had none."\n\nThe lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down he kissed\nher. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father," he\nsaid, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don\'t forget\nthat you will only have one child now to look after, and believe me that\nif this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down,\nand kill him like a dog. I swear it."\n\nThe exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that\naccompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to\nher. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and\nfor the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would\nhave liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but\nhe cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down, and mufflers looked\nfor. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the\nbargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It\nwas with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered\nlace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was\nconscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself\nby telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she\nhad only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had\npleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and\ndramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some\nday.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that\nevening, as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol\nwhere dinner had been laid for three.\n\n"No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing\nwaiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don\'t interest\nme. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth\npainting; though many of them would be the better for a little\nwhite-washing."\n\n"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as\nhe spoke.\n\nHallward started, and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he\ncried. "Impossible!"\n\n"It is perfectly true."\n\n"To whom?"\n\n"To some little actress or other."\n\n"I can\'t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible."\n\n"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear\nBasil."\n\n"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."\n\n"Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry, languidly. "But I didn\'t say\nhe was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great\ndifference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have\nno recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I\nnever was engaged."\n\n"But think of Dorian\'s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be\nabsurd for him to marry so much beneath him."\n\n"If you want to make him marry this girl tell him that, Basil. He is\nsure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it\nis always from the noblest motives."\n\n"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don\'t want to see Dorian tied to some\nvile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect."\n\n"Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry,\nsipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is\nbeautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your\nportrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal\nappearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst\nothers. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn\'t forget his\nappointment."\n\n"Are you serious?"\n\n"Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever\nbe more serious than I am at the present moment."\n\n"But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and\ndown the room, and biting his lip. "You can\'t approve of it, possibly.\nIt is some silly infatuation."\n\n"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd\nattitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our\nmoral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and\nI never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality\nfascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is\nabsolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful\ngirl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded\nMessalina he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a\nchampion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one\nunselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack\nindividuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage\nmakes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other\negos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more\nhighly organised, and to be highly organised is, I should fancy, the\nobject of man\'s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and,\nwhatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I\nhope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore\nher for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by someone else.\nHe would be a wonderful study."\n\n"You don\'t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don\'t. If\nDorian Gray\'s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself.\nYou are much better than you pretend to be."\n\nLord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of others\nis that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer\nterror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour\nwith the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to\nus. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good\nqualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I\nmean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for\noptimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth\nis arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it.\nAs for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and\nmore interesting bonds between men and women. I will certainly encourage\nthem. They have the charm of being fashionable. But here is Dorian\nhimself. He will tell you more than I can."\n\n"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the\nlad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and\nshaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been so\nhappy. Of course it is sudden; all really delightful things are. And\nyet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my\nlife." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked\nextraordinarily handsome.\n\n"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I\ndon\'t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.\nYou let Harry know."\n\n"And I don\'t forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord\nHenry, putting his hand on the lad\'s shoulder, and smiling as he spoke.\n"Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and\nthen you will tell us how it all came about."\n\n"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian, as they took their\nseats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this. After I\nleft you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that\nlittle Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and\nwent down at eight o\'clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.\nOf course the scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!\nYou should have seen her! When she came on in her boy\'s clothes she was\nperfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with\ncinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green\ncap with a hawk\'s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined\nwith dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all\nthe delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your\nstudio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round\na pale rose. As for her acting--well, you shall see her to-night. She is\nsimply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I\nforgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away\nwith my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the\nperformance was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting\ntogether, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen\nthere before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can\'t\ndescribe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my\nlife had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy. She\ntrembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung\nherself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell\nyou all this, but I can\'t help it. Of course our engagement is a dead\nsecret. She has not even told her own mother. I don\'t know what my\nguardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don\'t care. I\nshall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I\nhave been right, Basil, haven\'t I, to take my love out of poetry, and to\nfind my wife in Shakespeare\'s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to\nspeak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of\nRosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth."\n\n"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward, slowly.\n\n"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall\nfind her in an orchard in Verona."\n\nLord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what\nparticular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what did\nshe say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it."\n\n"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did\nnot make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said\nshe was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is\nnothing to me compared with her."\n\n"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry--"much more\npractical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say\nanything about marriage, and they always remind us."\n\nHallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don\'t, Harry. You have annoyed\nDorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon\nanyone. His nature is too fine for that."\n\nLord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me,"\nhe answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the\nonly reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question--simple\ncuriosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to\nus, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in\nmiddle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern."\n\nDorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible,\nHarry; but I don\'t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you\nsee Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a\nbeast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how anyone can wish\nto shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to place her on a\npedestal of gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine.\nWhat is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah! don\'t\nmock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me\nfaithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all\nthat you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me\nto be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane\'s hand makes me\nforget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful\ntheories."\n\n"And those are...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.\n\n"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories\nabout pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry."\n\n"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered,\nin his slow, melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory\nas my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature\'s test,\nher sign of approval. When we are happy we are always good, but when we\nare good we are not always happy."\n\n"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward.\n\n"Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Lord\nHenry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the\ncentre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"\n\n"To be good is to be in harmony with one\'s self," he replied, touching\nthe thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. "Discord\nis to be forced to be in harmony with others. One\'s own life--that is\nthe important thing. As for the lives of one\'s neighbours, if one wishes\nto be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one\'s moral views about them,\nbut they are not one\'s concern. Besides, Individualism has really the\nhigher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one\'s\nage. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of\nhis age is a form of the grossest immorality."\n\n"But, surely, if one lives merely for one\'s self, Harry, one pays a\nterrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter.\n\n"Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that\nthe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but\nself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of\nthe rich."\n\n"One has to pay in other ways but money."\n\n"What sort of ways, Basil?"\n\n"Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in... well, in the\nconsciousness of degradation."\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediæval art is\ncharming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in\nfiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction\nare the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no\ncivilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever\nknows what a pleasure is."\n\n"I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore someone."\n\n"That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with\nsome fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as\nHumanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us\nto do something for them."\n\n"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to\nus," murmured the lad, gravely. "They create Love in our natures. They\nhave a right to demand it back."\n\n"That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward.\n\n"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.\n\n"This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give\nto men the very gold of their lives."\n\n"Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very\nsmall change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put\nit, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces, and always prevent us\nfrom carrying them out."\n\n"Harry, you are dreadful! I don\'t know why I like you so much."\n\n"You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some\ncoffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and\nsome cigarettes. No: don\'t mind the cigarettes; I have some. Basil, I\ncan\'t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette\nis the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it\nleaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will\nalways be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had\nthe courage to commit."\n\n"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a\nfire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.\n"Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will\nhave a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you\nhave never known."\n\n"I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his\neyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,\nthat, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful\ngirl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.\nLet us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but\nthere is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a\nhansom."\n\nThey got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The\npainter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could\nnot bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many\nother things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all\npassed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and\nwatched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A\nstrange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would\nnever again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come\nbetween them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded, flaring streets\nbecame blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it\nseemed to him that he had grown years older.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nFor some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat\nJew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an\noily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of\npompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top\nof his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he\nhad come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,\nupon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and\ninsisted on shaking him by the hand, and assuring him that he was proud\nto meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a\npoet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The\nheat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a\nmonstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery\nhad taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.\nThey talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges\nwith the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in\nthe pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of\nthe popping of corks came from the bar.\n\n"What a place to find one\'s divinity in!" said Lord Henry.\n\n"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is divine\nbeyond all living things. When she acts you will forget everything.\nThese common, rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures,\nbecome quite different when she is on the stage. They sit silently and\nwatch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them\nas responsive as a violin. She spiritualises them, and one feels that\nthey are of the same flesh and blood as one\'s self."\n\n"The same flesh and blood as one\'s self! Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed Lord\nHenry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his\nopera-glass.\n\n"Don\'t pay any attention to him, Dorian," said the painter. "I\nunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Anyone you love\nmust be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect you describe must\nbe fine and noble. To spiritualise one\'s age--that is something worth\ndoing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one,\nif she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been\nsordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend\nthem tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your\nadoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite\nright. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made\nSibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete."\n\n"Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew that\nyou would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here\nis the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five\nminutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am\ngoing to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good\nin me."\n\nA quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of\napplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly\nlovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,\nthat he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace\nand startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror\nof silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded,\nenthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed\nto tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.\nMotionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord\nHenry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!"\n\nThe scene was the hall of Capulet\'s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim\'s\ndress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such as\nit was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the\ncrowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a\ncreature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a\nplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a\nwhite lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.\n\nYet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes\nrested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak--\n\n Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\n Which mannerly devotion shows in this;\n For saints have hands that pilgrims\' hands do touch,\n And palm to palm is holy palmers\' kiss--\n\nwith the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly\nartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view\nof tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away\nall the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.\n\nDorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.\nNeither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them\nto be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.\n\nYet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of\nthe second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was\nnothing in her.\n\nShe looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be\ndenied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse\nas she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She\nover-emphasised everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage--\n\n Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\n Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\n For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--\n\nwas declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been\ntaught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she\nleaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines--\n\n Although I joy in thee,\n I have no joy of this contract to-night:\n It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;\n Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be\n Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night!\n This bud of love by summer\'s ripening breath\n May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--\n\nshe spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was\nnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely\nself-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.\n\nEven the common, uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their\ninterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to\nwhistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the\ndress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was\nthe girl herself.\n\nWhen the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and Lord\nHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite\nbeautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can\'t act. Let us go."\n\n"I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard,\nbitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening,\nHarry. I apologise to you both."\n\n"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted\nHallward. "We will come some other night."\n\n"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply\ncallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great\nartist. This evening she is merely a commonplace, mediocre actress."\n\n"Don\'t talk like that about anyone you love, Dorian. Love is a more\nwonderful thing than Art."\n\n"They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do\nlet us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for\none\'s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don\'t suppose you will want\nyour wife to act. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a\nwooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life\nas she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are\nonly two kinds of people who are really fascinating--people who know\nabsolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good\nheavens, my dear boy, don\'t look so tragic! The secret of remaining\nyoung is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club\nwith Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty\nof Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?"\n\n"Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must\ngo. Ah! can\'t you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to\nhis eyes. His lips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he\nleaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.\n\n"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry, with a strange tenderness in his\nvoice; and the two young men passed out together.\n\nA few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtain rose\non the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and\nproud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable.\nHalf of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots, and laughing.\nThe whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty\nbenches. The curtain went down on a titter, and some groans.\n\nAs soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the\ngreenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on\nher face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance\nabout her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.\n\nWhen he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy\ncame over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.\n\n"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement--"horribly! It was\ndreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea\nwhat I suffered."\n\nThe girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with\nlong-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to\nthe red petals of her mouth--"Dorian, you should have understood. But\nyou understand now, don\'t you?"\n\n"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.\n\n"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never\nact well again."\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you\nshouldn\'t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I\nwas bored."\n\nShe seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An\necstasy of happiness dominated her.\n\n"Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one\nreality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought\nthat it was all true. I was Rosalind one night, and Portia the other.\nThe joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine\nalso. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me\nseemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew\nnothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my beautiful\nlove!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality\nreally is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the\nhollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had\nalways played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the\nRomeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the\norchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had\nto speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say.\nYou had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a\nreflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! my\nlove! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You\nare more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the\npuppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how\nit was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to\nbe wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my\nsoul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them\nhissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take\nme away, Dorian--take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I\nhate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot\nmimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand\nnow what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation\nfor me to play at being in love. You have made me see that."\n\nHe flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. "You have\nkilled my love," he muttered.\n\nShe looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. She came\nacross to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt\ndown and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder\nran through him.\n\nThen he leaped up, and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have\nkilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don\'t even stir\nmy curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you\nwere marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you\nrealised the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the\nshadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid.\nMy God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are\nnothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of\nyou. I will never mention your name. You don\'t know what you were to me,\nonce. Why, once.... Oh, I can\'t bear to think of it! I wish I had never\nlaid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little\nyou can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art you\nare nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The\nworld would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What\nare you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."\n\nThe girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and\nher voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?"\nshe murmured. "You are acting."\n\n"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly.\n\nShe rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain in her\nface, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and\nlooked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don\'t touch me!" he cried.\n\nA low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay\nthere like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don\'t leave me!" she\nwhispered. "I am so sorry I didn\'t act well. I was thinking of you all\nthe time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across\nme, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not\nkissed me--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.\nDon\'t go away from me. I couldn\'t bear it. Oh! don\'t go away from me. My\nbrother.... No; never mind. He didn\'t mean it. He was in jest.... But\nyou, oh! can\'t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try\nto improve. Don\'t be cruel to me because I love you better than anything\nin the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you.\nBut you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an\nartist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn\'t help it. Oh, don\'t\nleave me, don\'t leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She\ncrouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his\nbeautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in\nexquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the\nemotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him\nto be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.\n\n"I am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "I don\'t wish\nto be unkind, but I can\'t see you again. You have disappointed me."\n\nShe wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little\nhands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He\nturned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of\nthe theatre.\n\nWhere he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through\ndimly-lit streets, past gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking\nhouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after\nhim. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like\nmonstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon doorsteps,\nand heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.\n\nAs the dawn was just breaking he found himself close to Covent Garden.\nThe darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed\nitself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies\nrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with\nthe perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an\nanodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men\nunloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some\ncherries. He thanked him, and wondered why he refused to accept any\nmoney for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked\nat midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long\nline of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red\nroses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge\njade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey\nsun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,\nwaiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging\ndoors of the coffee-house in the Piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped\nand stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.\nSome of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked,\nand pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.\n\nAfter a little while, he hailed a hansom, and drove home. For a few\nmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent\nSquare with its blank, close-shuttered windows, and its staring blinds.\nThe sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like\nsilver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was\nrising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.\n\nIn the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge\'s barge, that hung\nfrom the ceiling of the great oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were\nstill burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they\nseemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out, and, having thrown\nhis hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the\ndoor of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that,\nin his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for\nhimself, and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been\ndiscovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As he was turning\nthe handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward\nhad painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on\ninto his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken the\nbuttonhole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally he came back,\nwent over to the picture, and examined it. In the dim arrested light\nthat struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared\nto him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One\nwould have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was\ncertainly strange.\n\nHe turned round, and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The\nbright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky\ncorners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he\nhad noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be\nmore intensified even. The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the\nlines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking\ninto a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.\n\nHe winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory\nCupids, one of Lord Henry\'s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into\nits polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it\nmean?\n\nHe rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it\nagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual\npainting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had\naltered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly\napparent.\n\nHe threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there\nflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward\'s studio the\nday the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He\nhad uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the\nportrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the\nface on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that\nthe painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and\nthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of\nhis then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled?\nSuch things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them.\nAnd, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in\nthe mouth.\n\nCruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl\'s fault, not his. He had\ndreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he\nhad thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been\nshallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over\nhim, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child.\nHe remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been\nmade like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had\nsuffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted,\nhe had lived centuries of pain, æon upon æon of torture. His life was\nwell worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her\nfor an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men.\nThey lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When\nthey took lovers, it was merely to have someone with whom they could\nhave scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what\nwomen were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to\nhim now.\n\nBut the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his\nlife, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.\nWould it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it\nagain?\n\nNo; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The\nhorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly\nthere had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men\nmad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.\n\nYet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel\nsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met\nhis own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted\nimage of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter\nmore. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would\ndie. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its\nfairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would\nbe to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation.\nHe would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to\nthose subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward\'s garden had\nfirst stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go\nback to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again.\nYes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had.\nPoor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that\nshe had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together.\nHis life with her would be beautiful and pure.\n\nHe got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the\nportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured to\nhimself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he\nstepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning\nair seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of\nSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name\nover and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched\ngarden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nIt was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times\non tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what\nmade his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and\nVictor came softly in with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a\nsmall tray of old Sèvres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,\nwith their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall\nwindows.\n\n"Monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling.\n\n"What o\'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray, drowsily.\n\n"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur."\n\nHow late it was! He sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned over his\nletters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand\nthat morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The\nothers he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of\ncards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of\ncharity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashionable young\nmen every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill, for\na chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the\ncourage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned\npeople and did not realise that we live in an age when unnecessary\nthings are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously\nworded communiations from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to\nadvance any sum of money at a moment\'s notice and at the most reasonable\nrates of interest.\n\nAfter about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaborate\ndressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the\nonyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.\nHe seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of\nhaving taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but\nthere was the unreality of a dream about it.\n\nAs soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a\nlight French breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a small round\ntable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air\nseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in, and buzzed round the\nblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before\nhim. He felt perfectly happy.\n\nSuddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the\nportrait, and he started.\n\n"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the\ntable. "I shut the window?"\n\nDorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured.\n\nWas it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply\nhis own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had\nbeen a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing\nwas absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would\nmake him smile.\n\nAnd, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in\nthe dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of\ncruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the\nroom. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the\nportrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes\nhad been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell\nhim to remain. As the door was closing behind him he called him back.\nThe man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment.\n"I am not at home to anyone, Victor," he said, with a sigh. The man\nbowed and retired.\n\nThen he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on\na luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen\nwas an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a\nrather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering\nif ever before it had concealed the secret of a man\'s life.\n\nShould he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was\nthe use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was\nnot true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier\nchance, eyes other than his spied behind, and saw the horrible change?\nWhat should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own\npicture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be\nexamined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state\nof doubt.\n\nHe got up, and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he\nlooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside, and\nsaw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had\naltered.\n\nAs he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he\nfound himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost\nscientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was\nincredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity\nbetween the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and colour\non the canvas, and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what\nthat soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true?\nOr was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt\nafraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture\nin sickened horror.\n\nOne thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him\nconscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not\ntoo late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His\nunreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be\ntransformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would\nbe to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the\nfear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could\nlull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the\ndegradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men\nbrought upon their souls.\n\nThree o\'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime,\nbut Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet\nthreads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way\nthrough the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was\nwandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he\nwent over to the table, and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had\nloved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He\ncovered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of\npain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we\nfeel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not\nthe priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the\nletter, he felt that he had been forgiven.\n\nSuddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry\'s voice\noutside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can\'t bear\nyour shutting yourself up like this."\n\nHe made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking\nstill continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry\nin, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel\nwith him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was\ninevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,\nand unlocked the door.\n\n"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry, as he entered. "But\nyou must not think too much about it."\n\n"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad.\n\n"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly\npulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view,\nbut it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after\nthe play was over?"\n\n"Yes."\n\n"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?"\n\n"I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am\nnot sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know\nmyself better."\n\n"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would\nfind you plunged in remorse, and tearing that nice curly hair of yours."\n\n"I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head, and\nsmiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin\nwith. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us.\nDon\'t sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before me. I want to be\ngood. I can\'t bear the idea of my soul being hideous."\n\n"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you\non it. But how are you going to begin?"\n\n"By marrying Sibyl Vane."\n\n"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him\nin perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian----"\n\n"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about\nmarriage. Don\'t say it. Don\'t ever say things of that kind to me again.\nTwo days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word\nto her. She is to be my wife!"\n\n"Your wife! Dorian!... Didn\'t you get my letter? I wrote to you this\nmorning, and sent the note down, by my own man."\n\n"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was\nafraid there might be something in it that I wouldn\'t like. You cut life\nto pieces with your epigrams."\n\n"You know nothing then?"\n\n"What do you mean?"\n\nLord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray,\ntook both his hands in his own, and held them tightly. "Dorian," he\nsaid, "my letter--don\'t be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane\nis dead."\n\nA cry of pain broke from the lad\'s lips, and he leaped to his feet,\ntearing his hands away from Lord Henry\'s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is\nnot true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?"\n\n"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the\nmorning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till I\ncame. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be\nmixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in\nLondon people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one\'s\n_début_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to\none\'s old age. I suppose they don\'t know your name at the theatre? If\nthey don\'t, it is all right. Did anyone see you going round to her room?\nThat is an important point."\n\nDorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.\nFinally he stammered in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an\ninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl----? Oh, Harry, I can\'t\nbear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once."\n\n"I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put\nin that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre\nwith her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had\nforgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did\nnot come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor\nof her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some\ndreadful thing they use at theatres. I don\'t know what it was, but it\nhad either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was\nprussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously."\n\n"Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad.\n\n"Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed\nup in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have\nthought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and\nseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn\'t let this\nthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards\nwe will look in at the Opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be\nthere. You can come to my sister\'s box. She has got some smart women\nwith her."\n\n"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to\nhimself--"murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with\na knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing\njust as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and\nthen go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How\nextraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,\nHarry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has\nhappened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here\nis the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life.\nStrange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed\nto a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we\ncall the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I\nloved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me.\nThen came that dreadful night--was it really only last night?--when she\nplayed so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me.\nIt was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her\nshallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can\'t tell\nyou what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I\nfelt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! my God! Harry, what\nshall I do? You don\'t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to\nkeep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to\nkill herself. It was selfish of her."\n\n"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case,\nand producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever\nreform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible\ninterest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been\nwretched. Of course you would have treated her kindly. One can always be\nkind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon\nfound out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman\nfinds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,\nor wears very smart bonnets that some other woman\'s husband has to pay\nfor. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been\nabject, which, of course, I would not have allowed, but I assure you\nthat in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure."\n\n"I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room,\nand looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not my\nfault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.\nI remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good\nresolutions--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were."\n\n"Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific\nlaws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.\nThey give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions\nthat have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for\nthem. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no\naccount."\n\n"Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,\n"why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don\'t\nthink I am heartless. Do you?"\n\n"You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be\nentitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered Lord Henry, with\nhis sweet, melancholy smile.\n\nThe lad frowned. "I don\'t like that explanation, Harry," he rejoined,\n"but I am glad you don\'t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind.\nI know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened\ndoes not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a\nwonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of\na Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I\nhave not been wounded."\n\n"It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite\npleasure in playing on the lad\'s unconscious egotism--"an extremely\ninteresting question. I fancy that the true explanation is this. It\noften happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an\ninartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their\nabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of\nstyle. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an\nimpression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,\nhowever, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses\nour lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply\nappeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no\nlonger the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are\nboth. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls\nus. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Someone\nhas killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had such an\nexperience. It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my\nlife. The people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but\nthere have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after I\nhad ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become\nstout and tedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for\nreminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!\nAnd what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb\nthe colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details\nare always vulgar."\n\n"I must sow poppies in my garden," sighed Dorian.\n\n"There is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "Life has always\npoppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore\nnothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic\nmourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did\ndie. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice\nthe whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one\nwith the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at\nLady Hampshire\'s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in\nquestion, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and\ndigging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance\nin a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again, and assured me that I\nhad spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous\ndinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she\nshowed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women\nnever know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,\nand as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to\ncontinue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have\na tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are\ncharmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more\nfortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I\nhave known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary\nwomen always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for\nsentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her\nage may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It\nalways means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation\nin suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They\nflaunt their conjugal felicity in one\'s face, as if it were the most\nfascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the\ncharm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quite understand\nit. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a\nsinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end\nto the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not\nmentioned the most important one."\n\n"What is that, Harry?" said the lad, listlessly.\n\n"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking someone else\'s admirer when one\nloses one\'s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But\nreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the\nwomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her\ndeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They\nmake one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as\nromance, passion, and love."\n\n"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that."\n\n"I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than\nanything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have\nemancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all\nthe same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have\nnever seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how\ndelightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day\nbefore yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful,\nbut that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to\neverything."\n\n"What was that, Harry?"\n\n"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of\nromance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that\nif she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen."\n\n"She will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his\nface in his hands.\n\n"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you\nmust think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a\nstrange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene\nfrom Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived,\nand so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a\ndream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare\'s plays and left them\nlovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare\'s music\nsounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life,\nshe marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for\nOphelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was\nstrangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio\ndied. But don\'t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than\nthey are."\n\nThere was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and\nwith silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours\nfaded wearily out of things.\n\nAfter some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to myself,\nHarry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "I felt all\nthat you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not\nexpress it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again\nof what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all.\nI wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous."\n\n"Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that\nyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do."\n\n"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What\nthen?"\n\n"Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go--"then, my dear Dorian, you\nwould have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to\nyou. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too\nmuch to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot\nspare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. We\nare rather late, as it is."\n\n"I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat\nanything. What is the number of your sister\'s box?"\n\n"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name\non the door. But I am sorry you won\'t come and dine."\n\n"I don\'t feel up to it," said Dorian, listlessly. "But I am awfully\nobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my\nbest friend. No one has ever understood me as you have."\n\n"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered Lord\nHenry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you before\nnine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing."\n\nAs he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in a\nfew minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He\nwaited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable\ntime over everything.\n\nAs soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. No;\nthere was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of\nSibyl Vane\'s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious\nof the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred\nthe fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment\nthat the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it\nindifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed\nwithin the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the\nchange taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.\n\nPoor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death\non the stage. Then Death himself had touched her, and taken her with\nhim. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed him, as\nshe died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a\nsacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice\nshe had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had\nmade him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. When he\nthought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the\nworld\'s stage to show the supreme reality of Love. A wonderful tragic\nfigure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and\nwinsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He brushed them away\nhastily, and looked again at the picture.\n\nHe felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his\nchoice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him--life, and\nhis own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,\npleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have\nall these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that\nwas all.\n\nA feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that\nwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of\nNarcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that\nnow smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before\nthe portrait, wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it\nseemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he\nyielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden\naway in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so\noften touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The pity\nof it! the pity of it!\n\nFor a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that\nexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in\nanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain\nunchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would surrender\nthe chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance\nmight be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?\nBesides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that\nhad produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious\nscientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence\nupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon\ndead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,\nmight not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods\nand passions, atom calling to atom in secret love of strange affinity?\nBut the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a\nprayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter.\nThat was all. Why inquire too closely into it?\n\nFor there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to\nfollow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him\nthe most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so\nit would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he\nwould still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.\nWhen the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of\nchalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one\nblossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life\nwould ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and\nfleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured\nimage on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.\n\nHe drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,\nsmiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was\nalready waiting for him. An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord\nHenry was leaning over his chair.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nAs he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown\ninto the room.\n\n"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said, gravely. "I called\nlast night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew\nthat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really\ngone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might\nbe followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when\nyou heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of\n_The Globe_, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was\nmiserable at not finding you. I can\'t tell you how heartbroken I am\nabout the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you?\nDid you go down and see the girl\'s mother? For a moment I thought of\nfollowing you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in\nthe Euston Road, isn\'t it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow\nthat I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And\nher only child, too! What did she say about it all?"\n\n"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some\npale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass,\nand looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the Opera. You should have come\non there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry\'s sister, for the first time. We\nwere in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.\nDon\'t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn\'t talk about a thing, it\nhas never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives\nreality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman\'s only\nchild. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on\nthe stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about yourself\nand what you are painting."\n\n"You went to the Opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a\nstrained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the Opera while Sibyl\nVane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other\nwomen being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you\nloved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are\nhorrors in store for that little white body of hers!"\n\n"Stop, Basil! I won\'t hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. "You\nmust not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is\npast."\n\n"You call yesterday the past?"\n\n"What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow\npeople who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master\nof himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I\ndon\'t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to\nenjoy them, and to dominate them."\n\n"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You\nlook exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come\ndown to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,\nand affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole\nworld. Now, I don\'t know what has come over you. You talk as if you had\nno heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry\'s influence. I see that."\n\nThe lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out for a few\nmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great deal\nto Harry, Basil," he said, at last--"more than I owe to you. You only\ntaught me to be vain."\n\n"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day."\n\n"I don\'t know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "I\ndon\'t know what you want. What do you want?"\n\n"I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist, sadly.\n\n"Basil," said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his\nshoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday when I heard that Sibyl\nVane had killed herself----"\n\n"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried\nHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.\n\n"My dear Basil! Surely you don\'t think it was a vulgar accident? Of\ncourse she killed herself."\n\nThe elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he muttered,\nand a shudder ran through him.\n\n"No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of\nthe great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead\nthe most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives,\nor something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtue, and all\nthat kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest\ntragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played--the night\nyou saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love.\nWhen she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She\npassed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr\nabout her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all\nits wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not\nsuffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment--about\nhalf-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six--you would have found me in\ntears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had\nno idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed\naway. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists.\nAnd you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me.\nThat is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How\nlike a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about\na certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to\nget some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget\nexactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his\ndisappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_,\nand became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if\nyou really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has\nhappened, or to see it from the proper artistic point of view. Was it\nnot Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I\nremember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day\nand chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young\nman you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man\nwho used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries\nof life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old\nbrocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite\nsurroundings, luxury, pomp, there is much to be got from all these. But\nthe artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is\nstill more to me. To become the spectator of one\'s own life, as Harry\nsays, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my\ntalking to you like this. You have not realised how I have developed. I\nwas a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions,\nnew thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less.\nI am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very fond\nof Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not\nstronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how\nhappy we used to be together! Don\'t leave me, Basil, and don\'t quarrel\nwith me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."\n\nThe painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,\nand his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He\ncould not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his\nindifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was\nso much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.\n\n"Well, Dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "I won\'t speak to\nyou again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your\nname won\'t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take\nplace this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"\n\nDorian shook his head and a look of annoyance passed over his face at\nthe mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and\nvulgar about everything of the kind. "They don\'t know my name," he\nanswered.\n\n"But surely she did?"\n\n"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to\nanyone. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who\nI was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It\nwas pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should\nlike to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and\nsome broken pathetic words."\n\n"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you\nmust come and sit to me yourself again. I can\'t get on without you."\n\n"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed,\nstarting back.\n\nThe painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do\nyou mean to say you don\'t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have\nyou pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best\nthing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply\ndisgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room\nlooked different as I came in."\n\n"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don\'t imagine I let\nhim arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes--that\nis all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."\n\n"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for\nit. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.\n\nA cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray\'s lips, and he rushed between the\npainter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must\nnot look at it. I don\'t wish you to."\n\n"Not look at my own work! you are not serious. Why shouldn\'t I look at\nit?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.\n\n"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never\nspeak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don\'t offer\nany explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you\ntouch this screen, everything is over between us."\n\nHallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute\namazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually\npallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes\nwere like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.\n\n"Dorian!"\n\n"Don\'t speak!"\n\n"But what is the matter? Of course I won\'t look at it if you don\'t want\nme to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over\ntowards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I\nshouldn\'t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in\nParis in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of\nvarnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?"\n\n"To exhibit it? You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a\nstrange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be\nshown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That\nwas impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done at once.\n\n"Yes; I don\'t suppose you will object to that. George Petit is going to\ncollect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de\nSèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only\nbe away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time.\nIn fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always\nbehind a screen, you can\'t care much about it."\n\nDorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of\nperspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible\ndanger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he\ncried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being\nconsistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference\nis that your moods are rather meaningless. You can\'t have forgotten that\nyou assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you\nto send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He\nstopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered\nthat Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest,\n"If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you\nwhy he won\'t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn\'t, and it\nwas a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He\nwould ask him and try.\n\n"Basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in\nthe face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours and I shall\ntell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my\npicture?"\n\nThe painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you\nmight like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I\ncould not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me\nnever to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to\nlook at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from\nthe world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame\nor reputation."\n\n"No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have a\nright to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had\ntaken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward\'s mystery.\n\n"Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "Let us\nsit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the\npicture something curious?--something that probably at first did not\nstrike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?"\n\n"Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling\nhands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes.\n\n"I see you did. Don\'t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.\nDorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most\nextraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power\nby you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal\nwhose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped\nyou. I grew jealous of everyone to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you\nall to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away\nfrom me you were still present in my art.... Of course I never let you\nknow anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not\nhave understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I\nhad seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become\nwonderful to my eyes--too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships\nthere is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of\nkeeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew more and more\nabsorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris\nin dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman\'s cloak and polished\nboar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of\nAdrian\'s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leant over\nthe still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water\'s silent\nsilver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should\nbe, unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes\nthink, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually\nare, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your\nown time. Whether it was the Realism of the method, or the mere wonder\nof your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or\nveil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and\nfilm of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that\nothers would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too\nmuch, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I\nresolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little\nannoyed; but then you did not realise all that it meant to me. Harry, to\nwhom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the\npicture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was\nright.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon\nas I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it\nseemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen\nanything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking, and that\nI could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to\nthink that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the\nwork one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and\ncolour tell us of form and colour--that is all. It often seems to me\nthat art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals\nhim. And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your\nportrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me\nthat you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot\nbe shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told\nyou. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped."\n\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and\na smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the\ntime. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who\nhad just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself\nwould ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry\nhad the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too\nclever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be someone\nwho would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things\nthat life had in store?\n\n"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should\nhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?"\n\n"I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very\ncurious."\n\n"Well, you don\'t mind my looking at the thing now?"\n\nDorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not\npossibly let you stand in front of that picture."\n\n"You will some day, surely?"\n\n"Never."\n\n"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been\nthe one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I\nhave done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don\'t know what it cost me\nto tell you all that I have told you."\n\n"My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you\nfelt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment."\n\n"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I\nhave made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should\nnever put one\'s worship into words."\n\n"It was a very disappointing confession."\n\n"Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn\'t see anything else in the\npicture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"\n\n"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn\'t talk\nabout worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must\nalways remain so."\n\n"You have got Harry," said the painter, sadly.\n\n"Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his\ndays in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is\nimprobable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I\ndon\'t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go\nto you, Basil."\n\n"You will sit to me again?"\n\n"Impossible!"\n\n"You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man came across\ntwo ideal things. Few come across one."\n\n"I can\'t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.\nThere is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I\nwill come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant."\n\n"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward, regretfully. "And\nnow good-bye. I am sorry you won\'t let me look at the picture once\nagain. But that can\'t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about\nit."\n\nAs he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! how\nlittle he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead\nof having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost\nby chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange\nconfession explained to him! The painter\'s absurd fits of jealousy, his\nwild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences--he\nunderstood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be\nsomething tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.\n\nHe sighed, and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all\ncosts. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad\nof him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room\nto which any of his friends had access.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nWhen his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered if\nhe had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite\nimpassive, and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette, and walked\nover to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of\nVictor\'s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There\nwas nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his\nguard.\n\nSpeaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that he wanted\nto see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of\nhis men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room\nhis eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his\nown fancy?\n\nAfter a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread\nmittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He\nasked her for the key of the schoolroom.\n\n"The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of\ndust. I must get it arranged, and put straight before you go into it. It\nis not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed."\n\n"I don\'t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key."\n\n"Well, sir, you\'ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it\nhasn\'t been opened for nearly five years, not since his lordship died."\n\nHe winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of\nhim. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the\nplace--that is all. Give me the key."\n\n"And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents\nof her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I\'ll\nhave it off the bunch in a moment. But you don\'t think of living up\nthere, sir, and you so comfortable here?"\n\n"No, no," he cried, petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do."\n\nShe lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of\nthe household. He sighed, and told her to manage things as she thought\nbest. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.\n\nAs the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket, and looked round\nthe room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily\nembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century\nVenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.\nYes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps\nserved often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that\nhad a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death\nitself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What\nthe worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on\nthe canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace. They\nwould defile it, and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still\nlive on. It would be always alive.\n\nHe shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil\nthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would\nhave helped him to resist Lord Henry\'s influence, and the still more\npoisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that\nhe bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was not\nnoble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of\nbeauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire.\nIt was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and\nWinckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him.\nBut it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret,\ndenial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.\nThere were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams\nthat would make the shadow of their evil real.\n\nHe took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered\nit, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face\non the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged;\nand yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and\nrose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the expression that\nhad altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw\nin it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil\'s reproaches about Sibyl\nVane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul\nwas looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. A\nlook of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the\npicture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his\nservant entered.\n\n"The persons are here, Monsieur."\n\nHe felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed\nto know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly\nabout him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the\nwriting-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him\nround something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at\neight-fifteen that evening.\n\n"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in\nhere."\n\nIn two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard\nhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with\na somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid,\nred-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably\ntempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who\ndealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people\nto come to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian\nGray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a\npleasure even to see him.\n\n"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled\nhands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in\nperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a\nsale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited\nfor a religious subject, Mr. Gray."\n\n"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.\nHubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I don\'t\ngo in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a\npicture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I\nthought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."\n\n"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to\nyou. Which is the work of art, sir?"\n\n"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it,\ncovering and all, just as it is? I don\'t want it to get scratched going\nupstairs."\n\n"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,\nbeginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the\nlong brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we\ncarry it to, Mr. Gray?"\n\n"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or\nperhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top\nof the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."\n\nHe held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and\nbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the\npicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious\nprotests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman\'s spirited dislike\nof seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it\nso as to help them.\n\n"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when they\nreached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.\n\n"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the\ndoor that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious\nsecret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.\n\nHe had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed,\nsince he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then\nas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,\nwell-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord\nKelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness\nto his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and\ndesired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little\nchanged. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its\nfantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which\nhe had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood bookcase\nfilled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging\nthe same ragged Flemish tapestry, where a faded king and queen were\nplaying chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying\nhooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all!\nEvery moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked\nround. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it\nseemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be\nhidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that\nwas in store for him!\n\nBut there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as\nthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple\npall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and\nunclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not\nsee it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept\nhis youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow\nfiner, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full\nof shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and\nshield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit\nand in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them\ntheir subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would\nhave passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to\nthe world Basil Hallward\'s masterpiece.\n\nNo; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon\nthe canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but\nthe hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become\nhollow or flaccid. Yellow crow\'s-feet would creep round the fading eyes\nand make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth\nwould gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men\nare. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands,\nthe twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so\nstern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was\nno help for it.\n\n"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I\nam sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."\n\n"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who\nwas still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"\n\n"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don\'t want to have it hung up. Just\nlean it against the wall. Thanks."\n\n"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"\n\nDorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said,\nkeeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him\nto the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed\nthe secret of his life. "I shan\'t trouble you any more now. I am much\nobliged for your kindness in coming round."\n\n"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,\nsir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who\nglanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely\nface. He had never seen anyone so marvellous.\n\nWhen the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door,\nand put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look\nupon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.\n\nOn reaching the library he found that it was just after five o\'clock,\nand that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark\nperfumed wood thickly encrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,\nhis guardian\'s wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the\npreceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside\nit was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the\nedges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James\'s Gazette_\nhad been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had\nreturned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were\nleaving the house, and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.\nHe would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already,\nwhile he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set\nback, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he\nmight find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the\nroom. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one\'s house. He had heard\nof rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who\nhad read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with\nan address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of\ncrumpled lace.\n\nHe sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry\'s\nnote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and\na book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at\neight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James\'s_ languidly, and looked through\nit. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew\nattention to the following paragraph:--\n\n "INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the\n Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on\n the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the\n Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was\n returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the\n deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own\n evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem\n examination of the deceased."\n\nHe frowned, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and\nflung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real\nugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for\nhaving sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have\nmarked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more\nthan enough English for that.\n\nPerhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,\nwhat did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane\'s death?\nThere was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.\n\nHis eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was\nit, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-coloured octagonal\nstand, that had always looked to him like the work of some strange\nEgyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung\nhimself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a\nfew minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had\never read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the\ndelicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb\nshow before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made\nreal to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually\nrevealed.\n\nIt was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being,\nindeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who\nspent his life trying to realise in the nineteenth century all the\npassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his\nown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through\nwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere\nartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,\nas much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The\nstyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and\nobscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical\nexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterises the work of\nsome of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There\nwere in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as subtle in colour.\nThe life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical\nphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the\nspiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of\na modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense\nseemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere\ncadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as\nit was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced\nin the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of\nreverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling\nday and creeping shadows.\n\nCloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed\nthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no\nmore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the\nlateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placed\nthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his\nbedside, and began to dress for dinner.\n\nIt was almost nine o\'clock before he reached the club, where he found\nLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.\n\n"I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault.\nThat book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was\ngoing."\n\n"Yes: I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his\nchair.\n\n"I didn\'t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a\ngreat difference."\n\n"Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed\ninto the dining-room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nFor years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this\nbook. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought\nto free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine\nlarge-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different\ncolours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing\nfancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost\nentirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian, in whom\nthe romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended,\nbecame to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the\nwhole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written\nbefore he had lived it.\n\nIn one point he was more fortunate than the novel\'s fantastic hero. He\nnever knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat\ngrotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still\nwater, which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was\noccasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently,\nbeen so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in\nnearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its\nplace--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really\ntragic, if somewhat over-emphasised, account of the sorrow and despair\nof one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had\nmost dearly valued.\n\nFor the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many\nothers besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard\nthe most evil things against him, and from time to time strange rumours\nabout his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of\nthe clubs, could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw\nhim. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from\nthe world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered\nthe room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked\nthem. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the\ninnocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and\ngraceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at\nonce sordid and sensual.\n\nOften, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged\nabsences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were\nhis friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep\nupstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left\nhim now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and ageing face on\nthe canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from\nthe polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken\nhis sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own\nbeauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He\nwould examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and\nterrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead,\nor crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which\nwere the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would\nplace his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,\nand smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.\n\nThere were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own\ndelicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little\nill-famed tavern near the Docks, which, under an assumed name, and in\ndisguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he\nhad brought upon his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant\nbecause it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That\ncuriosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they\nsat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with\ngratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad\nhungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.\n\nYet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society.\nOnce or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday\nevening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his\nbeautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to\ncharm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little dinners, in\nthe settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted as much\nfor the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the\nexquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle\nsymphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and\nantique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially\namong the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian\nGray the true realisation of a type of which they had often dreamed in\nEton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real\nculture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect\nmanner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of the company\nof those whom Dante describes as having sought to "make themselves\nperfect by the worship of beauty." Like Gautier, he was one for whom\n"the visible world existed."\n\nAnd, certainly, to him Life itself was the first, the greatest, of the\narts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.\nFashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment\nuniversal, and Dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert\nthe absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for\nhim. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to\ntime he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of\nthe Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in\neverything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of\nhis graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.\n\nFor, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost\nimmediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a\nsubtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London\nof his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the\n"Satyricon" once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be\nsomething more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on\nthe wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of\na cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have\nits reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the\nspiritualising of the senses its highest realisation.\n\nThe worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been\ndecried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and\nsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are\nconscious of sharing with the less highly organised forms of existence.\nBut it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had\nnever been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal\nmerely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to\nkill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new\nspirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant\ncharacteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through History, he\nwas haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to\nsuch little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous\nforms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear, and whose\nresult was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied\ndegradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape,\nNature, in her wonderful irony, driving out the anchorite to feed with\nthe wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of\nthe field as his companions.\n\nYes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that\nwas to recreate life, and to save it from that harsh, uncomely\npuritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was\nto have its service of the intellect, certainly; yet, it was never to\naccept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode\nof passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself,\nand not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of\nthe asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that\ndulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to\nconcentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a\nmoment.\n\nThere are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either\nafter one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of\ndeath, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through\nthe chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality\nitself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,\nand that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one\nmight fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled\nwith the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the\ncurtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb\nshadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside,\nthere is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men\ngoing forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down\nfrom the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it\nfeared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from\nher purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by\ndegrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we\nwatch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan\nmirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we\nhad left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been\nstudying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the\nletter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.\nNothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night\ncomes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where\nwe had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the\nnecessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of\nstereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might\nopen some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the\ndarkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh\nshapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in\nwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,\nin no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of\njoy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.\n\nIt was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray\nto be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his\nsearch for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and\npossess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he\nwould often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really\nalien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and\nthen, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his\nintellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that\nis not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that indeed,\naccording to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it.\n\nIt was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic\ncommunion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction\nfor him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices\nof the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of\nthe evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its\nelements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to\nsymbolise. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and watch\nthe priest, in his stiff flowered vestment, slowly and with white hands\nmoving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled\nlantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one\nwould fain think, is indeed the "_panis cælestis_," the bread of angels,\nor, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host\ninto the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming\ncensers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the\nair like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. As he\npassed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and\nlong to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women\nwhispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives.\n\nBut he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual\ndevelopment by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of\nmistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for\nthe sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are\nno stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous\npower of making common things strange to us, and the subtle\nantinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season;\nand for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the\n_Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in\ntracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the\nbrain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of\nthe absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,\nmorbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him\nbefore, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared\nwith life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all\nintellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.\nHe knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual\nmysteries to reveal.\n\nAnd so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their\nmanufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums\nfrom the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not\nits counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their\ntrue relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one\nmystical, and in ambergris that stirred one\'s passions, and in violets\nthat woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the\nbrain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to\nelaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several\ninfluences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, or\naromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that\nsickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be\nable to expel melancholy from the soul.\n\nAt another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long\nlatticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of\nolive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts, in which mad\ngypsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled\nTunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while\ngrinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums, and, crouching\nupon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of reed\nor brass, and charmed, or feigned to charm, great hooded snakes and\nhorrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of\nbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert\'s grace, and Chopin\'s\nbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell\nunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world\nthe strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of\ndead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact\nwith Western civilisations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the\nmysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not\nallowed to look at, and that even youths may not see till they have been\nsubjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the\nPeruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones\nsuch as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chili, and the sonorous green jaspers\nthat are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness.\nHe had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were\nshaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the performer does\nnot blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh _ture_ of the\nAmazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in\nhigh trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three\nleagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating tongues of wood, and\nis beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from\nthe milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung\nin clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the\nskins of great serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went\nwith Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has\nleft us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of these\ninstruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought\nthat Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and\nwith hideous voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would\nsit in his box at the Opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening\nin rapt pleasure to "Tannhäuser," and seeing in the prelude to that\ngreat work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.\n\nOn one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a\ncostume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered\nwith five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for years,\nand, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often spend a\nwhole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that\nhe had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by\nlamp-light, the cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the\npistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,\ncarbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame-red\ncinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their\nalternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the\nsunstone, and the moonstone\'s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow\nof the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of\nextraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la\nvieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.\n\nHe discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso\'s\n"Clericalis Disciplina" a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real\njacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of\nEmathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes "with\ncollars of real emeralds growing on their backs." There was a gem in the\nbrain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of\ngolden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a\nmagical sleep, and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de\nBoniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India\nmade him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth\nprovoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The\ngarnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her\ncolour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,\nthat discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.\nLeonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a\nnewly-killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The\nbezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm\nthat could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the\naspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any\ndanger by fire.\n\nThe King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,\nat the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the\nPriest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake\ninwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable\nwere "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold\nmight shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge\'s strange\nromance "A Margarite of America" it was stated that in the chamber of\nthe queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased\nout of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles,\nsapphires, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of\nZipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. A\nsea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to\nKing Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over\nits loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it\naway--Procopius tells the story--nor was it ever found again, though the\nEmperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it.\nThe King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a rosary of three\nhundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped.\n\nWhen the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII.\nof France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantôme,\nand his cap had double rows of rubles that threw out a great light.\nCharles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and\ntwenty-one diamonds. Richard II. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand\nmarks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII.,\non his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket\nof raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich\nstones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." The\nfavourites of James I. wore earrings of emeralds set in gold filigrane.\nEdward II. gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armour studded with\njacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a\nskull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. Henry II. wore jewelled gloves\nreaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies and\nfifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last\nDuke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls, and\nstudded with sapphires.\n\nHow exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and\ndecoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.\n\nThen he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that\nperformed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the Northern\nnations of Europe. As he investigated the subject--and he always had an\nextraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in\nwhatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the\nruin that Time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any\nrate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils\nbloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of\ntheir shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained\nhis flower-like bloom. How different it was with material things! Where\nhad they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which\nthe gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls\nfor the pleasure of Athena? Where, the huge velarium that Nero had\nstretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on\nwhich was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn\nby white gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table-napkins\nwrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were displayed all the\ndainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth\nof King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic\nrobes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, and were\nfigured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks,\nhunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature;" and the\ncoat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were\nembroidered the verses of a song beginning "_Madame, je suis tout\njoyeux_," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold\nthread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four\npearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims\nfor the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy, and was decorated with "thirteen\nhundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the\nking\'s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings\nwere similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked\nin gold." Catherine de Médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black\nvelvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask,\nwith leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground,\nand fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a\nroom hung with rows of the queen\'s devices in cut black velvet upon\ncloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen feet\nhigh in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was\nmade of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from\nthe Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and\nprofusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been taken\nfrom the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had\nstood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.\n\nAnd so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite\nspecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting\nthe dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates, and\nstitched over with iridescent beetles\' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that\nfrom their transparency are known in the East as "woven air," and\n"running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java;\nelaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair\nblue silks, and wrought with _fleurs de lys_, birds, and images; veils\nof _lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades, and stiff\nSpanish velvets; Georgian work with its gilt coins, and Japanese\n_Foukousas_ with their green-toned golds and their marvellously-plumaged\nbirds.\n\nHe had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed\nhe had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the\nlong cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored\naway many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of\nthe Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that\nshe may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering\nthat she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He possessed a\ngorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a\nrepeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal\nblossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-apple device wrought\nin seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panels representing\nscenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of the Virgin was\nfigured in coloured silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the\nfifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with\nheart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed\nwhite blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread\nand coloured crystals. The morse bore a seraph\'s head in gold-thread\nraised work. The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk,\nand were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom\nwas St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and\nblue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold,\nfigured with representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ,\nand embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of\nwhite satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and\n_fleurs de lys_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and\nmany corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to\nwhich such things were put, there was something that quickened his\nimagination.\n\nFor these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely\nhouse, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could\nescape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be\nalmost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked room\nwhere he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own\nhands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real\ndegradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the\npurple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,\nwould forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,\nhis wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.\nThen, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to\ndreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,\nuntil he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the\npicture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,\nwith that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin,\nand smiling with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to\nbear the burden that should have been his own.\n\nAfter a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and\ngave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as\nwell as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more\nthan once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture\nthat was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his\nabsence someone might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate\nbars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.\n\nHe was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true\nthat the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness\nof the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn\nfrom that? He would laugh at anyone who tried to taunt him. He had not\npainted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked?\nEven if he told them, would they believe it?\n\nYet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in\nNottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank\nwho were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton\nluxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly\nleave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been\ntampered with, and that the picture was still there. What if it should\nbe stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world\nwould know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it.\n\nFor, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.\nHe was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and\nsocial position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was said\nthat on one occasion when he was brought by a friend into the\nsmoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman\ngot up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current\nabout him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It was rumoured\nthat he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the\ndistant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and\ncoiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary\nabsences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in\nsociety, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a\nsneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were\ndetermined to discover his secret.\n\nOf such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,\nand in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his\ncharming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth\nthat seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer\nto the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about\nhim. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most\nintimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had\nwildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and\nset convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or\nhorror if Dorian Gray entered the room.\n\nYet these whispered scandals only increased, in the eyes of many, his\nstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of\nsecurity. Society, civilised society at least, is never very ready to\nbelieve anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and\nfascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance\nthan morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much\nless value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is a\nvery poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad\ndinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the\ncardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as Lord Henry\nremarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a\ngood deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,\nor should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely\nessential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as\nits unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic\nplay with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is\ninsincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by\nwhich we can multiply our personalities.\n\nSuch, at any rate, was Dorian Gray\'s opinion. He used to wonder at the\nshallow psychology of those who conceive the Ego in man as a thing\nsimple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being\nwith myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature\nthat bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and\nwhose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He\nloved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country\nhouse and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in\nhis veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in\nhis "Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James," as one\nwho was "caressed by the Court for his handsome face, which kept him not\nlong company." Was it young Herbert\'s life that he sometimes led? Had\nsome strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached\nhis own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so\nsuddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward\'s\nstudio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in\ngold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and\nwrist-bands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armour\npiled at his feet. What had this man\'s legacy been? Had the lover of\nGiovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame?\nWere his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared\nto realise? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth\nDevereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves.\nA flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar\nof white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an\napple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He\nknew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers.\nHad he something of her temperament in him? These oval heavy-lidded eyes\nseemed to look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his\npowdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was\nsaturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with\ndisdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were\nso over-laden with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth\ncentury, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the\nsecond Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest\ndays, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs.\nFitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and\ninsolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked\nupon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star\nof the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of\nhis wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred\nwithin him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady\nHamilton face, and her moist wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got\nfrom her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty\nof others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. There were\nvine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she was\nholding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were\nstill wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They seemed to\nfollow him wherever he went.\n\nYet one had ancestors in literature, as well as in one\'s own race,\nnearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with\nan influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There were\ntimes when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history was\nmerely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and\ncircumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had\nbeen in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them\nall, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of\nthe world and made sin so marvellous, and evil so full of subtlety. It\nseemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own.\n\nThe hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had\nhimself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,\ncrowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as\nTiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of\nElephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him, and the\nflute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had\ncaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in\nan ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had\nwandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round\nwith haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his\ndays, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes\non those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear\nemerald at the red shambles of the Circus, and then, in a litter of\npearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the\nStreet of Pomegranates to a House of Gold, and heard men cry on Nero\nCæsar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with\ncolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon\nfrom Carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.\n\nOver and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the\ntwo chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious\ntapestries or cunningly-wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and\nbeautiful forms of those whom Vice and Blood and Weariness had made\nmonstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife, and painted\nher lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the\ndead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the\nSecond, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and\nwhose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the\nprice of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase\nliving men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot\nwho had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding\nbeside him, and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro\nRiario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of\nSixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who\nreceived Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk,\nfilled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve at\nthe feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured\nonly by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as\nother men have for red wine--the son of the Fiend, as was reported, and\none who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his\nown soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent,\nand into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a\nJewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta, and the lord\nof Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man,\nwho strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d\'Este\nin a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a pagan\nchurch for Christian worship; Charles VI., who had so wildly adored his\nbrother\'s wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was\ncoming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange,\ncould only be soothed by Saracen cards painted with the images of Love\nand Death and Madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and\nacanthus-like curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his\nbride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that,\nas he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him\ncould not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed\nhim.\n\nThere was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and\nthey troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of\nstrange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch,\nby an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by\nan amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were\nmoments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could\nrealise his conception of the beautiful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nIt was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth\nbirthday, as he often remembered afterwards.\n\nHe was walking home about eleven o\'clock from Lord Henry\'s, where he had\nbeen dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and\nfoggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street a man\npassed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his\ngrey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognised him.\nIt was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could not\naccount, came over him. He made no sign of recognition, and went on\nquickly in the direction of his own house.\n\nBut Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the\npavement, and then hurrying after him. In a few moments his hand was on\nhis arm.\n\n"Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for\nyou in your library ever since nine o\'clock. Finally I took pity on your\ntired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to\nParis by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see you before\nI left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me.\nBut I wasn\'t quite sure. Didn\'t you recognise me?"\n\n"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can\'t even recognise Grosvenor\nSquare. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don\'t feel at\nall certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen\nyou for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?"\n\n"No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a\nstudio in Paris, and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture\nI have in my head. However, it wasn\'t about myself I wanted to talk.\nHere we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something\nto say to you."\n\n"I shall be charmed. But won\'t you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray,\nlanguidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his\nlatch-key.\n\nThe lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his\nwatch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn\'t go till\ntwelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to\nthe club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan\'t have any\ndelay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with\nme is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes."\n\nDorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter\nto travel! A Gladstone bag, and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get\ninto the house. And mind you don\'t talk about anything serious. Nothing\nis serious nowadays. At least nothing should be."\n\nHallward shook his head as he entered, and followed Dorian into the\nlibrary. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth.\nThe lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with\nsome siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little\nmarqueterie table.\n\n"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me\neverything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a\nmost hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you\nused to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?"\n\nDorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley\'s\nmaid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.\n_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly\nof the French, doesn\'t it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad\nservant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One\noften imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted\nto me, and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another\nbrandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take\nhock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room."\n\n"Thanks, I won\'t have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap\nand coat off, and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the\ncorner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.\nDon\'t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me."\n\n"What is it all about?" cried Dorian, in his petulant way, flinging\nhimself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of\nmyself to-night. I should like to be somebody else."\n\n"It is about yourself," answered Hallward, in his grave, deep voice,\n"and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour."\n\nDorian sighed, and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured.\n\n"It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own\nsake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the\nmost dreadful things are being said against you in London."\n\n"I don\'t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other\npeople, but scandals about myself don\'t interest me. They have not got\nthe charm of novelty."\n\n"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his\ngood name. You don\'t want people to talk of you as something vile and\ndegraded. Of course you have your position, and your wealth, and all\nthat kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind\nyou, I don\'t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can\'t believe\nthem when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man\'s\nface. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.\nThere are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself\nin the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his\nhands even. Somebody--I won\'t mention his name, but you know him--came\nto me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before,\nand had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard\na good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There\nwas something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that\nI was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But\nyou, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous\nuntroubled youth--I can\'t believe anything against you. And yet I see\nyou very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I\nam away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are\nwhispering about you, I don\'t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that\na man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter\nit? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your\nhouse nor invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord\nStaveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up\nin conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the\nexhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip, and said that you\nmight have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no\npure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman\nshould sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of\nyours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out\nbefore everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to\nyoung men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed\nsuicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had\nto leave England, with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable.\nWhat about Adrian Singleton, and his dreadful end? What about Lord\nKent\'s only son, and his career? I met his father yesterday in St.\nJames\'s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the\nyoung Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman\nwould associate with him?"\n\n"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,"\nsaid Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt\nin his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It\nis because I know everything about his life, not because he knows\nanything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could\nhis record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did\nI teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent\'s silly\nson takes his wife from the streets what is that to me? If Adrian\nSingleton writes his friend\'s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I\nknow how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral\nprejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they\ncall the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that\nthey are in smart society, and on intimate terms with the people they\nslander. In this country it is enough for a man to have distinction and\nbrains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of\nlives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear\nfellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."\n\n"Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad\nenough, I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why\nI want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge\nof a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all\nsense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a\nmadness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them\nthere. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are\nsmiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are\ninseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not\nhave made his sister\'s name a by-word."\n\n"Take care, Basil. You go too far."\n\n"I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady\nGwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a\nsingle decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the Park?\nWhy, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are\nother stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of\ndreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in\nLondon. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I\nlaughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your\ncountry house, and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don\'t know\nwhat is said about you. I won\'t tell you that I don\'t want to preach to\nyou. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into\nan amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then\nproceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to\nlead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have\na clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful\npeople you associate with. Don\'t shrug your shoulders like that. Don\'t\nbe so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good,\nnot for evil. They say that you corrupt everyone with whom you become\nintimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for\nshame of some kind to follow after. I don\'t know whether it is so or\nnot. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it\nseems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest\nfriends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to\nhim when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was\nimplicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that\nit was absurd--that I knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable\nof anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I\ncould answer that, I should have to see your soul."\n\n"To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and\nturning almost white from fear.\n\n"Yes," answered Hallward, gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his\nvoice--"to see your soul. But only God can do that."\n\nA bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You\nshall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the\ntable. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn\'t you look at it?\nYou can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody\nwould believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the\nbetter for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate\nabout it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about\ncorruption. Now you shall look on it face to face."\n\nThere was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his\nfoot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible\njoy at the thought that someone else was to share his secret, and that\nthe man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his\nshame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous\nmemory of what he had done.\n\n"Yes," he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly into\nhis stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that\nyou fancy only God can see."\n\nHallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You must\nnot say things like that. They are horrible, and they don\'t mean\nanything."\n\n"You think so?" He laughed again.\n\n"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your good.\nYou know I have been always a staunch friend to you."\n\n"Don\'t touch me. Finish what you have to say."\n\nA twisted flash of pain shot across the painter\'s face. He paused for a\nmoment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right\nhad he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of\nwhat was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he\nstraightened himself up, and walked over to the fireplace, and stood\nthere, looking at the burning logs with their frost-like ashes and their\nthrobbing cores of flame.\n\n"I am waiting, Basil," said the young man, in a hard, clear voice.\n\nHe turned round. "What I have to say is this," he cried. "You must give\nme some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If\nyou tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I\nshall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can\'t you see what I am\ngoing through? My God! don\'t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and\nshameful."\n\nDorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Come\nupstairs, Basil," he said, quietly. "I keep a diary of my life from day\nto day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall\nshow it to you if you come with me."\n\n"I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my\ntrain. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don\'t ask me to\nread anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question."\n\n"That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You will\nnot have to read long."\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nHe passed out of the room, and began the ascent, Basil Hallward\nfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at\nnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A\nrising wind made some of the windows rattle.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the\nfloor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "You insist on\nknowing, Basil?" he asked, in a low voice.\n\n"Yes."\n\n"I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat harshly,\n"You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything\nabout me. You have had more to do with my life than you think:" and,\ntaking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold current of\nair passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky\norange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he\nplaced the lamp on the table.\n\nHallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. The room looked\nas if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a\ncurtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty\nbookcase--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a\ntable. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was\nstanding on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered\nwith dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling\nbehind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.\n\n"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that\ncurtain back, and you will see mine."\n\nThe voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or\nplaying a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.\n\n"You won\'t? Then I must do it myself," said the young man; and he tore\nthe curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground.\n\nAn exclamation of horror broke from the painter\'s lips as he saw in the\ndim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was\nsomething in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.\nGood heavens! it was Dorian Gray\'s own face that he was looking at! The\nhorror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous\nbeauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet\non the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the\nloveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed\naway from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian\nhimself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognise his own brush-work,\nand the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt\nafraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the\nleft-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright\nvermilion.\n\nIt was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. He had never\ndone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if\nhis blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own\npicture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and looked at\nDorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his\nparched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across\nhis forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.\n\nThe young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him with\nthat strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are\nabsorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither\nreal sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the\nspectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken\nthe flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.\n\n"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded\nshrill and curious in his ears.\n\n"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in\nhis hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good\nlooks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to\nme the wonder of youth, and you finished the portrait of me that\nrevealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment, that, even now, I\ndon\'t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would\ncall it a prayer...."\n\n"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible.\nThe room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had\nsome wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is\nimpossible."\n\n"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the\nwindow, and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.\n\n"You told me you had destroyed it."\n\n"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."\n\n"I don\'t believe it is my picture."\n\n"Can\'t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian, bitterly.\n\n"My ideal, as you call it...."\n\n"As you called it."\n\n"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an\nideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."\n\n"It is the face of my soul."\n\n"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a\ndevil."\n\n"Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian, with a\nwild gesture of despair.\n\nHallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "My God! if it\nis true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life,\nwhy, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to\nbe!" He held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it. The\nsurface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. It was\nfrom within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through\nsome strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly\neating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not\nso fearful.\n\nHis hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, and\nlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he\nflung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and\nburied his face in his hands.\n\n"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" There was no\nanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray,\nDorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in\none\'s boyhood? \'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash\naway our iniquities.\' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride\nhas been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also.\nI worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself\ntoo much. We are both punished."\n\nDorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed\neyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.\n\n"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot\nremember a prayer. Isn\'t there a verse somewhere, \'Though your sins be\nas scarlet; yet I will make them as white as snow\'?"\n\n"Those words mean nothing to me now."\n\n"Hush! don\'t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God!\ndon\'t you see that accursed thing leering at us?"\n\nDorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable\nfeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had\nbeen suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear\nby those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred\nwithin him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more\nthan in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly\naround. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced\nhim. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had\nbrought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten\nto take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as\nhe did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round.\nHallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at\nhim, and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear,\ncrushing the man\'s head down on the table, and stabbing again and again.\n\nThere was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of someone choking\nwith blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,\nwaving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice\nmore, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor.\nHe waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the\nknife on the table, and listened.\n\nHe could hear nothing but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He\nopened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely\nquiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the\nbalustrade, and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.\nThen he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as\nhe did so.\n\nThe thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with\nbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been\nfor the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool that was\nslowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was\nsimply asleep.\n\nHow quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and, walking\nover to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. The wind\nhad blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock\'s tail,\nstarred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down, and saw the\npoliceman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on\nthe doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom\ngleamed at the corner, and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl\nwas creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and\nthen she stopped, and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse\nvoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She\nstumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the Square. The\ngas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their\nblack iron branches to and fro. He shivered, and went back, closing the\nwindow behind him.\n\nHaving reached the door, he turned the key, and opened it. He did not\neven glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole\nthing was not to realise the situation. The friend who had painted the\nfatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his\nlife. That was enough.\n\nThen he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish\nworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished\nsteel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by\nhis servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment,\nthen he turned back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing\nthe dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the long hands\nlooked! It was like a dreadful wax image.\n\nHaving locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The\nwoodwork creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped\nseveral times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the\nsound of his own footsteps.\n\nWhen he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They\nmust be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in\nthe wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and\nput them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled\nout his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.\n\nHe sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men\nwere strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness\nof murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....\nAnd yet what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the\nhouse at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants\nwere at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to\nParis that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had\nintended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before\nany suspicions would be aroused. Months! Everything could be destroyed\nlong before then.\n\nA sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and went\nout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the\npoliceman on the pavement outside, and seeing the flash of the\nbull\'s-eye reflected in the window. He waited, and held his breath.\n\nAfter a few moments he drew back the latch, and slipped out, shutting\nthe door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In\nabout five minutes his valet appeared half dressed, and looking very\ndrowsy.\n\n"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in;\n"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"\n\n"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and\nblinking.\n\n"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine\nto-morrow. I have some work to do."\n\n"All right, sir."\n\n"Did anyone call this evening?"\n\n"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to\ncatch his train."\n\n"Oh! I am sorry I didn\'t see him. Did he leave any message?"\n\n"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not\nfind you at the club."\n\n"That will do, Francis. Don\'t forget to call me at nine to-morrow."\n\n"No, sir."\n\nThe man shambled down the passage in his slippers.\n\nDorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table, and passed into the\nlibrary. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room biting\nhis lip, and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the\nshelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152,\nHertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nAt nine o\'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of\nchocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite\npeacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek.\nHe looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.\n\nThe man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he\nopened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had\nbeen lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His\nnight had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But\nyouth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.\n\nHe turned round, and, leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his\nchocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The sky\nwas bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like\na morning in May.\n\nGradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent\nblood-stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there\nwith terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had\nsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for\nBasil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came\nback to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still\nsitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such\nhideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.\n\nHe felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken\nor grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory\nthan in the doing of them; strange triumphs that gratified the pride\nmore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of\njoy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the\nsenses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of\nthe mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might\nstrangle one itself.\n\nWhen the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and\nthen got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual\ncare, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and\nscarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time\nalso over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet\nabout some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the\nservants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the\nletters he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times\nover, and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face.\n"That awful thing, a woman\'s memory!" as Lord Henry had once said.\n\nAfter he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly\nwith a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the\ntable sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the\nother he handed to the valet.\n\n"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell\nis out of town, get his address."\n\nAs soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a\npiece of paper, drawing first flowers, and bits of architecture, and\nthen human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew\nseemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and,\ngetting up, went over to the bookcase and took out a volume at hazard.\nHe was determined that he would not think about what had happened until\nit became absolutely necessary that he should do so.\n\nWhen he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page\nof the book. It was Gautier\'s "Émaux et Camées," Charpentier\'s\nJapanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of\ncitron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted\npomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned\nover the pages his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the\ncold yellow hand "_du supplice encore mal lavée_," with its downy red\nhairs and its "_doigts de faune_." He glanced at his own white taper\nfingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he\ncame to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:--\n\n "Sur une gamme chromatique,\n Le sein de perles ruisselant,\n La Vénus de l\'Adriatique\n Sort de l\'eau son corps rose et blanc.\n\n "Les dômes, sur l\'azur des ondes\n Suivant la phrase au pur contour,\n S\'enflent comme des gorges rondes\n Que soulève un soupir d\'amour.\n\n "L\'esquif aborde et me dépose,\n Jetant son amarre au pilier,\n Devant une façade rose,\n Sur le marbre d\'un escalier."\n\nHow exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating\ndown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black\ngondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked to\nhim like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one\npushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the\ngleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall\nhoney-combed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the\ndim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept\nsaying over and over to himself:--\n\n "Devant une façade rose,\n Sur le marbre d\'un escalier."\n\nThe whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn\nthat he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to\nmad, delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,\nlike Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true\nromantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had\nbeen with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor\nBasil! what a horrible way for a man to die!\n\nHe sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read of\nthe swallows that fly in and out of the little café at Smyrna where the\nHadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke\ntheir long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of\nthe Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in\nits lonely sunless exile, and longs to be back by the hot lotus-covered\nNile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures\nwith gilded claws, and crocodiles, with small beryl eyes, that crawl\nover the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which,\ndrawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that\nGautier compares to a contralto voice, the "_monstre charmant_" that\ncouches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book\nfell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came\nover him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would\nelapse before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What\ncould he do then? Every moment was of vital importance. They had been\ngreat friends once, five years before--almost inseparable, indeed. Then\nthe intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now,\nit was only Dorian Gray who smiled; Alan Campbell never did.\n\nHe was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation\nof the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry\nhe possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant\nintellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had spent a great\ndeal of his time working in the Laboratory, and had taken a good class\nin the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted\nto the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own, in which he\nused to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his\nmother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliament, and had a\nvague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. He was\nan excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and\nthe piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had\nfirst brought him and Dorian Gray together--music and that indefinable\nattraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished,\nand indeed exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met\nat Lady Berkshire\'s the night that Rubinstein played there, and after\nthat used to be always seen together at the Opera, and wherever good\nmusic was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell\nwas always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to\nmany others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful\nand fascinating in life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place\nbetween them no one ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they\nscarcely spoke when they met, and that Campbell seemed always to go away\nearly from any party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed,\ntoo--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike\nhearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when\nhe was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no\ntime left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day\nhe seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared\nonce or twice in some of the scientific reviews, in connection with\ncertain curious experiments.\n\nThis was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept\nglancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly\nagitated. At last he got up, and began to pace up and down the room,\nlooking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His\nhands were curiously cold.\n\nThe suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with\nfeet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the\njagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting\nfor him there; saw it indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands\nhis burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight,\nand driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain\nhad its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made\ngrotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,\ndanced like some foul puppet on a stand, and grinned through moving\nmasks. Then, suddenly, Time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,\nslow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, Time being\ndead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its\ngrave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him\nstone.\n\nAt last the door opened, and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes\nupon him.\n\n"Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man.\n\nA sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back\nto his cheeks.\n\n"Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself\nagain. His mood of cowardice had passed away.\n\nThe man bowed, and retired. In a few moments Alan Campbell walked in,\nlooking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his\ncoal-black hair and dark eyebrows.\n\n"Alan! this is kind of you. I thank you for coming."\n\n"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it\nwas a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke\nwith slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady\nsearching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the\npockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the\ngesture with which he had been greeted.\n\n"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one\nperson. Sit down."\n\nCampbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The\ntwo men\'s eyes met. In Dorian\'s there was infinite pity. He knew that\nwhat he was going to do was dreadful.\n\nAfter a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very\nquietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he\nhad sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room\nto which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.\nHe has been dead ten hours now. Don\'t stir, and don\'t look at me like\nthat. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not\nconcern you. What you have to do is this----"\n\n"Stop, Gray. I don\'t want to know anything further. Whether what you\nhave told me is true or not true, doesn\'t concern me. I entirely decline\nto be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself.\nThey don\'t interest me any more."\n\n"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest\nyou. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can\'t help myself. You are\nthe one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the\nmatter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about\nchemistry, and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you\nhave got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to destroy it\nso that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come\ninto the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in\nParis. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must\nbe no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and\neverything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may\nscatter in the air."\n\n"You are mad, Dorian."\n\n"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian."\n\n"You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to\nhelp you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to\ndo with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril my\nreputation for you? What is it to me what devil\'s work you are up to?"\n\n"It was suicide, Alan."\n\n"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy."\n\n"Do you still refuse to do this for me?"\n\n"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I\ndon\'t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be\nsorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of\nall men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have\nthought you knew more about people\'s characters. Your friend Lord Henry\nWotton can\'t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has\ntaught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have\ncome to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don\'t come to me."\n\n"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don\'t know what he had made me\nsuffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the\nmarring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the\nresult was the same."\n\n"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not\ninform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in\nthe matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime\nwithout doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it."\n\n"You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to\nme. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain\nscientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the\nhorrors that you do there don\'t affect you. If in some hideous\ndissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden\ntable with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through,\nyou would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You would not\nturn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong.\nOn the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the\nhuman race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or\ngratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I\nwant you to do is merely what you have often done before. Indeed, to\ndestroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to\nwork at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. If\nit is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you\nhelp me."\n\n"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent\nto the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me."\n\n"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you\ncame I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some\nday. No! don\'t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the\nscientific point of view. You don\'t inquire where the dead things on\nwhich you experiment come from. Don\'t inquire now. I have told you too\nmuch as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan."\n\n"Don\'t speak about those days, Dorian: they are dead."\n\n"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is\nsitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan!\nif you don\'t come to my assistance I am ruined. Why, they will hang me,\nAlan! Don\'t you understand? They will hang me for what I have done."\n\n"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do\nanything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me."\n\n"You refuse?"\n\n"Yes."\n\n"I entreat you, Alan."\n\n"It is useless."\n\nThe same look of pity came into Dorian Gray\'s eyes. Then he stretched\nout his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read\nit over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.\nHaving done this, he got up, and went over to the window.\n\nCampbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and\nopened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he fell back\nin his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if\nhis heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.\n\nAfter two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round, and\ncame and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.\n\n"I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no\nalternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the\naddress. If you don\'t help me, I must send it. If you don\'t help me, I\nwill send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to\nhelp me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you.\nYou will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh,\noffensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no\nliving man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate\nterms."\n\nCampbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him.\n\n"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The\nthing is quite simple. Come, don\'t work yourself into this fever. The\nthing has to be done. Face it, and do it."\n\nA groan broke from Campbell\'s lips, and he shivered all over. The\nticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing\nTime into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be\nborne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his\nforehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already\ncome upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.\nIt was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.\n\n"Come, Alan, you must decide at once."\n\n"I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter\nthings.\n\n"You must. You have no choice. Don\'t delay."\n\nHe hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?"\n\n"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos."\n\n"I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory."\n\n"No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of\nnote-paper what you want, and my servant will take a cab and bring the\nthings back to you."\n\nCampbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope\nto his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he\nrang the bell, and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon\nas possible, and to bring the things with him.\n\nAs the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and, having got up\nfrom the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a\nkind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly\nbuzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the\nbeat of a hammer.\n\nAs the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and, looking at Dorian\nGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in\nthe purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.\n"You are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered.\n\n"Hush, Alan: you have saved my life," said Dorian.\n\n"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from\ncorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doing\nwhat I am going to do, what you force me to do, it is not of your life\nthat I am thinking."\n\n"Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian, with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth\npart of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned away as he\nspoke, and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.\n\nAfter about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant\nentered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil\nof steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously-shaped iron clamps.\n\n"Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell.\n\n"Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another\nerrand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies\nSelby with orchids?"\n\n"Harden, sir."\n\n"Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden\npersonally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and\nto have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don\'t want any white\nones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place,\notherwise I wouldn\'t bother you about it."\n\n"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?"\n\nDorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?"\nhe said, in a calm, indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in\nthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.\n\nCampbell frowned, and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," he\nanswered.\n\n"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,\nFrancis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have\nthe evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want\nyou."\n\n"Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room.\n\n"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!\nI\'ll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly, and\nin an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left\nthe room together.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it\nin the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He\nshuddered. "I don\'t think I can go in, Alan," he murmured.\n\n"It is nothing to me. I don\'t require you," said Campbell, coldly.\n\nDorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his\nportrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn\ncurtain was lying. He remembered that, the night before he had\nforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and\nwas about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.\n\nWhat was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one\nof the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it\nwas!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent\nthing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose\ngrotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had\nnot stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.\n\nHe heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with\nhalf-closed eyes and averted head walked quickly in, determined that he\nwould not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down, and\ntaking up the gold and purple hanging, he flung it right over the\npicture.\n\nThere he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed\nthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard\nCampbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other\nthings that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if\nhe and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of\neach other.\n\n"Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him.\n\nHe turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been\nthrust back into the chair, and that Campbell was gazing into a\nglistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs he heard the key\nbeing turned in the lock.\n\nIt was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He was\npale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he\nmuttered. "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again."\n\n"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian,\nsimply.\n\nAs soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible\nsmell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at\nthe table was gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nThat evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large\nbuttonhole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady\nNarborough\'s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was throbbing\nwith maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his manner as he\nbent over his hostess\'s hand was as easy and graceful as ever. Perhaps\none never seems so much at one\'s ease as when one has to play a part.\nCertainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed\nthat he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our\nage. Those finely-shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for\nsin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He\nhimself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a\nmoment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life.\n\nIt was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who\nwas a very clever woman, with what Lord Henry used to describe as the\nremains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife\nto one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband\nproperly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and\nmarried off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted\nherself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and\nFrench _esprit_ when she could get it.\n\nDorian was one of her special favourites, and she always told him that\nshe was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, my\ndear, I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say,\n"and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most\nfortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our\nbonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to\nraise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.\nHowever, that was all Narborough\'s fault. He was dreadfully\nshort-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never\nsees anything."\n\nHer guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she\nexplained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married\ndaughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make\nmatters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is\nmost unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay\nwith them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman\nlike me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them\nup. You don\'t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure\nunadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much\nto do, and go to bed early because they have so little to think about.\nThere has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of\nQueen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You\nshan\'t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me, and amuse me."\n\nDorian murmured a graceful compliment, and looked round the room. Yes:\nit was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen\nbefore, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those\nmiddle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,\nbut are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an\nover-dressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always\ntrying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to\nher great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against\nher; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp, and\nVenetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess\'s daughter, a dowdy\ndull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces, that, once\nseen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,\nwhite-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the\nimpression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of\nideas.\n\nHe was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the\ngreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the\nmauve-draped mantel-shelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be\nso late! I sent round to him this morning on chance, and he promised\nfaithfully not to disappoint me."\n\nIt was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door\nopened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some\ninsincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.\n\nBut at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away\nuntasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an\ninsult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and\nnow and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence\nand abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass\nwith champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.\n\n"Dorian," said Lord Henry, at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being\nhanded round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out\nof sorts."\n\n"I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid\nto tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly\nshould."\n\n"Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in\nlove for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town."\n\n"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.\n"I really cannot understand it."\n\n"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,\nLady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and\nyour short frocks."\n\n"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I\nremember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_\nshe was then."\n\n"She is still _décolletée_," he answered, taking an olive in his long\nfingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an\n_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and\nfull of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.\nWhen her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."\n\n"How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian.\n\n"It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third\nhusband, Lord Henry! You don\'t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth."\n\n"Certainly, Lady Narborough."\n\n"I don\'t believe a word of it."\n\n"Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends."\n\n"Is it true, Mr. Gray?"\n\n"She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether,\nlike Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at\nher girdle. She told me she didn\'t, because none of them had had any\nhearts at all."\n\n"Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zèle_."\n\n"_Trop d\'audace_, I tell her," said Dorian.\n\n"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol\nlike? I don\'t know him."\n\n"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,"\nsaid Lord Henry, sipping his wine.\n\nLady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all\nsurprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked."\n\n"But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.\n"It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent\nterms."\n\n"Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking\nher head.\n\nLord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous,"\nhe said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things\nagainst one behind one\'s back that are absolutely and entirely true."\n\n"Isn\'t he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.\n\n"I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really if you all worship\nMadame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so\nas to be in the fashion."\n\n"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You\nwere far too happy. When a woman marries again it is because she\ndetested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he\nadored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs."\n\n"Narborough wasn\'t perfect," cried the old lady.\n\n"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the\nrejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them\nthey will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask\nme to dinner again, after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough; but\nit is quite true."\n\n"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your\ndefects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married.\nYou would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that\nwould alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors,\nand all the bachelors like married men."\n\n"_Fin de siècle_," murmured Lord Henry.\n\n"_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess.\n\n"I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian, with a sigh. "Life is a\ngreat disappointment."\n\n"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don\'t tell\nme that you have exhausted Life. When a man says that one knows that\nLife has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes wish\nthat I had been; but you are made to be good--you look so good. I must\nfind you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don\'t you think that Mr. Gray should\nget married?"\n\n"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry, with a\nbow.\n\n"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go through\nDebrett carefully to-night, and draw out a list of all the eligible\nyoung ladies."\n\n"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian.\n\n"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done\nin a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable\nalliance, and I want you both to be happy."\n\n"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord Henry.\n"A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her."\n\n"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair,\nand nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon again.\nYou are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew\nprescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,\nthough. I want it to be a delightful gathering."\n\n"I like men who have a future, and women who have a past," he answered.\n"Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?"\n\n"I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons,\nmy dear Lady Ruxton," she added. "I didn\'t see you hadn\'t finished your\ncigarette."\n\n"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going\nto limit myself, for the future."\n\n"Pray don\'t, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal\nthing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a\nfeast."\n\nLady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to\nme some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she\nmurmured, as she swept out of the room.\n\n"Now, mind you don\'t stay too long over your politics and scandal,"\ncried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble\nupstairs."\n\nThe men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the\ntable and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat, and went and\nsat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the\nsituation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The\nword _doctrinaire_--word full of terror to the British mind--reappeared\nfrom time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served\nas an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of\nThought. The inherited stupidity of the race--sound English common sense\nhe jovially termed it--was shown to be the proper bulwark for Society.\n\nA smile curved Lord Henry\'s lips, and he turned round and looked at\nDorian.\n\n"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of\nsorts at dinner."\n\n"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."\n\n"You were charming last night. The little Duchess is quite devoted to\nyou. She tells me she is going down to Selby."\n\n"She has promised to come on the twentieth."\n\n"Is Monmouth to be there too?"\n\n"Oh, yes, Harry."\n\n"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very\nclever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of\nweakness. It is the feet of clay that makes the gold of the image\nprecious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White\nporcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what\nfire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences."\n\n"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian.\n\n"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is\nten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,\nwith time thrown in. Who else is coming?"\n\n"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey\nClouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian."\n\n"I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don\'t, but I find\nhim charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat over-dressed, by\nbeing always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type."\n\n"I don\'t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to\nMonte Carlo with his father."\n\n"Ah! what a nuisance people\'s people are! Try and make him come. By the\nway, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.\nWhat did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?"\n\nDorian glanced at him hurriedly, and frowned. "No, Harry," he said at\nlast, "I did not get home till nearly three."\n\n"Did you go to the club?"\n\n"Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don\'t mean that. I\ndidn\'t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How\ninquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been\ndoing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at\nhalf-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my\nlatch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any\ncorroborative evidence on the subject you can ask him."\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let\nus go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.\nSomething has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not\nyourself to-night."\n\n"Don\'t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come\nround and see you to-morrow or next day. Make my excuses to Lady\nNarborough. I shan\'t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home."\n\n"All right, Dorian. I daresay I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. The\nDuchess is coming."\n\n"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he drove\nback to his own house he was conscious that the sense of terror he\nthought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry\'s casual\nquestioning had made him lose his nerves for the moment, and he wanted\nhis nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He\nwinced. He hated the idea of even touching them.\n\nYet it had to be done. He realised that, and when he had locked the door\nof his library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust\nBasil Hallward\'s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled another\nlog on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning leather was\nhorrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume everything.\nAt the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian\npastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and forehead\nwith a cool musk-scented vinegar.\n\nSuddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed\nnervously at his under-lip. Between two of the windows stood a large\nFlorentine cabinet, made out of ebony, and inlaid with ivory and blue\nlapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and\nmake afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet\nalmost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He\nlit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the\nlong fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the\ncabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,\nwent over to it, and, having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A\ntriangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively\ntowards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese\nbox of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides\npatterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round\ncrystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside\nwas a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and\npersistent.\n\nHe hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his\nface. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly\nhot, he drew himself up, and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes\nto twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did so,\nand went into his bedroom.\n\nAs midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray\ndressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept\nquietly out of the house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good\nhorse. He hailed it, and in a low voice gave the driver an address.\n\nThe man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered.\n\n"Here is a sovereign for you," said Dorian. "You shall have another if\nyou drive fast."\n\n"All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour," and\nafter his fare had got in he turned his horse round, and drove rapidly\ntowards the river.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nA cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly\nin the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men\nand women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some\nof the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards\nbrawled and screamed.\n\nLying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian\nGray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and\nnow and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said\nto him on the first day they had met, "To cure the soul by means of the\nsenses, and the senses by means of the soul." Yes, that was the secret.\nHe had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were\nopium-dens, where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the\nmemory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were\nnew.\n\nThe moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a\nhuge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The\ngas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the\nman lost his way, and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from\nthe horse as it splashed up the puddles. The side-windows of the hansom\nwere clogged with a grey-flannel mist.\n\n"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the\nsoul!" How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was sick to\ndeath. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had\nbeen spilt. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no\natonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was\npossible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out,\nto crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed,\nwhat right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who had made\nhim a Judge over others? He had said things that were dreadful,\nhorrible, not to be endured.\n\nOn and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each\nstep. He thrust up the trap, and called to the man to drive faster. The\nhideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned, and\nhis delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse\nmadly with his stick. The driver laughed, and whipped up. He laughed in\nanswer, and the man was silent.\n\nThe way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some\nsprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and, as the mist\nthickened, he felt afraid.\n\nThen they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and he\ncould see the strange bottle-shaped kilns with their orange fan-like\ntongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the\ndarkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut,\nthen swerved aside, and broke into a gallop.\n\nAfter some time they left the clay road, and rattled again over\nrough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then\nfantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamp-lit blind. He\nwatched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes, and made\ngestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.\nAs they turned a corner a woman yelled something at them from an open\ndoor, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The\ndriver beat at them with his whip.\n\nIt is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with\nhideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped\nthose subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in\nthem the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by\nintellectual approval, passions that without such justification would\nstill have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept\nthe one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man\'s\nappetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness\nthat had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became\ndear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality. The\ncoarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life,\nthe very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their\nintense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of Art,\nthe dreamy shadows of Song. They were what he needed for forgetfulness.\nIn three days he would be free.\n\nSuddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over the\nlow roofs and jagged chimney stacks of the houses rose the black masts\nof ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards.\n\n"Somewhere about here, sir, ain\'t it?" he asked huskily through the\ntrap.\n\nDorian started, and peered round. "This will do," he answered, and,\nhaving got out hastily, and given the driver the extra fare he had\npromised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and\nthere a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The light\nshook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an\noutward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like a\nwet mackintosh.\n\nHe hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he\nwas being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small\nshabby house, that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of\nthe top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped, and gave a peculiar knock.\n\nAfter a little time he heard steps in the passage, and the chain being\nunhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word\nto the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as\nhe passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that\nswayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the\nstreet. He dragged it aside, and entered a long, low room which looked\nas if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring\ngas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them,\nwere ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed\nthem, making quivering discs of light. The floor was covered with\nochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained\nwith dark rings of spilt liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little\ncharcoal stove playing with bone counters, and showing their white teeth\nas they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a\nsailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily-painted bar that ran\nacross one complete side stood two haggard women mocking an old man who\nwas brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "He\nthinks he\'s got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed\nby. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper.\n\nAt the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a\ndarkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the\nheavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils\nquivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow\nhair, who was bending over a lamp, lighting a long thin pipe, looked up\nat him, and nodded in a hesitating manner.\n\n"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian.\n\n"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps\nwill speak to me now."\n\n"I thought you had left England."\n\n"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at\nlast. George doesn\'t speak to me either.... I don\'t care," he added,\nwith a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn\'t want friends. I\nthink I have had too many friends."\n\nDorian winced, and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such\nfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the\ngaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in\nwhat strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were\nteaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he\nwas. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was\neating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of\nBasil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The\npresence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one\nwould know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.\n\n"I am going on to the other place," he said, after a pause.\n\n"On the wharf?"\n\n"Yes."\n\n"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won\'t have her in this place\nnow."\n\nDorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women\nwho hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better."\n\n"Much the same."\n\n"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have\nsomething."\n\n"I don\'t want anything," murmured the young man.\n\n"Never mind."\n\nAdrian Singleton rose up wearily, and followed Dorian to the bar. A\nhalf-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous\ngreeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of\nthem. The women sidled up, and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back\non them, and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.\n\nA crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of\nthe women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered.\n\n"For God\'s sake don\'t talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on\nthe ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don\'t ever talk to me\nagain."\n\nTwo red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman\'s sodden eyes, then\nflickered out, and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head, and\nraked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion\nwatched her enviously.\n\n"It\'s no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don\'t care to go back. What\ndoes it matter? I am quite happy here."\n\n"You will write to me if you want anything, won\'t you?" said Dorian,\nafter a pause.\n\n"Perhaps."\n\n"Good-night, then."\n\n"Good-night," answered the young man, passing up the steps, and wiping\nhis parched mouth with a handkerchief.\n\nDorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew\nthe curtain aside a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the\nwoman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil\'s bargain!" she\nhiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.\n\n"Curse you!" he answered, "don\'t call me that."\n\nShe snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called,\nain\'t it?" she yelled after him.\n\nThe drowsy sailor leapt to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly\nround. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He\nrushed out as if in pursuit.\n\nDorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His\nmeeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered\nif the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as\nBasil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his\nlip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did\nit matter to him? One\'s days were too brief to take the burden of\nanother\'s errors on one\'s shoulders. Each man lived his own life, and\npaid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so\noften for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In\nher dealings with man Destiny never closed her accounts.\n\nThere are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or\nfor what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature, that every fibre of\nthe body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful\nimpulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.\nThey move to their terrible end as automatons move, Choice is taken from\nthem, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but\nto give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm. For all\nsins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of\ndisobedience. When that high spirit, that morning-star of evil, fell\nfrom heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.\n\nCallous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for\nrebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but\nas he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a\nshort cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself\nsuddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself he\nwas thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.\n\nHe struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the\ntightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,\nand saw the gleam of a polished barrel pointing straight at his head,\nand the dusky form of a short thick-set man facing him.\n\n"What do you want?" he gasped.\n\n"Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you."\n\n"You are mad. What have I done to you?"\n\n"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane\nwas my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door.\nI swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had\nno clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were\ndead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I\nheard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you\nare going to die."\n\nDorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I\nnever heard of her. You are mad."\n\n"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you\nare going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what\nto say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one\nminute to make your peace--no more. I go on board to-night for India,\nand I must do my job first. One minute. That\'s all."\n\nDorian\'s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know\nwhat to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he\ncried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!"\n\n"Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me? What do years\nmatter?"\n\n"Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his\nvoice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!"\n\nJames Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.\nThen he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.\n\nDim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him\nthe hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face\nof the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the\nunstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty\nsummers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been\nwhen they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not\nthe man who had destroyed her life.\n\nHe loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I\nwould have murdered you!"\n\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of\ncommitting a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly.\n"Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own\nhands."\n\n"Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance word I\nheard in that damned den set me on the wrong track."\n\n"You had better go home, and put that pistol away, or you may get into\ntrouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel, and going slowly down the\nstreet.\n\nJames Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head\nto foot. After a little while a black shadow that had been creeping\nalong the dripping wall, moved out into the light and came close to him\nwith stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round\nwith a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar.\n\n"Why didn\'t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting her haggard face\nquite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out\nfrom Daly\'s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money,\nand he\'s as bad as bad."\n\n"He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man\'s\nmoney. I want a man\'s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly\nforty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got\nhis blood upon my hands."\n\nThe woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered.\n"Why, man, it\'s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me\nwhat I am."\n\n"You lie!" cried James Vane.\n\nShe raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth,"\nshe cried.\n\n"Before God?"\n\n"Strike me dumb if it ain\'t so. He is the worst one that comes here.\nThey say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It\'s nigh\non eighteen years since I met him. He hasn\'t changed much since then. I\nhave though," she added, with a sickly leer.\n\n"You swear this?"\n\n"I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don\'t give\nme away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money\nfor my night\'s lodging."\n\nHe broke from her with an oath, and rushed to the corner of the street,\nbut Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had\nvanished also.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nA week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal\ntalking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a\njaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and\nthe mellow light of the huge lace-covered lamp that stood on the table\nlit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which\nthe Duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among\nthe cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian\nhad whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker\nchair looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough\npretending to listen to the Duke\'s description of the last Brazilian\nbeetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate\nsmoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The\nhouse-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to\narrive on the next day.\n\n"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the\ntable, and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my\nplan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea."\n\n"But I don\'t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the Duchess,\nlooking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my\nown name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his."\n\n"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are\nboth perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an\norchid, for my buttonhole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as\neffective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one\nof the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen\nof _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad\ntruth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.\nNames are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is\nwith words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The\nman who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is\nthe only thing he is fit for."\n\n"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked.\n\n"His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian.\n\n"I recognise him in a flash," exclaimed the Duchess.\n\n"I won\'t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a\nlabel there is no escape! I refuse the title."\n\n"Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips.\n\n"You wish me to defend my throne, then?"\n\n"Yes."\n\n"I give the truths of to-morrow."\n\n"I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered.\n\n"You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.\n\n"Of your shield, Harry: not of your spear."\n\n"I never tilt against Beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand.\n\n"That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much."\n\n"How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be\nbeautiful than to be good. But on the other hand no one is more ready\nthan I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly."\n\n"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the Duchess.\n"What becomes of your simile about the orchid?"\n\n"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good\nTory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly\nvirtues have made our England what she is."\n\n"You don\'t like your country, then?" she asked.\n\n"I live in it."\n\n"That you may censure it the better."\n\n"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired.\n\n"What do they say of us?"\n\n"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop."\n\n"Is that yours, Harry?"\n\n"I give it to you."\n\n"I could not use it. It is too true."\n\n"You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognise a description."\n\n"They are practical."\n\n"They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,\nthey balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy."\n\n"Still, we have done great things."\n\n"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys."\n\n"We have carried their burden."\n\n"Only as far as the Stock Exchange."\n\nShe shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried.\n\n"It represents the survival of the pushing."\n\n"It has development."\n\n"Decay fascinates me more."\n\n"What of Art?" she asked.\n\n"It is a malady."\n\n"Love?"\n\n"An illusion."\n\n"Religion?"\n\n"The fashionable substitute for Belief."\n\n"You are a sceptic."\n\n"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of Faith."\n\n"What are you?"\n\n"To define is to limit."\n\n"Give me a clue."\n\n"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth."\n\n"You bewilder me. Let us talk of someone else."\n\n"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince\nCharming."\n\n"Ah! don\'t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray.\n\n"Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the Duchess,\ncolouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely\nscientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern\nbutterfly."\n\n"Well, I hope he won\'t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian.\n\n"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me."\n\n"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?"\n\n"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I\ncome in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by\nhalf-past eight."\n\n"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning."\n\n"I daren\'t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one\nI wore at Lady Hilstone\'s garden-party? You don\'t, but it is nice of you\nto pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats\nare made out of nothing."\n\n"Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every\neffect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a\nmediocrity."\n\n"Not with women," said the Duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule\nthe world. I assure you we can\'t bear mediocrities. We women, as someone\nsays, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you\never love at all."\n\n"It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian.\n\n"Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the Duchess, with\nmock sadness.\n\n"My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives\nby repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides,\neach time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference\nof object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies\nit. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret\nof life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible."\n\n"Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the Duchess, after\na pause.\n\n"Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry.\n\nThe Duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression\nin her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired.\n\nDorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.\n"I always agree with Harry, Duchess."\n\n"Even when he is wrong?"\n\n"Harry is never wrong, Duchess."\n\n"And does his philosophy make you happy?"\n\n"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have\nsearched for pleasure."\n\n"And found it, Mr. Gray?"\n\n"Often. Too often."\n\nThe Duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I\ndon\'t go and dress, I shall have none this evening."\n\n"Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his\nfeet, and walking down the conservatory.\n\n"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his\ncousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating."\n\n"If he were not, there would be no battle."\n\n"Greek meets Greek, then?"\n\n"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."\n\n"They were defeated."\n\n"There are worse things than capture," she answered.\n\n"You gallop with a loose rein."\n\n"Pace gives life," was the _riposte_.\n\n"I shall write it in my diary to-night."\n\n"What?"\n\n"That a burnt child loves the fire."\n\n"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched."\n\n"You use them for everything, except flight."\n\n"Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us."\n\n"You have a rival."\n\n"Who?"\n\nHe laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him."\n\n"You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to Antiquity is fatal to us\nwho are romanticists."\n\n"Romanticists! You have all the methods of science."\n\n"Men have educated us."\n\n"But not explained you."\n\n"Describe us as a sex," was her challenge.\n\n"Sphynxes without secrets."\n\nShe looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go\nand help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock."\n\n"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys."\n\n"That would be a premature surrender."\n\n"Romantic Art begins with its climax."\n\n"I must keep an opportunity for retreat."\n\n"In the Parthian manner?"\n\n"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that."\n\n"Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he\nfinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came\na stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody\nstarted up. The Duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his\neyes Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray\nlying face downwards on the tiled floor in a death-like swoon.\n\nHe was carried at once into the blue drawing-room, and laid upon one of\nthe sofas. After a short time he came to himself, and looked round with\na dazed expression.\n\n"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?"\nHe began to tremble.\n\n"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was\nall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to\ndinner. I will take your place."\n\n"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather\ncome down. I must not be alone."\n\nHe went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety\nin his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror\nran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of\nthe conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of\nJames Vane watching him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nThe next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the\ntime in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet\nindifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,\ntracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble\nin the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the\nleaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild\nregrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor\'s face peering\nthrough the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its\nhand upon his heart.\n\nBut perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of\nthe night, and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual\nlife was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the\nimagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of\nsin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen\nbrood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the\ngood rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the\nweak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the\nhouse he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any\nfootmarks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have\nreported it. Yes: it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane\'s brother had not\ncome back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some\nwinter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not\nknow who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved\nhim.\n\nAnd yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think\nthat conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible\nform, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be, if\nday and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent\ncorners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat\nat the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! As the\nthought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air\nseemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a wild hour of\nmadness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere memory of the\nscene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back to him with\nadded horror. Out of the black cave of Time, terrible and swathed in\nscarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in at six\no\'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.\n\nIt was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was\nsomething in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that\nseemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it\nwas not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused\nthe change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish\nthat had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle\nand finely-wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions\nmust either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die.\nShallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that\nare great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had\nconvinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken\nimagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and\nnot a little of contempt.\n\nAfter breakfast he walked with the Duchess for an hour in the garden,\nand then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp\nfrost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue\nmetal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat reed-grown lake.\n\nAt the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey Clouston,\nthe Duchess\'s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. He\njumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home,\nmade his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough\nundergrowth.\n\n"Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked.\n\n"Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the open.\nI dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground."\n\nDorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and\nred lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters\nringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that\nfollowed, fascinated him, and filled him with a sense of delightful\nfreedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high\nindifference of joy.\n\nSuddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass, some twenty yards in front\nof them, with black-tipped ears erect, and long hinder limbs throwing it\nforward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir Geoffrey\nput his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal\'s\ngrace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he cried out\nat once, "Don\'t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live."\n\n"What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded\ninto the thicket he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a hare\nin pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse.\n\n"Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What an\nass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" he\ncalled out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt."\n\nThe head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.\n\n"Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time the firing\nceased along the line.\n\n"Here," answered Sir Geoffrey, angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.\n"Why on earth don\'t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the\nday."\n\nDorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the\nlithe, swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging\na body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It seemed\nto him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir Geoffrey\nask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the\nkeeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces.\nThere was the trampling of myriad feet, and the low buzz of voices. A\ngreat copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead.\n\nAfter a few moments, that were to him, in his perturbed state, like\nendless hours of pain, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started,\nand looked round.\n\n"Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting is\nstopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on."\n\n"I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered, bitterly. "The\nwhole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man...?"\n\nHe could not finish the sentence.\n\n"I am afraid so," rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge of shot\nin his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go\nhome."\n\nThey walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty\nyards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry, and said, with\na heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen."\n\n"What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear\nfellow, it can\'t be helped. It was the man\'s own fault. Why did he get\nin front of the guns? Besides, it\'s nothing to us. It is rather awkward\nfor Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It makes\npeople think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he shoots\nvery straight. But there is no use talking about the matter."\n\nDorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something\nhorrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps," he\nadded, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.\n\nThe elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_,\nDorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we\nare not likely to suffer from it, unless these fellows keep chattering\nabout this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be\ntabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does\nnot send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides,\nwhat on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the\nworld that a man can want. There is no one who would not be delighted to\nchange places with you."\n\n"There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don\'t laugh\nlike that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who has just\ndied is better off than I am. I have no terror of Death. It is the\ncoming of Death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in\nthe leaden air around me. Good heavens! don\'t you see a man moving\nbehind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?"\n\nLord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand\nwas pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for\nyou. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the\ntable to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must\ncome and see my doctor, when we get back to town."\n\nDorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The\nman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating\nmanner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her\nGrace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured.\n\nDorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming\nin," he said, coldly. The man turned round, and went rapidly in the\ndirection of the house.\n\n"How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It\nis one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt\nwith anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on."\n\n"How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present\ninstance you are quite astray. I like the Duchess very much, but I don\'t\nlove her."\n\n"And the Duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are\nexcellently matched."\n\n"You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for\nscandal."\n\n"The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry,\nlighting a cigarette.\n\n"You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram."\n\n"The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer.\n\n"I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray, with a deep note of pathos in\nhis voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten the\ndesire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has\nbecome a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was\nsilly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to\nHarvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe."\n\n"Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what\nit is? You know I would help you."\n\n"I can\'t tell you, Harry," he answered, sadly. "And I dare say it is\nonly a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a\nhorrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me."\n\n"What nonsense!"\n\n"I hope it is, but I can\'t help feeling it. Ah! here is the Duchess,\nlooking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,\nDuchess."\n\n"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is\nterribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.\nHow curious!"\n\n"Yes, it was very curious. I don\'t know what made me say it. Some whim,\nI suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry\nthey told you about the man. It is a hideous subject."\n\n"It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no\npsychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on\npurpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know someone who\nhad committed a real murder."\n\n"How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the Duchess. "Isn\'t it, Mr. Gray?\nHarry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint."\n\nDorian drew himself up with an effort, and smiled. "It is nothing,\nDuchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is\nall. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn\'t hear what Harry\nsaid. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must\ngo and lie down. You will excuse me, won\'t you?"\n\nThey had reached the great flight of steps that led from the\nconservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,\nLord Henry turned and looked at the Duchess with his slumberous eyes.\n"Are you very much in love with him?" he asked.\n\nShe did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I\nwish I knew," she said at last.\n\nHe shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty\nthat charms one. A mist makes things wonderful."\n\n"One may lose one\'s way."\n\n"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."\n\n"What is that?"\n\n"Disillusion."\n\n"It was my _début_ in life," she sighed.\n\n"It came to you crowned."\n\n"I am tired of strawberry leaves."\n\n"They become you."\n\n"Only in public."\n\n"You would miss them," said Lord Henry.\n\n"I will not part with a petal."\n\n"Monmouth has ears."\n\n"Old age is dull of hearing."\n\n"Has he never been jealous?"\n\n"I wish he had been."\n\nHe glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking\nfor?" she inquired.\n\n"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it."\n\nShe laughed. "I have still the mask."\n\n"It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply.\n\nShe laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit.\n\nUpstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror\nin every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too\nhideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky\nbeater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to\nprefigure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord\nHenry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.\n\nAt five o\'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to\npack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham\nat the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another\nnight at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in\nthe sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.\n\nThen he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to\ntown to consult his doctor, and asking him to entertain his guests in\nhis absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the\ndoor, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him.\nHe frowned, and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after some\nmoments\' hesitation.\n\nAs soon as the man entered Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer,\nand spread it out before him.\n\n"I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning,\nThornton?" he said, taking up a pen.\n\n"Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper.\n\n"Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?" asked\nDorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left in\nwant, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary."\n\n"We don\'t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of coming\nto you about."\n\n"Don\'t know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean?\nWasn\'t he one of your men?"\n\n"No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir."\n\nThe pen dropped from Dorian Gray\'s hand, and he felt as if his heart had\nsuddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say a\nsailor?"\n\n"Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both\narms, and that kind of thing."\n\n"Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and\nlooking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his\nname?"\n\n"Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any\nkind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor, we\nthink."\n\nDorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He\nclutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must\nsee it at once."\n\n"It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don\'t like to\nhave that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad\nluck."\n\n"The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to\nbring my horse round. No. Never mind. I\'ll go to the stables myself. It\nwill save time."\n\nIn less than a quarter of an hour Dorian Gray was galloping down the\nlong avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him\nin spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his\npath. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.\nHe lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air\nlike an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.\n\nAt last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He\nleapt from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the\nfarthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him\nthat the body was there, and he hurried to the door, and put his hand\nupon the latch.\n\nThere he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a\ndiscovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the\ndoor open, and entered.\n\nOn a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man\ndressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted\nhandkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a\nbottle, sputtered beside it.\n\nDorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take\nthe handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to\ncome to him.\n\n"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at\nthe doorpost for support.\n\nWhen the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy\nbroke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James\nVane.\n\nHe stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode\nhome, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\n"There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried\nLord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with\nrose-water. "You\'re quite perfect. Pray, don\'t change."\n\nDorian Gray shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful\nthings in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good\nactions yesterday."\n\n"Where were you yesterday?"\n\n"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself."\n\n"My dear boy," said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the\ncountry. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people\nwho live out of town are so absolutely uncivilised. Civilisation is not\nby any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by\nwhich man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being\ncorrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they\nstagnate."\n\n"Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian. "I have known something of\nboth. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found\ntogether. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I\nhave altered."\n\n"You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you\nhad done more than one?" asked his companion, as he spilt into his plate\na little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries, and through a\nperforated shell-shaped spoon snowed white sugar upon them.\n\n"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to anyone else. I\nspared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was\nquite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was that\nwhich first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don\'t you? How long\nago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of course. She\nwas simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I am quite sure\nthat I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we have been\nhaving, I used to run down and see her two or three times a week.\nYesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept\ntumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone\naway together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her\nas flower-like as I had found her."\n\n"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill\nof real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry. "But I can finish\nyour idyll for you. You gave her good advice, and broke her heart. That\nwas the beginning of your reformation."\n\n"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn\'t say these dreadful things. Hetty\'s\nheart is not broken. Of course she cried, and all that. But there is no\ndisgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her garden of mint and\nmarigold."\n\n"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as he\nleant back in his chair. "My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously\nboyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really contented now\nwith anyone of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to a\nrough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met you,\nand loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be\nwretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much of\nyour great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how\ndo you know that Hetty isn\'t floating at the present moment in some\nstar-lit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?"\n\n"I can\'t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the\nmost serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don\'t care what you\nsay to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I rode\npast the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window, like a\nspray of jasmine. Don\'t let us talk about it any more, and don\'t try to\npersuade me that the first good action I have done for years, the first\nlittle bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a sort of sin.\nI want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me something about\nyourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to the club for\ndays."\n\n"The people are still discussing poor Basil\'s disappearance."\n\n"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said\nDorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly.\n\n"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and\nthe British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having\nmore than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate\nlately, however. They have had my own divorce-case, and Alan Campbell\'s\nsuicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.\nScotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left for\nParis by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor Basil, and\nthe French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all. I\nsuppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in\nSan Francisco. It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said\nto be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess\nall the attractions of the next world."\n\n"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up his\nBurgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he could\ndiscuss the matter so calmly.\n\n"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is\nno business of mine. If he is dead, I don\'t want to think about him.\nDeath is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it."\n\n"Why?" said the younger man, wearily.\n\n"Because," said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt\ntrellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything nowadays\nexcept that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the\nnineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee\nin the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with whom\nmy wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was very\nfond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course married\nlife is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the loss even\nof one\'s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such\nan essential part of one\'s personality."\n\nDorian said nothing, but rose from the table and, passing into the next\nroom, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white\nand black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he\nstopped, and, looking over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it ever\noccur to you that Basil was murdered?"\n\nLord Henry yawned. "Basil was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury\nwatch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to\nhave enemies. Of course he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a\nman can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was\nreally rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he\ntold me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you, and that you\nwere the dominant motive of his art."\n\n"I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian, with a note of sadness in his\nvoice. "But don\'t people say that he was murdered?"\n\n"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all\nprobable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not\nthe sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his\nchief defect."\n\n"What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?"\nsaid the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.\n\n"I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that\ndoesn\'t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.\nIt is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your\nvanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs\nexclusively to the lower orders. I don\'t blame them in the smallest\ndegree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply\na method of procuring extraordinary sensations."\n\n"A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who\nhas once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?\nDon\'t tell me that."\n\n"Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried Lord\nHenry, laughing. "That is one of the most important secrets of life. I\nshould fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should never\ndo any thing that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us pass\nfrom poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a\nreally romantic end as you suggest; but I can\'t. I dare say he fell into\nthe Seine off an omnibus, and that the conductor hushed up the scandal.\nYes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on his back\nunder those dull-green waters with the heavy barges floating over him,\nand long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don\'t think he would\nhave done much more good work. During the last ten years his painting\nhad gone off very much."\n\nDorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began\nto stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large grey-plumaged bird,\nwith pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch.\nAs his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of\ncrinkled lids over black glass-like eyes, and began to sway backwards\nand forwards.\n\n"Yes," he continued, turning round, and taking his handkerchief out of\nhis pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have\nlost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be great\nfriends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated you? I\nsuppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It\'s a habit bores\nhave. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of\nyou? I don\'t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh! I\nremember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to Selby,\nand that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got it back?\nWhat a pity! It was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it.\nI wish I had now. It belonged to Basil\'s best period. Since then, his\nwork was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that\nalways entitles a man to be called a representative British artist. Did\nyou advertise for it? You should."\n\n"I forget," said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really liked it.\nI am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why\ndo you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some\nplay--\'Hamlet,\' I think--how do they run?--\n\n "\'Like the painting of a sorrow,\n A face without a heart.\'\n\nYes: that is what it was like."\n\nLord Henry laughed. "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his\nheart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head, and struck some soft chords on the piano.\n"\'Like the painting of a sorrow,\'" he repeated, "\'a face without a\nheart.\'"\n\nThe elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "By the\nway, Dorian," he said, after a pause, "\'what does it profit a man if he\ngain the whole world and lose\'--how does the quotation run?--\'his own\nsoul\'?"\n\nThe music jarred and Dorian Gray started, and stared at his friend. "Why\ndo you ask me that, Harry?"\n\n"My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,\n"I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.\nThat is all. I was going through the Park last Sunday, and close by the\nMarble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people\nlistening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the\nman yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being\nrather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A\nwet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly white\nfaces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase\nflung into the air by shrill, hysterical lips--it was really very good\nin its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet that\nArt had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he would not\nhave understood me."\n\n"Don\'t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and\nsold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a\nsoul in each one of us. I know it."\n\n"Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?"\n\n"Quite sure."\n\n"Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely\ncertain about are never true. That is the fatality of Faith, and the\nlesson of Romance. How grave you are! Don\'t be so serious. What have\nyou or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up\nour belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian,\nand, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth.\nYou must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you are, and I\nam wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful, Dorian. You\nhave never looked more charming than you do to-night. You remind me of\nthe day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy, and\nabsolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in\nappearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I\nwould do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or\nbe respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It\'s absurd to talk of\nthe ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen now\nwith any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in front\nof me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I\nalways contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their\nopinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the\nopinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in\neverything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are\nplaying is! I wonder did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea\nweeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the panes?\nIt is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art\nleft to us that is not imitative! Don\'t stop. I want music to-night. It\nseems to me that you are the young Apollo, and that I am Marsyas\nlistening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know\nnothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one\nis young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how\nhappy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk\ndeeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate.\nNothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more\nthan the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same."\n\n"I am not the same, Harry."\n\n"Yes: you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.\nDon\'t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.\nDon\'t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not\nshake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don\'t deceive\nyourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question\nof nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides\nitself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and\nthink yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a\nmorning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that\nbrings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you\nhad come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had\nceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that\nour lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own\nsenses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of\n_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the\nstrangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places with\nyou, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always\nworshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the\nage is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad\nthat you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a\npicture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your\nart. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets."\n\nDorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair.\n"Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have\nthe same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to\nme. You don\'t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even\nyou would turn from me. You laugh. Don\'t laugh."\n\n"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne\nover again. Look at that great honey-coloured moon that hangs in the\ndusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will\ncome closer to the earth. You won\'t? Let us go to the club, then. It has\nbeen a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some\none at White\'s who wants immensely to know you--young Lord Poole,\nBournemouth\'s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has\nbegged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful, and rather\nreminds me of you."\n\n"I hope not," said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired\nto-night, Harry. I shan\'t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I\nwant to go to bed early."\n\n"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something\nin your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever\nheard from it before."\n\n"It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling, "I am a\nlittle changed already."\n\n"You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "You and I will\nalways be friends."\n\n"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry,\npromise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm."\n\n"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralise. You will soon be\ngoing about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people\nagainst all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too\ndelightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are,\nand will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is\nno such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates\nthe desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world\ncalls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all.\nBut we won\'t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to\nride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch\nafterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to\nconsult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you\ncome. Or shall we lunch with our little Duchess? She says she never sees\nyou now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her\nclever tongue gets on one\'s nerves. Well, in any case, be here at\neleven."\n\n"Must I really come, Harry?"\n\n"Certainly. The Park is quite lovely now. I don\'t think there have been\nsuch lilacs since the year I met you."\n\n"Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good-night,\nHarry." As he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he had\nsomething more to say. Then he sighed and went out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nIt was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and\ndid not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,\nsmoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He\nheard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He\nremembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared\nat, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the\ncharm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that\nno one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to\nlove him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her\nonce that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and answered that\nwicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she\nhad!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her\ncotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had\neverything that he had lost.\n\nWhen he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent\nhim to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began\nto think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.\n\nWas it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing\nfor the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord\nHenry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled\nhis mind with corruption, and given horror to his fancy; that he had\nbeen an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in\nbeing so; and that, of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been\nthe fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.\nBut was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?\n\nAh! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that\nthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the\nunsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to\nthat. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure,\nswift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not\n"Forgive us our sins," but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the\nprayer of a man to a most just God.\n\nThe curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many\nyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids\nlaughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night\nof horror, when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and\nwith wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some\none who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending\nwith these idolatrous words: "The world is changed because you are made\nof ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history." The phrases\ncame back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself.\nThen he loathed his own beauty, and, flinging the mirror on the floor,\ncrushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his beauty\nthat had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for.\nBut for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His\nbeauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. What was\nyouth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods and\nsickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him.\n\nIt was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was\nof himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was\nhidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot\nhimself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret\nthat he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over\nBasil Hallward\'s disappearance would soon pass away. It was already\nwaning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of\nBasil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death\nof his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that\nhad marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait\nthat had done everything. Basil had said things to him that were\nunbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been\nsimply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had\nbeen his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him.\n\nA new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.\nSurely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at any\nrate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.\n\nAs he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the\nlocked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had\nbeen? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every\nsign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had\nalready gone away. He would go and look.\n\nHe took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the\ndoor a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and\nlingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the\nhideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to\nhim. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.\n\nHe went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and\ndragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and\nindignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the\neyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of\nthe hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if\npossible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed\nbrighter, and more like blood newly spilt. Then he trembled. Had it been\nmerely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for\na new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or\nthat passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than\nwe are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain\nlarger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease\nover the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as\nthough the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held\nthe knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself\nup, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was\nmonstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There\nwas no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him\nhad been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs.\nThe world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he\npersisted in his story.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer\npublic shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called\nupon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that\nhe could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He\nshrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little\nto him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror,\nthis mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity?\nHypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that?\nThere had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could\ntell?... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared\nher. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity\'s\nsake he had tried the denial of self. He recognised that now.\n\nBut this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be\nburdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only\none bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that was\nevidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had\ngiven him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had\nfelt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been\naway, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon\nit. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had\nmarred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it\nhad been conscience. He would destroy it.\n\nHe looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He\nhad cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was\nbright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill\nthe painter\'s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and\nwhen that was dead he would be free. It would kill this monstrous\nsoul-life, and, without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He\nseized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.\n\nThere was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony\nthat the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two\ngentlemen, who were passing in the Square below, stopped, and looked up\nat the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman, and\nbrought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no\nanswer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all\ndark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and\nwatched.\n\n"Whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.\n\n"Mr. Dorian Gray\'s, sir," answered the policeman.\n\nThey looked at each other, as they walked away and sneered. One of them\nwas Sir Henry Ashton\'s uncle.\n\nInside, in the servants\' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were\ntalking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and\nwringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.\n\nAfter about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the\nfootmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They\ncalled out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force\nthe door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The\nwindows yielded easily; their bolts were old.\n\nWhen they entered they found, hanging upon the wall, a splendid portrait\nof their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his\nexquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in\nevening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and\nloathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that\nthey recognised who it was.\n\nTHE END\n\n* * *\n\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n\nPIRATED EDITIONS\n\nOwing to the number of unauthorised editions of "THE PICTURE OF DORIAN\nGRAY" issued at various times both in America and on the Continent of\nEurope, it has become necessary to indicate which are the only\nauthorised editions of Oscar Wilde\'s masterpiece.\n\nMany of the pirated editions are incomplete in that they omit the\nPreface and seven additional chapters which were first published in the\nLondon edition of 1891. In other cases certain passages have been\nmutilated, and faulty spellings and misprints are numerous.\n\n\nAUTHORISED EDITIONS\n\n(I) First published in _Lippincott\'s Monthly Magazine_, July, 1890.\nLondon: Ward, Lock & Co. _Copyrighted in London_.\n\nPublished _simultaneously_ in America. Philadelphia: J.-B. Lippincott\nCo. _Copyrighted in the United States of America_.\n\n(II) A Preface to "Dorian Gray." _Fortnightly Review_, March 1, 1891.\nLondon: Chapman & Hall. (_All rights reserved._)\n\n(III) With the Preface and Seven additional chapters. London, New York,\nand Melbourne: Ward, Lock & Co. (n. d.).\n\n(Of this edition 250 copies were issued on L.P., _dated_ 1891.)\n\n(IV) The same. London, New York, and Melbourne: Ward, Lock & Bowden. (n.\nd.).\n\n(Published 1894 or 1895.) See Stuart Mason\'s "Art and Morality" (page\n153).\n\n\nTHE FOLLOWING EDITIONS\n\nwere issued by Charles Carrington, _Publisher and Literary Agent_, late\nof 13 Faubourg Montmartre, Paris, and 10 _Rue de la Tribune_, BRUSSELS\n(Belgium), to whom the Copyright belongs.\n\n(V) Small 8vo, vii 334 pages, printed on English antique wove paper,\nsilk-cloth boards. 500 copies, 1901.\n\n(VI) The same, vii 327 pages, silk-cloth boards. 500 copies, 1905.\n\nOf this edition 100 copies were issued on hand-made paper.\n\n(VII) 4to, vi 312 pages, broad margins, claret-coloured paper wrappers,\ntitle on label on the outside. 250 copies. Price 10_s_. 6_d_. 1908\n(February).\n\n(VIII) Cr. 8vo, uniform with Methuen\'s (London) complete edition of\nWilde\'s _Works_. xi 362 pages, printed on hand-made paper, white cloth,\ngilt extra.\n\n1000 copies. Price 12_s._ 6_d._ 1908 (April 16).\n\nOf this edition 80 further copies were printed on Imperial Japanese\nvellum, full vellum binding, gilt extra. Price 42_s_.\n\n(IX) Illustrated edition. Containing seven fullpaged illustrations by\nPaul Thirlat, engraved on Wood by Eugène Dété (both of Paris), and\nartistically printed by Brendon & Son, Ltd. (of Plymouth), 4to, vi 312\npages, half parchment bound, with corners, and _fleur-de-lys_ on side.\n1908-9. Price 15_s._\n\n(X) Small edition, uniform with Messrs. Methuen\'s Issue of "Oscar\nWilde\'s Works" at same price. 12mo, xii and 352 pages. 2000 copies.\nBound in green cloth. 1910. Price 5_s._\n\nIt follows from all this that, with the exception of the version in\n_Lippincott\'s Magazine_ only those editions are authorised to be sold in\nGreat Britain and her Colonies which bear the imprimatur of Ward, Lock &\nCo., London, or Charles Carrington, Paris and Brussels; and that all\nother editions, whether American, Continental (_save Carrington\'s Paris\neditions above specified_) or otherwise, may not be sold within British\njurisdiction without infringing the _Berne_ law of literary copyright\nand incurring the disagreements that may therefrom result.\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LIMITED.\n\n* * *\n\nTo possess a good edition\nof SHAKESPEARE\nis surely the desire of every one.\n\nSimpkin\'s\n\nTHIN PAPER EDITION\n\nof\n\nShakespeare\n\nis a charming Edition, suitable for the pocket\nor bookshelf. Size 6-3/4 × 4 × 3/4 inch thick.\nPrinted in large type on a thin but thoroughly\nopaque paper, with photogravure frontispiece\nand title-page to each volume on Japanese vellum.\n\nThe 3 Volumes are\n\nComedies, Histories, Tragedies.\n\nCloth, 3/- each net. Lambskin, 3/6 each net\nPolished Persian Levant in Case, 15/- net\n1/4 Vellum, gilt top, in Case, 15/- net\n\n_To be had from all Booksellers or the Publishers_\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL,\nHAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.\n\n* * *\n\nHow Interesting\n\nA Study or Hobby becomes when you have\nthe assistance of an Experienced Guide.\n\nGORDON\'S\n\nOUR COUNTRY\'S SERIES\n\nare reliable and safe guides for the professional or\namateur student of\n\nNATURE STUDY.\n\n_Each volume contains 33 full-page Plates containing a\nColoured Illustration of every Species. Cloth 3/6 each net_\n\n FLOWERS. SHELLS.\n\n BIRDS. FISHES.\n\n BUTTERFLIES & MOTHS. ANIMALS (Mammals, Reptiles,\n and Amphibians).\n\n EGGS OF BRITISH BIRDS. (Being a Supplement to "our country\'s birds".)\n 2/6 net\n\n With 16 FULL-PAGE COLOURED PLATES.\n\n MANUAL OF BRITISH GRASSES. Crown 8vo. 6/-net\n\nWith an accurate coloured figure of every species, and outline drawings\nof the spikelets and florets of every genus.\n\n_Ask your Bookseller to show you Gordon\'s Our Country\'s Series_.\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.\n\n* * *\n\nHave You\na friend who loves\n"My Lady Nicotine?"\nHe would appreciate\n\nTHE SMOKER BOOKS\n\nThey form a comprehensive collection of\nbooks for lovers of the "weed." In their\nunique and original binding they make an\nattractive novelty for a present.\n\nCigarettes in Fact and Fancy. Collected and\nedited by JOHN BAIN.\n\nTobacco in Song and Story. Edited by\nJOHN BAIN.\n\nA Smoker\'s Reveries, or Tobacco in Verse\nand Rhyme. Compiled by JOSEPH KNIGHT.\n\nPipe and Pouch, or the Smoker\'s Own\nBook of Poetry. Compiled by JOSEPH KNIGHT.\n\nBath Robes and Bachelors. Compiled by\nARTHUR GRAY.\n\nEach book is bound in velvet Persian, tobacco\nshade, and enclosed in a case closely\nimitating a cigar box, with appropriate\nlabels. Price 5s. net. Postage 3d.\n\n_To be had from all Booksellers or the Publishers_\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL,\nHAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Caxton Series\n\nILLUSTRATED REPRINTS OF\nFAMOUS CLASSICS.\n\nPrinted in large, clear type on antique wove\npaper, with Photogravure Frontispiece, and\nfrom Ten to Fourteen Illustrations by the\nbest artists in black and white. Small foolscap\n8vo, 6-1/2 by 4-1/2, Cloth limp, designed end-papers,\n\n1/- net.\n\nUndine, and Aslauga\'s Knight. By LA MOTTE\nFOUQUÉ. With Illustrations by HAROLD NELSON.\n\nThe Pilgrim\'s Progress from this World to\nthat which is to Come. By JOHN BUNYAN. With\nIllustrations by EDMUND J. SULLIVAN. Two Volumes.\n\nIn Memoriam. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.\nWith Illustrations by A. GARTH JONES.\n\nThe Serious Poems of Thomas Hood. With\nIllustrations by H. GRANVILLE FELL.\n\nA Book of Romantic Ballads. Compiled\nfrom various sources ranging from the Thirteenth\nCentury to the Present Day. With Illustrations by\nREGINALD SAVAGE.\n\nThe Sketch Book. By WASHINGTON IRVING.\nWith Illustrations by EDMUND J. SULLIVAN. TWO\nVolumes.\n\nRosalynde. By THOMAS LODGE. With Illustrations\nby EDMUND J. SULLIVAN.\n\nHerrick\'s Hesperides and Noble Numbers.\nWith Illustrations by REGINALD SAVAGE. Two\nVolumes.\n\nLONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL,\nHAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg\'s The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY ***\n\n***** This file should be named 26740-8.txt or 26740-8.zip *****\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/7/4/26740/\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Chuck Greif and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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31
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'pen': 1778, 'park': 1779, 'contains': 1780, 'warm': 1781, 'mask': 1782, 'community': 1783, 'creative': 1784, 'whistler': 1785, 'hermit': 1786, 'receipt': 1787, 'box': 1788, 'musical': 1789, 'pink': 1790, 'returns': 1791, 'weeping': 1792, 'fight': 1793, 'anxious': 1794, 'registered': 1795, 'd': 1796, 'countries': 1797, 'vanilla': 1798, '90': 1799, 'damage': 1800, 'computers': 1801, 'federal': 1802, 'religion': 1803, 'ridiculous': 1804, 'cool': 1805, 'stained': 1806, 'padua': 1807, 'april': 1808, 'respect': 1809, 'abstract': 1810, 'battle': 1811, 'sang': 1812, 'bit': 1813, 'treasure': 1814, 'protected': 1815, 'immoral': 1816, 'distinction': 1817, 'ages': 1818, 'hans': 1819, 'parker': 1820, 'necessity': 1821, 'seat': 1822, 'formats': 1823, 'concept': 1824, 'promoting': 1825, 'redistributing': 1826, 'prominently': 1827, 'employees': 1828, 'lieu': 1829, 'locations': 1830, 'committed': 1831, 'solicit': 1832, 'although': 1833, 'pride': 1834, 'performance': 1835, 'twelve': 1836, 'amber': 1837, 'shield': 1838, 'scenes': 1839, 'exercise': 1840, 'rid': 1841, 'thoughts': 1842, 'added': 1843, 'error': 1844, 'generally': 1845, 'minutes': 1846, '‘it': 1847, 'built': 1848, 'step': 1849, 'punishment': 1850, 'recognised': 1851, 'virtue': 1852, 'danger': 1853, 'unjust': 1854, 'bye': 1855, 'david': 1856, 'dignity': 1857, 'spoken': 1858, 'ireland': 1859, 'thanks': 1860, 'leaving': 1861, 'giant': 1862, 'actually': 1863, 'hollow': 1864, 'darkness': 1865, 'thomas': 1866, 'stopped': 1867, 'judgment': 1868, 'finds': 1869, 'elements': 1870, 'claims': 1871, 'forgive': 1872, 'strongly': 1873, 'tyranny': 1874, 'selection': 1875, 'lilies': 1876, 'slaves': 1877, 'message': 1878, 'wake': 1879, 'possibility': 1880, 'illustration': 1881, 'essay': 1882, 'troubled': 1883, 'thinks': 1884, 'cigarette': 1885, "won't": 1886, 'difficulty': 1887, 'windows': 1888, 'badly': 1889, 'nice': 1890, 'flew': 1891, 'athens': 1892, 'japanese': 1893, 'curiously': 1894, 'questions': 1895, 'deals': 1896, 'berwick': 1897, 'agatha': 1898, 'servants': 1899, 'midnight': 1900, 'gilded': 1901, 'seeks': 1902, 'fly': 1903, 'hart': 1904, 'card': 1905, 'emotions': 1906, 'dost': 1907, 'mark': 1908, 'throne': 1909, 'british': 1910, 'escape': 1911, 'universal': 1912, 'triumph': 1913, 'wandering': 1914, 'definite': 1915, 'vital': 1916, 'reads': 1917, 'external': 1918, 'effects': 1919, 'pater': 1920, 'j': 1921, 'ball': 1922, 'alan': 1923, 'starts': 1924, 'melancholy': 1925, 'supreme': 1926, 'approach': 1927, 'pearl': 1928, 'suitable': 1929, 'december': 1930, 'sensible': 1931, 'fourth': 1932, 'drink': 1933, 'ill': 1934, 'tongue': 1935, 'impressions': 1936, 'threads': 1937, 'foam': 1938, 'working': 1939, 'south': 1940, 'amount': 1941, 'flung': 1942, 'echo': 1943, 'wounded': 1944, 'grows': 1945, 'suggested': 1946, 'crowned': 1947, 'reed': 1948, 'anybody': 1949, 'cardinal': 1950, 'propose': 1951, 'vane': 1952, 'symonds': 1953, 'invented': 1954, 'willie': 1955, 'sending': 1956, 'distinguished': 1957, 'suggestion': 1958, 'minister': 1959, 'dancing': 1960, 'iii': 1961, 'steps': 1962, 'embroidered': 1963, 'forehead': 1964, 'ends': 1965, 'prevent': 1966, '20': 1967, 'demand': 1968, 'secure': 1969, 'profit': 1970, 'actor': 1971, 'suit': 1972, 'period': 1973, 'ignorance': 1974, 'flesh': 1975, 'heavens': 1976, 'beat': 1977, 'january': 1978, 'polished': 1979, 'preface': 1980, 'september': 1981, 'catch': 1982, 'health': 1983, 'chase': 1984, 'unfortunate': 1985, 'speech': 1986, 'strangely': 1987, 'test': 1988, 'unity': 1989, 'gertrude': 1990, 'follows': 1991, 'fill': 1992, 'village': 1993, 'finished': 1994, 'possessed': 1995, 'aged': 1996, 'seeking': 1997, 'tower': 1998, 'bow': 1999, 'spake': 2000, 'lovers': 2001, 'therefore': 2002, 'contained': 2003, 'withered': 2004, 'gloom': 2005, 'sunlight': 2006, 'seas': 2007, 'passages': 2008, 'nobody': 2009, 'illustrated': 2010, 'buy': 2011, 'phenomena': 2012, 'concerned': 2013, 'shrill': 2014, 'pipe': 2015, '‘but': 2016, 'dew': 2017, 'fashionable': 2018, 'appeal': 2019, 'commonplace': 2020, 'carefully': 2021, 'ethical': 2022, 'poetic': 2023, 'browning': 2024, 'tries': 2025, 'essays': 2026, 'daily': 2027, "'i": 2028, 'kisses': 2029, 'stately': 2030, 'types': 2031, 'mention': 2032, 'blossom': 2033, 'desert': 2034, 'belong': 2035, 'precious': 2036, 'becoming': 2037, 'started': 2038, 'miller': 2039, 'appreciate': 2040, 'sold': 2041, 'frightened': 2042, 'fault': 2043, 'pleased': 2044, 'brothers': 2045, 'stop': 2046, 'mercy': 2047, 'courage': 2048, 'admiration': 2049, 'lest': 2050, 'supposed': 2051, 'ugliness': 2052, 'truths': 2053, 'emotion': 2054, 'canvas': 2055, 'thucydides': 2056, 'rossetti': 2057, 'erskine': 2058, 'simone': 2059, 'dumby': 2060, 'walking': 2061, 'wears': 2062, 'unknown': 2063, 'iv': 2064, 'space': 2065, 'print': 2066, 'occur': 2067, 'translated': 2068, 'editor': 2069, 'moves': 2070, 'angels': 2071, 'possesses': 2072, 'crystal': 2073, 'introduction': 2074, 'younger': 2075, 'ceased': 2076, 'exclaimed': 2077, 'mentioned': 2078, 'recognition': 2079, 'shrine': 2080, 'autumn': 2081, 'knowing': 2082, 'prefer': 2083, 'evolution': 2084, 'relation': 2085, 'primitive': 2086, 'democracy': 2087, 'epic': 2088, 'hero': 2089, 'gaol': 2090, 'je': 2091, 'shepherd': 2092, 'rhyme': 2093, 'talks': 2094, 'seated': 2095, 'gravely': 2096, 'enters': 2097, 'poverty': 2098, 'pathetic': 2099, 'safe': 2100, 'heads': 2101, 'terrace': 2102, 'leaning': 2103, 'food': 2104, 'scattered': 2105, 'dying': 2106, 'required': 2107, 'credit': 2108, 'vivid': 2109, 'vulgarity': 2110, 'tapestry': 2111, 'yesterday': 2112, 'shut': 2113, 'welcome': 2114, 'revealed': 2115, 'career': 2116, 'degree': 2117, 'running': 2118, 'knelt': 2119, 'idle': 2120, 'ride': 2121, 'gates': 2122, '‘what': 2123, 'formal': 2124, 'market': 2125, 'philosopher': 2126, 'advice': 2127, 'meeting': 2128, 'nations': 2129, 'volumes': 2130, 'singer': 2131, 'architecture': 2132, 'methuen': 2133, 'lower': 2134, 'move': 2135, 'group': 2136, 'pathos': 2137, 'kindly': 2138, 'fate': 2139, 'tiny': 2140, 'watching': 2141, 'listening': 2142, 'apply': 2143, 'display': 2144, 'sacrifice': 2145, 'enemy': 2146, 'naked': 2147, 'awful': 2148, 'dies': 2149, 'fearful': 2150, 'record': 2151, 'july': 2152, 'olive': 2153, 'fit': 2154, 'length': 2155, 'supernatural': 2156, 'fled': 2157, 'careful': 2158, 'wonderfully': 2159, 'assure': 2160, 'grief': 2161, 'stupid': 2162, 'cave': 2163, 'jealous': 2164, 'saint': 2165, 'growth': 2166, 'que': 2167, 'keen': 2168, 'podgers': 2169, 'atmosphere': 2170, 'dresses': 2171, 'broad': 2172, 'tread': 2173, 'bears': 2174, 'turns': 2175, 'performed': 2176, 'defects': 2177, 'assistance': 2178, 'staff': 2179, 'fast': 2180, 'angel': 2181, 'oath': 2182, 'consider': 2183, 'reform': 2184, 'rooms': 2185, 'guilty': 2186, 'louis': 2187, 'scenery': 2188, 'wearied': 2189, 'nine': 2190, 'gilt': 2191, 'asleep': 2192, 'fascinated': 2193, 'masters': 2194, 'hence': 2195, 'winds': 2196, 'feels': 2197, 'results': 2198, 'evidence': 2199, 'sculpture': 2200, 'portraits': 2201, 'dread': 2202, 'mahaffy': 2203, 'peter': 2204, 'hughes': 2205, 'ross': 2206, 'violet': 2207, 'apple': 2208, 'convert': 2209, 'request': 2210, 'gross': 2211, 'owed': 2212, 'stored': 2213, 'inaccurate': 2214, 'non': 2215, 'throughout': 2216, 'survive': 2217, 'accepting': 2218, 'york': 2219, 'guard': 2220, 'violent': 2221, 'remarked': 2222, 'usual': 2223, 'fifth': 2224, 'oneself': 2225, 'borne': 2226, 'tarry': 2227, 'forty': 2228, 'crowded': 2229, 'dry': 2230, 'thick': 2231, 'shot': 2232, 'exception': 2233, 'drive': 2234, 'key': 2235, 'month': 2236, 'news': 2237, 'colonel': 2238, 'powers': 2239, 'feed': 2240, '‘you': 2241, 'sincerity': 2242, 'bloom': 2243, 'shelley': 2244, 'modes': 2245, 'studio': 2246, 'morals': 2247, 'sombre': 2248, 'brass': 2249, 'fruit': 2250, 'happiness': 2251, 'breaks': 2252, 'named': 2253, 'practically': 2254, 'mail': 2255, 'reaching': 2256, 'current': 2257, 'immediately': 2258, 'slain': 2259, 'needs': 2260, 'æsthetic': 2261, 'weeks': 2262, 'august': 2263, 'comfort': 2264, 'gorgeous': 2265, 'connection': 2266, 'famous': 2267, 'clock': 2268, 'infanta': 2269, 'lute': 2270, 'merchants': 2271, 'reeds': 2272, 'dainty': 2273, 'clay': 2274, 'elsewhere': 2275, 'rarely': 2276, 'keeps': 2277, 'details': 2278, 'artificial': 2279, 'emotional': 2280, 'decay': 2281, 'university': 2282, 'succeeded': 2283, 'didn’t': 2284, 'somewhere': 2285, 'greece': 2286, 'rocket': 2287, 'bloody': 2288, 'scored': 2289, 'doors': 2290, 'senses': 2291, 'persons': 2292, 'until': 2293, 'sell': 2294, 'dwell': 2295, 'waited': 2296, 'v': 2297, 'velvet': 2298, 'voices': 2299, 'attached': 2300, 'containing': 2301, 'educational': 2302, 'source': 2303, 'reference': 2304, 'lily': 2305, 'feast': 2306, 'beg': 2307, 'linen': 2308, 'burned': 2309, 'press': 2310, 'sire': 2311, 'humour': 2312, '0': 2313, 'edited': 2314, 'college': 2315, 'replied': 2316, 'text': 2317, 'closed': 2318, 'sufficient': 2319, 'ruined': 2320, 'bowed': 2321, 'yard': 2322, 'offered': 2323, 'threw': 2324, 'fierce': 2325, 'forgot': 2326, 'complex': 2327, 'estimate': 2328, 'represent': 2329, 'socialism': 2330, 'ease': 2331, 'newspapers': 2332, 'gracious': 2333, 'scott': 2334, 'ere': 2335, 'temple': 2336, 'fairy': 2337, 'bride': 2338, 'knees': 2339, 'disk': 2340, 'harmless': 2341, 'prophet': 2342, 'heroine': 2343, 'petals': 2344, 'knife': 2345, 'corn': 2346, 'ruskin': 2347, 'calling': 2348, 'centuries': 2349, 'parents': 2350, 'getting': 2351, 'dumb': 2352, 'purity': 2353, 'horses': 2354, 'classical': 2355, 'exaggerated': 2356, 'measure': 2357, 'victory': 2358, 'excuse': 2359, 'tales': 2360, "wilde's": 2361, 'raised': 2362, 'swept': 2363, 'crowd': 2364, 'tendency': 2365, 'flight': 2366, 'displayed': 2367, 'reasonable': 2368, "'as": 2369, 'granted': 2370, 'uniform': 2371, 'motives': 2372, '16': 2373, 'talked': 2374, 'blank': 2375, 'failure': 2376, 'explained': 2377, 'devoted': 2378, 'magazine': 2379, 'pictorial': 2380, 'cap': 2381, 'recently': 2382, 'quiet': 2383, 'wandered': 2384, 'shoulder': 2385, 'rude': 2386, 'sings': 2387, 'prayer': 2388, 'animals': 2389, 'remind': 2390, 'pope': 2391, 'loss': 2392, 'charity': 2393, 'prove': 2394, 'alter': 2395, 'appreciation': 2396, 'student': 2397, 'ignorant': 2398, 'endless': 2399, 'forces': 2400, 'ne': 2401, 'homer': 2402, 'du': 2403, 'intended': 2404, 'goethe': 2405, 'qui': 2406, 'dramatist': 2407, 'chuang': 2408, 'handsome': 2409, 'previous': 2410, 'govern': 2411, 'receiving': 2412, 'void': 2413, '000': 2414, 'offers': 2415, 'statements': 2416, 'opinions': 2417, 'centre': 2418, 'nonsense': 2419, 'doth': 2420, 'guests': 2421, 'wilt': 2422, 'kinds': 2423, 'rage': 2424, 'stuart': 2425, 'board': 2426, 'asking': 2427, 'twins': 2428, 'smiled': 2429, 'murdered': 2430, 'circumstances': 2431, 'sooner': 2432, 'offer': 2433, 'costumes': 2434, 'circle': 2435, 'mock': 2436, 'cheek': 2437, 'store': 2438, 'stupidity': 2439, 'produces': 2440, 'horribly': 2441, "god's": 2442, 'learning': 2443, 'hamlet': 2444, 'pas': 2445, 'helen': 2446, 'increased': 2447, 'pleasing': 2448, 'admired': 2449, 'delicacy': 2450, 'gay': 2451, 'build': 2452, 'drop': 2453, 'fail': 2454, 'happen': 2455, 'consequence': 2456, 'content': 2457, 'derived': 2458, 'addresses': 2459, 'main': 2460, 'wishes': 2461, 'ought': 2462, 'contemporary': 2463, 'o’clock': 2464, 'venus': 2465, 'madam': 2466, "o'clock": 2467, 'quarter': 2468, 'hid': 2469, 'spear': 2470, 'francis': 2471, 'eve': 2472, 'maid': 2473, 'arrived': 2474, 'whispered': 2475, 'privilege': 2476, 'foreign': 2477, 'fascination': 2478, 'shaped': 2479, 'mystical': 2480, 'rank': 2481, 'tremulous': 2482, 'souls': 2483, 'requires': 2484, 'ambition': 2485, 'reminds': 2486, 'landscape': 2487, 'kelvil': 2488, 'alexis': 2489, 'release': 2490, 'amusement': 2491, 'brow': 2492, 'sixteenth': 2493, 'surprise': 2494, 'affection': 2495, 'mourning': 2496, 'abide': 2497, 'expense': 2498, 'agreed': 2499, 'opportunities': 2500, 'alfred': 2501, '12': 2502, 'syrian': 2503, 'expressed': 2504, 'cast': 2505, 'veil': 2506, 'narcissus': 2507, 'pardon': 2508, 'twilight': 2509, 'falling': 2510, 'treat': 2511, 'statement': 2512, 'seized': 2513, 'educated': 2514, 'immense': 2515, 'spot': 2516, 'animal': 2517, 'connected': 2518, 'primary': 2519, 'doom': 2520, 'pine': 2521, 'confess': 2522, 'thread': 2523, 'rocks': 2524, 'holding': 2525, 'saints': 2526, 'capital': 2527, 'promise': 2528, 'level': 2529, 'selfish': 2530, 'scandal': 2531, "life's": 2532, 'imitation': 2533, 'sentiment': 2534, 'conduct': 2535, 'torch': 2536, 'it’s': 2537, 'revenge': 2538, 'familiar': 2539, 'swinburne': 2540, 'novelists': 2541, 'include': 2542, 'principal': 2543, 'expresses': 2544, 'jewels': 2545, 'venetian': 2546, 'affected': 2547, 'sadly': 2548, 'infinite': 2549, 'larger': 2550, 'representations': 2551, 'imposed': 2552, 'corrupt': 2553, 'errors': 2554, 'remaining': 2555, 'fairbanks': 2556, 'international': 2557, 'noise': 2558, 'cæsar': 2559, 'mountains': 2560, 'pour': 2561, 'wan': 2562, 'draws': 2563, 'trace': 2564, 'sail': 2565, 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2624, 'presented': 2625, 'severe': 2626, 'spirits': 2627, 'earnest': 2628, 'bitterly': 2629, 'spent': 2630, 'satisfied': 2631, 'specially': 2632, 'loving': 2633, 'cathedral': 2634, 'swift': 2635, 'bag': 2636, '‘a': 2637, 'chapel': 2638, 'sets': 2639, 'wet': 2640, 'vile': 2641, 'sunset': 2642, 'direction': 2643, 'task': 2644, 'fortunate': 2645, "it's": 2646, 'intentions': 2647, 'ideals': 2648, 'brief': 2649, 'sordid': 2650, 'symbol': 2651, 'deserves': 2652, 'wit': 2653, 'memories': 2654, 'byron': 2655, 'rights': 2656, 'technical': 2657, 'un': 2658, '1889': 2659, 'prisoners': 2660, 'sybil': 2661, 'fanciful': 2662, 'entitled': 2663, 'alas': 2664, 'sacred': 2665, 'majesty': 2666, 'solemn': 2667, 'gaze': 2668, 'worshipped': 2669, 'explain': 2670, 'orders': 2671, 'reports': 2672, 'taxes': 2673, 'despite': 2674, 'elect': 2675, 'increasing': 2676, 'pointing': 2677, 'wherefore': 2678, 'custom': 2679, 'wheel': 2680, 'showing': 2681, 'delighted': 2682, 'train': 2683, 'native': 2684, 'woodland': 2685, 'warning': 2686, 'attractive': 2687, 'highly': 2688, 'meadows': 2689, 'carriage': 2690, 'influences': 2691, 'remote': 2692, 'wander': 2693, 'beggar': 2694, 'proud': 2695, 'buried': 2696, 'violence': 2697, 'stir': 2698, 'forced': 2699, 'morality': 2700, 'duties': 2701, 'lands': 2702, 'civilised': 2703, 'ultimate': 2704, 'dislike': 2705, 'uninteresting': 2706, 'unreal': 2707, 'suggestive': 2708, 'powerful': 2709, 'plot': 2710, 'papers': 2711, 'describes': 2712, 'legend': 2713, 'discern': 2714, '1888': 2715, 'bunbury': 2716, 'cover': 2717, 'carved': 2718, 'thrown': 2719, 'apart': 2720, 'watches': 2721, 'addition': 2722, 'linked': 2723, 'perform': 2724, 'agent': 2725, 'internal': 2726, 'gregory': 2727, 'shared': 2728, 'p': 2729, 'finest': 2730, '14': 2731, 'moonlight': 2732, 'exist': 2733, 'fed': 2734, 'dove': 2735, 'wasted': 2736, 'hungry': 2737, 'garments': 2738, 'sounded': 2739, 'feelings': 2740, 'somebody': 2741, 'bought': 2742, 'observation': 2743, 'oak': 2744, 'sweetness': 2745, 'continued': 2746, 'aspect': 2747, 'dog': 2748, 'stole': 2749, 'hers': 2750, 'materials': 2751, 'altar': 2752, '‘he': 2753, 'hated': 2754, '‘': 2755, 'branches': 2756, 'escaped': 2757, 'conscience': 2758, 'examples': 2759, 'masterpieces': 2760, 'events': 2761, 'reveals': 2762, 'sheep': 2763, 'studied': 2764, 'incident': 2765, 'tradition': 2766, 'woman’s': 2767, 'chaos': 2768, 'flawless': 2769, 'constantly': 2770, '25': 2771, 'lamp': 2772, "didn't": 2773, 'warder': 2774, 'athenian': 2775, 'smoke': 2776, 'spray': 2777, 'double': 2778, 'eastern': 2779, 'carrying': 2780, 'curtains': 2781, 'cries': 2782, 'wondering': 2783, 'touches': 2784, 'performances': 2785, 'indicate': 2786, 'data': 2787, 'interpreted': 2788, 'arise': 2789, 'swamp': 2790, 'opera': 2791, 'disgrace': 2792, 'anguish': 2793, 'list': 2794, '15': 2795, 'clouds': 2796, 'leper': 2797, 'rings': 2798, 'mason': 2799, 'delivered': 2800, 'quote': 2801, 'manuscript': 2802, 'academy': 2803, 'president': 2804, 'leather': 2805, 'readers': 2806, 'prepared': 2807, 'gown': 2808, 'boots': 2809, 'control': 2810, 'neighbour': 2811, 'evident': 2812, 'surprised': 2813, 'sigh': 2814, 'thrust': 2815, 'alive': 2816, 'mocked': 2817, 'gentlemen': 2818, 'noblest': 2819, 'faults': 2820, 'tragedies': 2821, 'expected': 2822, 'philistine': 2823, 'refuse': 2824, 'indifferent': 2825, 'rob': 2826, 'problems': 2827, 'trivial': 2828, 'protest': 2829, 'reveal': 2830, 'innocent': 2831, 'reader': 2832, 'height': 2833, 'alien': 2834, 'workmanship': 2835, 'restless': 2836, 'workman': 2837, 'alex': 2838, 'ward': 2839, 'descriptions': 2840, 'dialogue': 2841, 'yeats': 2842, 'merriman': 2843, 'mysterious': 2844, 'building': 2845, 'otherwise': 2846, 'apparently': 2847, 'ship': 2848, 'raise': 2849, 'modified': 2850, 'preserve': 2851, 'profits': 2852, 'derive': 2853, 'periodic': 2854, 'reported': 2855, 'remedies': 2856, 'liable': 2857, 'additions': 2858, 'financial': 2859, 'fundraising': 2860, '501': 2861, 'numerous': 2862, 'charities': 2863, 'add': 2864, 'seed': 2865, 'priests': 2866, 'cavern': 2867, 'truly': 2868, 'dogs': 2869, 'dusty': 2870, 'knee': 2871, 'fixed': 2872, 'supper': 2873, 'ethics': 2874, 'accounts': 2875, 'gaunt': 2876, 'member': 2877, 'eleven': 2878, 'enemies': 2879, 'bay': 2880, 'rode': 2881, 'portion': 2882, 'slow': 2883, 'pattern': 2884, 'marvel': 2885, 'dwelt': 2886, 'steep': 2887, 'tu': 2888, 'appeals': 2889, 'satisfying': 2890, 'journalism': 2891, 'coleridge': 2892, 'careless': 2893, 'respectable': 2894, 'individuality': 2895, 'intense': 2896, 'producing': 2897, 'rhetoric': 2898, 'father’s': 2899, 'picturesqueness': 2900, 'frank': 2901, 'minor': 2902, 'aesthetic': 2903, 'distance': 2904, 'background': 2905, 'older': 2906, 'fortune': 2907, "king's": 2908, 'leads': 2909, 'capacity': 2910, 'bows': 2911, 'agony': 2912, 'trembled': 2913, 'zip': 2914, 'specific': 2915, 'compressed': 2916, 'alternate': 2917, 'contract': 2918, 'incidental': 2919, 'fitness': 2920, 'provisions': 2921, 'indirectly': 2922, 'alteration': 2923, 'hundreds': 2924, 'includes': 2925, 'alexander': 2926, 'bishop': 2927, 'lions': 2928, 'lords': 2929, 'blows': 2930, 'lo': 2931, 'mar': 2932, 'chill': 2933, 'shalt': 2934, 'blown': 2935, 'issue': 2936, 'indian': 2937, 'shape': 2938, 'illustrations': 2939, 'respects': 2940, 'mistress': 2941, 'accordingly': 2942, 'supply': 2943, 'amused': 2944, 'unable': 2945, 'merry': 2946, 'slightest': 2947, 'final': 2948, 'manners': 2949, 'putting': 2950, '1908': 2951, 'signs': 2952, 'boyish': 2953, 'pallid': 2954, 'bidding': 2955, 'bade': 2956, 'deny': 2957, 'creates': 2958, 'profession': 2959, 'sculptor': 2960, 'root': 2961, 'spectator': 2962, 'accurate': 2963, 'painful': 2964, 'mystic': 2965, 'interpretation': 2966, 'reproduce': 2967, 'mental': 2968, 'contrary': 2969, 'revival': 2970, 'memoirs': 2971, 'believed': 2972, 'jesus': 2973, 'distinct': 2974, 'madness': 2975, 'joyous': 2976, 'russian': 2977, 'dine': 2978, 'i’ll': 2979, 'rachel': 2980, 'proof': 2981, 'slight': 2982, 'stream': 2983, 'yon': 2984, 'bars': 2985, 'admirably': 2986, '1886': 2987, 'earlier': 2988, 'palm': 2989, 'torches': 2990, 'entrance': 2991, 'txt': 2992, 'sharing': 2993, 'viewed': 2994, 'indicating': 2995, 'remove': 2996, 'identify': 2997, 'damaged': 2998, 'distributor': 2999, 'indirect': 3000, 'violates': 3001, 'modification': 3002, 'obsolete': 3003, 'corporation': 3004, 'pieces': 3005, 'criticisms': 3006, 'represented': 3007, 'disciples': 3008, 'cheeks': 3009, 'vine': 3010, 'promised': 3011, 'term': 3012, 'sensuous': 3013, 'celebrated': 3014, 'fifteen': 3015, 'compared': 3016, 'sunday': 3017, 'armour': 3018, 'farm': 3019, 'rushed': 3020, 'served': 3021, 'quarrel': 3022, 'cousin': 3023, 'dreamed': 3024, 'dusky': 3025, 'dining': 3026, 'immortal': 3027, 'pomegranates': 3028, 'sixth': 3029, 'king’s': 3030, 'magic': 3031, 'northern': 3032, 'cases': 3033, '‘my': 3034, 'cure': 3035, 'drank': 3036, 'wondered': 3037, 'waits': 3038, 'desolate': 3039, 'smallest': 3040, 'sorrows': 3041, 'spoil': 3042, "world's": 3043, 'bitterness': 3044, 'pleasures': 3045, 'resemblance': 3046, 'intensified': 3047, 'realistic': 3048, 'impulse': 3049, 'eloquence': 3050, 'inevitable': 3051, 'enormous': 3052, 'analysis': 3053, 'exhibition': 3054, 'detail': 3055, 'metaphysical': 3056, 'guide': 3057, 'knight': 3058, '’tis': 3059, 'tear': 3060, 'ascanio': 3061, 'etext': 3062, 'ballads': 3063, 'odyssey': 3064, 'refused': 3065, 'wearing': 3066, 'size': 3067, 'holds': 3068, 'replace': 3069, 'compilation': 3070, 'proprietary': 3071, 'hypertext': 3072, 'viewing': 3073, 'calculated': 3074, 'calculate': 3075, '60': 3076, 'legally': 3077, 'transcribe': 3078, 'proofread': 3079, 'transcription': 3080, 'consequential': 3081, 'disclaimers': 3082, 'exclusion': 3083, '2001': 3084, 'organized': 3085, 'executive': 3086, 'director': 3087, 'licensed': 3088, 'array': 3089, 'maintaining': 3090, 'prohibition': 3091, 'checks': 3092, 'volunteer': 3093, 'pg': 3094, 'wherever': 3095, '13': 3096, 'sicily': 3097, 'ashes': 3098, 'hang': 3099, 'thorns': 3100, 'heal': 3101, 'oil': 3102, 'cared': 3103, 'railway': 3104, 'weather': 3105, 'occurred': 3106, 'metal': 3107, 'wing': 3108, 'reckless': 3109, 'tangled': 3110, 'luxury': 3111, 'listened': 3112, 'remorse': 3113, 'waist': 3114, 'mud': 3115, 'spain': 3116, 'ending': 3117, 'elizabeth': 3118, 'startled': 3119, 'dripping': 3120, 'eating': 3121, 'finding': 3122, 'husbands': 3123, 'cares': 3124, 'dreadfully': 3125, 'objection': 3126, 'goddess': 3127, 'maker': 3128, 'historians': 3129, 'novelist': 3130, 'convey': 3131, 'imitative': 3132, 'needed': 3133, 'exquisitely': 3134, 'life’s': 3135, 'i’m': 3136, 'settled': 3137, 'lip': 3138, 'pre': 3139, 'tendencies': 3140, 'movements': 3141, 'lyre': 3142, 'muse': 3143, 'sphinx': 3144, 'echoes': 3145, 'maria': 3146, 'hughie': 3147, 'stern': 3148, 'arcady': 3149, 'basildon': 3150, 'vivian': 3151, 'myriad': 3152, 'path': 3153, 'interfere': 3154, 'contempt': 3155, 'someone': 3156, 'updated': 3157, 'binary': 3158, 'infringement': 3159, 'virus': 3160, 'codes': 3161, 'disclaim': 3162, 'negligence': 3163, 'punitive': 3164, "is'": 3165, 'provision': 3166, 'indemnity': 3167, 'indemnify': 3168, 'mississippi': 3169, 'identification': 3170, '64': 3171, 'deductible': 3172, 'regulating': 3173, 'confirmation': 3174, 'determine': 3175, 'gratefully': 3176, 'facility': 3177, 'subscribe': 3178, 'religious': 3179, 'reputation': 3180, 'mediæval': 3181, 'bridge': 3182, 'beating': 3183, 'robber': 3184, 'doctrine': 3185, 'reasons': 3186, 'stronger': 3187, 'yield': 3188, 'expressive': 3189, 'sounds': 3190, 'attack': 3191, 'teaching': 3192, 'base': 3193, 'chronicle': 3194, 'insist': 3195, 'unconscious': 3196, 'indignation': 3197, 'evidently': 3198, 'candle': 3199, 'obliged': 3200, 'burst': 3201, 'aid': 3202, 'papa': 3203, 'win': 3204, "i'm": 3205, 'stroke': 3206, 'parties': 3207, 'eyed': 3208, 'endymion': 3209, 'hunger': 3210, 'liked': 3211, 'hats': 3212, 'useless': 3213, 'divided': 3214, 'rushes': 3215, 'nobly': 3216, 'tight': 3217, 'enjoy': 3218, 'shed': 3219, 'morbid': 3220, 'bored': 3221, 'probable': 3222, 'charmingly': 3223, 'punished': 3224, 'lays': 3225, 'modernity': 3226, 'industry': 3227, 'ignoble': 3228, 'uses': 3229, 'sum': 3230, 'imperial': 3231, 'secretary': 3232, 'wouldn’t': 3233, 'isn’t': 3234, 'similar': 3235, 'il': 3236, 'germany': 3237, 'parnassus': 3238, 'screen': 3239, 'marchmont': 3240, 'merit': 3241, 'dickens': 3242, 'augusta': 3243, '\ufeffthe': 3244, '27': 3245, 'sheet': 3246, 'chinese': 3247, 'peacocks': 3248, 'clad': 3249, 'kneeling': 3250, 'fruits': 3251, 'everywhere': 3252, 'satin': 3253, 'burn': 3254, 'silently': 3255, 'peculiar': 3256, 'journey': 3257, 'trembling': 3258, 'kingdom': 3259, 'renamed': 3260, 'downloading': 3261, 'accessed': 3262, 'unlink': 3263, 'detach': 3264, 'redistribute': 3265, 'nonproprietary': 3266, 'processing': 3267, 'exporting': 3268, 'notifies': 3269, 'discontinue': 3270, 'expend': 3271, 'maximum': 3272, 'invalidity': 3273, 'unenforceability': 3274, 'employee': 3275, 'promotion': 3276, 'deletions': 3277, 'synonymous': 3278, "tm's": 3279, 'goals': 3280, 'ensuring': 3281, 'sections': 3282, 'revenue': 3283, 'ein': 3284, '6221541': 3285, "state's": 3286, 'ak': 3287, '809': 3288, '1500': 3289, 'ut': 3290, '84116': 3291, '801': 3292, '596': 3293, 'newby': 3294, 'gbnewby': 3295, 'accessible': 3296, 'outdated': 3297, 'irs': 3298, 'paperwork': 3299, 'solicitation': 3300, 'unsolicited': 3301, 'donors': 3302, 'donation': 3303, 'originator': 3304, 'newsletter': 3305, 'household': 3306, 'masterpiece': 3307, 'deliberate': 3308, 'bodies': 3309, 'loathsome': 3310, 'boat': 3311, 'miracles': 3312, 'strikes': 3313, 'crying': 3314, 'emerald': 3315, 'masks': 3316, 'union': 3317, 'experiences': 3318, 'belief': 3319, 'invariably': 3320, 'whereas': 3321, 'apt': 3322, 'burnished': 3323, 'dressing': 3324, 'superb': 3325, 'adopt': 3326, 'magnificent': 3327, 'washington': 3328, 'seasons': 3329, 'slept': 3330, 'brave': 3331, 'stayed': 3332, 'ruins': 3333, 'ordered': 3334, 'ruby': 3335, 'setting': 3336, 'heartless': 3337, 'personally': 3338, 'amid': 3339, 'relief': 3340, 'peasant': 3341, 'creeps': 3342, 'fold': 3343, 'pool': 3344, 'apparel': 3345, 'world’s': 3346, 'bull': 3347, 'hunting': 3348, 'ecstasy': 3349, 'witch': 3350, 'tempted': 3351, 'realises': 3352, 'weakness': 3353, 'unnecessary': 3354, 'crude': 3355, 'heroes': 3356, 'pageant': 3357, 'plastic': 3358, 'aims': 3359, 'generous': 3360, 'hopper': 3361, 'chooses': 3362, 'patterns': 3363, 'worsley': 3364, 'arnold': 3365, 'eighteenth': 3366, 'limitations': 3367, 'workmen': 3368, 'conceived': 3369, 'scotch': 3370, 'crane': 3371, 'trial': 3372, 'swing': 3373, 'macmillan': 3374, "shakespeare's": 3375, 'dans': 3376, 'australia': 3377, 'gardens': 3378, 'gesture': 3379, 'etc': 3380, 'jade': 3381, 'proceed': 3382, 'murmur': 3383, 'opens': 3384, 'stretched': 3385, 'lend': 3386, 'awkward': 3387, 'fifty': 3388, 'rod': 3389, 'drove': 3390, 'scorn': 3391, 'gaudy': 3392, '1882': 3393, '1881': 3394, 'apollo': 3395, 'americans': 3396, 'juliet': 3397, 'failed': 3398, 'instances': 3399, 'motion': 3400, 'christened': 3401, 'leading': 3402, 'cultured': 3403, 'excited': 3404, 'vengeance': 3405, 'horn': 3406, 'muttered': 3407, 'mysteries': 3408, 'ice': 3409, 'vi': 3410, 'darling': 3411, 'forgiven': 3412, 'seventh': 3413, '‘why': 3414, 'rope': 3415, 'unworthy': 3416, 'ships': 3417, 'thorn': 3418, 'cruelty': 3419, 'chain': 3420, 'somehow': 3421, 'bank': 3422, 'mouths': 3423, 'curse': 3424, 'pillars': 3425, 'endure': 3426, 'pose': 3427, 'deadly': 3428, 'refuge': 3429, "isn't": 3430, 'realisation': 3431, 'longing': 3432, 'sex': 3433, 'exile': 3434, 'contemplation': 3435, 'canons': 3436, 'influenced': 3437, 'myth': 3438, 'chiefly': 3439, 'intensity': 3440, 'sweep': 3441, 'represents': 3442, 'phrases': 3443, 'chapman': 3444, 'legends': 3445, 'republic': 3446, 'employed': 3447, 'opposed': 3448, 'deeper': 3449, 'gather': 3450, 'serene': 3451, 'largely': 3452, 'specimens': 3453, 'wedding': 3454, 'combination': 3455, 'graphic': 3456, 'pocket': 3457, 'mill': 3458, 'peasants': 3459, 'traitor': 3460, 'vous': 3461, 'g': 3462, 'richard': 3463, 'felicitous': 3464, 'consent': 3465, 'oriental': 3466, 'peacock': 3467, 'statues': 3468, '10': 3469, 'dared': 3470, 'vermilion': 3471, 'sterile': 3472, 'spilt': 3473, 'thirst': 3474, 'minds': 3475, 'changes': 3476, 'strike': 3477, 'designed': 3478, '“the': 3479, 'wilde’s': 3480, 'nihilists': 3481, 'successful': 3482, 'occasionally': 3483, 'parted': 3484, 'grecian': 3485, 'authors': 3486, 'collected': 3487, 'breakfast': 3488, 'egotism': 3489, 'spend': 3490, 'existing': 3491, 'insisted': 3492, 'slew': 3493, 'wounds': 3494, 'slim': 3495, '‘thou': 3496, 'brows': 3497, 'solemnly': 3498, 'sweetest': 3499, 'winged': 3500, 'goat': 3501, 'develop': 3502, 'destroyed': 3503, 'suggests': 3504, 'vanity': 3505, 'absence': 3506, 'factor': 3507, 'grounds': 3508, 'faithful': 3509, 'studies': 3510, 'debt': 3511, 'couldn’t': 3512, 'hole': 3513, 'shameful': 3514, 'heights': 3515, 'revolutions': 3516, 'lingering': 3517, 'indifference': 3518, 'discussion': 3519, 'suggest': 3520, 'primarily': 3521, 'balzac': 3522, 'gothic': 3523, 'unlike': 3524, '24': 3525, 'meadow': 3526, 'metre': 3527, "o'er": 3528, 'beatrice': 3529, 'campbell': 3530, 'ltd': 3531, 'persian': 3532, 'acted': 3533, 'likely': 3534, 'smoking': 3535, 'carpets': 3536, 'bearing': 3537, 'tent': 3538, 'images': 3539, 'captain': 3540, 'jest': 3541, 'capable': 3542, 'majority': 3543, 'reward': 3544, 'jew': 3545, 'romans': 3546, 'driven': 3547, 'shoes': 3548, 'stick': 3549, 'moons': 3550, 'amorous': 3551, 'lion': 3552, 'nearer': 3553, 'touching': 3554, 'perchance': 3555, 'saturday': 3556, 'furniture': 3557, 'waving': 3558, 'ceiling': 3559, 'poet’s': 3560, 'examine': 3561, 'wished': 3562, 'understanding': 3563, 'florentine': 3564, 'gained': 3565, 'alike': 3566, 'stepped': 3567, 'accident': 3568, 'confined': 3569, 'practice': 3570, 'rang': 3571, 'awfully': 3572, 'devotion': 3573, 'leaden': 3574, 'expressing': 3575, 'faun': 3576, 'discovery': 3577, 'citizens': 3578, 'india': 3579, 'spy': 3580, 'wakes': 3581, 'flying': 3582, 'canst': 3583, 'jewelled': 3584, 'richer': 3585, 'gestures': 3586, 'proportion': 3587, 'needle': 3588, 'bee': 3589, 'wash': 3590, 'shell': 3591, 'merchant': 3592, 'tide': 3593, 'speculation': 3594, 'grosvenor': 3595, 'latest': 3596, 'meaningless': 3597, 'argue': 3598, 'vice': 3599, 'finely': 3600, 'obviously': 3601, 'proposes': 3602, 'objects': 3603, 'meets': 3604, 'cardew': 3605, 'burne': 3606, 'jones': 3607, 'ornament': 3608, 'characteristics': 3609, 'ardour': 3610, 'milton': 3611, 'suggestions': 3612, '“you': 3613, 'une': 3614, 'bees': 3615, 'prisoner': 3616, 'elizabethan': 3617, 'warders': 3618, 'seventeenth': 3619, 'kegan': 3620, 'margravine': 3621, 'gordon': 3622, 'sends': 3623, 'advance': 3624, 'sinks': 3625, 'yonder': 3626, 'gleaming': 3627, 'stretch': 3628, 'couch': 3629, 'obscure': 3630, 'thief': 3631, 'island': 3632, 'multitude': 3633, 'pit': 3634, 'foul': 3635, 'nest': 3636, 'eaten': 3637, 'struggle': 3638, 'hangs': 3639, 'preserved': 3640, 'intolerable': 3641, 'disappointed': 3642, 'earliest': 3643, 'addressed': 3644, 'boston': 3645, '“and': 3646, 'momentary': 3647, 'joseph': 3648, 'discuss': 3649, 'pulse': 3650, 'butler': 3651, 'drowned': 3652, 'trod': 3653, 'acknowledge': 3654, 'post': 3655, 'en': 3656, 'awake': 3657, 'whisper': 3658, 'sale': 3659, 'cabinet': 3660, 'stray': 3661, 'loom': 3662, '‘nay': 3663, 'woven': 3664, 'vessels': 3665, 'stiff': 3666, 'glanced': 3667, 'barrier': 3668, 'charmed': 3669, 'cultivated': 3670, 'monster': 3671, 'immensely': 3672, 'hiding': 3673, 'limit': 3674, 'desired': 3675, 'sung': 3676, 'guards': 3677, 'hurt': 3678, '‘well': 3679, 'wearisome': 3680, 'domestic': 3681, 'blame': 3682, 'vague': 3683, 'hesitation': 3684, 'paradox': 3685, 'mankind': 3686, 'proved': 3687, 'prejudices': 3688, 'bringing': 3689, 'finer': 3690, 'formed': 3691, 'affectation': 3692, 'investigation': 3693, 'rests': 3694, 'conclusion': 3695, 'subtlety': 3696, 'archæology': 3697, 'celtic': 3698, 'adopted': 3699, 'stormy': 3700, 'inheritance': 3701, 'workers': 3702, 'strewn': 3703, '18': 3704, 'dreary': 3705, 't': 3706, 'dialect': 3707, 'goodly': 3708, 'anthology': 3709, 'jonson': 3710, 'salome': 3711, 'extreme': 3712, 'carven': 3713, 'preceded': 3714, 'dropped': 3715, 'demands': 3716, 'china': 3717, 'dirs': 3718, 'intention': 3719, 'correct': 3720, 'journalists': 3721, 'founded': 3722, 'stolen': 3723, 'recent': 3724, 'eyelids': 3725, 'breathe': 3726, 'blowing': 3727, 'mirrors': 3728, 'quoted': 3729, 'gospel': 3730, 'repeated': 3731, 'skin': 3732, 'expressions': 3733, 'representing': 3734, 'reminded': 3735, 'police': 3736, 'shop': 3737, 'members': 3738, 'aristocracy': 3739, 'station': 3740, 'climate': 3741, 'messrs': 3742, 'diary': 3743, 'burnt': 3744, 'annoyed': 3745, 'aware': 3746, 'lesson': 3747, 'sensation': 3748, 'equal': 3749, 'martin': 3750, 'faded': 3751, 'comfortable': 3752, 'strings': 3753, 'riding': 3754, 'fortunately': 3755, 'inside': 3756, 'sunsets': 3757, 'vellum': 3758, 'contents': 3759, 'lessons': 3760, 'poppies': 3761, 'grim': 3762, 'partly': 3763, 'violets': 3764, '‘that': 3765, 'excessively': 3766, 'suns': 3767, 'frowned': 3768, 'cunning': 3769, 'kindness': 3770, 'blessed': 3771, 'fleet': 3772, "people's": 3773, "doesn't": 3774, 'succeeds': 3775, 'depend': 3776, 'temptation': 3777, 'upper': 3778, 'tact': 3779, 'stock': 3780, 'institution': 3781, 'worthless': 3782, 'detestable': 3783, 'exercised': 3784, 'beauties': 3785, 'disease': 3786, 'surface': 3787, 'leader': 3788, 'appreciated': 3789, 'wider': 3790, 'people’s': 3791, 'eighteen': 3792, 'utterly': 3793, 'saved': 3794, 'prize': 3795, 'intimate': 3796, 'writings': 3797, 'shake': 3798, 'priori': 3799, 'troy': 3800, 'philosophic': 3801, 'treacherous': 3802, 'consideration': 3803, 'rendering': 3804, 'glade': 3805, 'introduce': 3806, 'fragment': 3807, 'render': 3808, 'fervent': 3809, 'ce': 3810, 'deeply': 3811, 'gautier': 3812, 'gleam': 3813, 'dreaming': 3814, 'imagery': 3815, 'shabby': 3816, 'stair': 3817, 'pleasantly': 3818, 'frankly': 3819, 'translations': 3820, 'odysseus': 3821, 'boyhood': 3822, "'in": 3823, "j'ai": 3824, "'to": 3825, "morris's": 3826, "keats's": 3827, 'mamma': 3828, 'transcribed': 3829, 'gift': 3830, "women's": 3831, 'nobles': 3832, 'canopy': 3833, 'imitate': 3834, 'starting': 3835, 'command': 3836, 'elder': 3837, 'european': 3838, 'bind': 3839, 'nights': 3840, 'shaking': 3841, 'herald': 3842, 'loses': 3843, 'finger': 3844, 'windy': 3845, 'milk': 3846, 'mass': 3847, 'angry': 3848, 'publisher': 3849, 'existed': 3850, 'beautifully': 3851, 'bill': 3852, 'wives': 3853, 'informed': 3854, '“but': 3855, 'faced': 3856, 'proposed': 3857, 'retired': 3858, 'nervous': 3859, 'prayers': 3860, 'occupied': 3861, 'owl': 3862, 'titan': 3863, 'chivalry': 3864, 'insult': 3865, 'engagement': 3866, 'puritan': 3867, 'cheap': 3868, 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3929, 'fairfax': 3930, 'encoding': 3931, 'ccx074': 3932, 'quaint': 3933, 'perfume': 3934, 'lamps': 3935, 'throws': 3936, 'accompanied': 3937, 'avoid': 3938, 'reign': 3939, 'reverence': 3940, 'tour': 3941, 'obedient': 3942, 'odd': 3943, 'regrets': 3944, 'intensely': 3945, 'frederick': 3946, 'balcony': 3947, 'doves': 3948, 'powdered': 3949, 'butterflies': 3950, 'unhealthy': 3951, 'virgin': 3952, 'shroud': 3953, 'closer': 3954, 'band': 3955, 'kills': 3956, 'kneel': 3957, 'thyself': 3958, 'player': 3959, 'gifts': 3960, 'continually': 3961, 'midst': 3962, 'prey': 3963, 'snake': 3964, 'dome': 3965, 'piccadilly': 3966, 'brazen': 3967, 'local': 3968, 'unique': 3969, 'contrast': 3970, 'continual': 3971, 'event': 3972, 'exceedingly': 3973, 'don': 3974, 'companion': 3975, 'clean': 3976, 'grossly': 3977, 'remained': 3978, 'closely': 3979, 'deeds': 3980, 'abroad': 3981, 'stout': 3982, 'starve': 3983, 'extra': 3984, 'shapes': 3985, 'plates': 3986, 'grateful': 3987, 'peer': 3988, 'pillar': 3989, 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4049, 'rival': 4050, 'farewell': 4051, 'eloquent': 4052, 'somerville': 4053, 'carlyle': 4054, 'morris’s': 4055, '1894': 4056, 'publication': 4057, 'completed': 4058, 'robes': 4059, 'speeches': 4060, 'hangings': 4061, 'consists': 4062, 'studded': 4063, 'platform': 4064, 'answers': 4065, 'sleeps': 4066, 'reply': 4067, 'rapidly': 4068, 'chorus': 4069, 'flute': 4070, 'inspiration': 4071, 'dragged': 4072, 'venture': 4073, 'strangled': 4074, 'pavement': 4075, 'uncouth': 4076, 'rivers': 4077, 'lust': 4078, 'chosen': 4079, 'sepulchre': 4080, 'almond': 4081, 'satire': 4082, 'teeth': 4083, 'deed': 4084, 'danced': 4085, 'dances': 4086, 'behold': 4087, 'beaten': 4088, 'chalice': 4089, 'stranger': 4090, 'legs': 4091, '1891': 4092, 'correspondence': 4093, 'reception': 4094, 'standpoint': 4095, 'acquaintance': 4096, 'chimney': 4097, 'cambridge': 4098, 'autobiography': 4099, 'curves': 4100, 'thunder': 4101, 'objective': 4102, 'achievements': 4103, 'unbearable': 4104, 'yew': 4105, 'wildly': 4106, 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'mars': 4283, 'meredith': 4284, 'stress': 4285, 'eighth': 4286, 'vienna': 4287, 'staying': 4288, 'difficulties': 4289, 'lamb': 4290, 'blush': 4291, 'knights': 4292, 'exchange': 4293, 'excellence': 4294, 'antiquity': 4295, 'arrive': 4296, 'comparison': 4297, 'napoleon': 4298, 'clearness': 4299, 'artemis': 4300, 'worker': 4301, 'generation': 4302, 'parthenon': 4303, 'ode': 4304, 'flutes': 4305, 'forests': 4306, 'genoa': 4307, 'designer': 4308, 'lunch': 4309, 'dinners': 4310, 'won': 4311, 'dmitri': 4312, 'ninth': 4313, 'gen': 4314, 'husband’s': 4315, 'import': 4316, 'o’er': 4317, 'sailor': 4318, 'lone': 4319, 'game': 4320, 'boot': 4321, 'central': 4322, 'laces': 4323, "'that": 4324, 'ristori': 4325, 'comme': 4326, 'algy': 4327, '28': 4328, 'greatness': 4329, 'mah': 4330, 'phru': 4331, 'ambassadors': 4332, 'breeze': 4333, 'discord': 4334, 'bells': 4335, 'amazement': 4336, 'presents': 4337, 'risen': 4338, 'twisted': 4339, 'throwing': 4340, 'shadowy': 4341, 'slightly': 4342, '4557': 4343, 'melan': 4344, '99712': 4345, 'cappadocian': 4346, 'actress': 4347, 'composition': 4348, 'fluttering': 4349, 'ceremonies': 4350, 'nails': 4351, 'misfortune': 4352, 'shields': 4353, 'valleys': 4354, 'accursed': 4355, 'nazarene': 4356, 'tore': 4357, 'owes': 4358, 'beast': 4359, 'wert': 4360, 'veins': 4361, 'decorated': 4362, 'whitman': 4363, 'manuscripts': 4364, 'departure': 4365, 'students': 4366, 'monday': 4367, 'orange': 4368, 'anxiety': 4369, 'disappointment': 4370, 'consolation': 4371, 'tied': 4372, 'travelling': 4373, 'wont': 4374, 'nose': 4375, 'chains': 4376, 'simon': 4377, 'doubts': 4378, 'sunny': 4379, 'bottle': 4380, 'remark': 4381, 'scroll': 4382, 'phantom': 4383, 'strained': 4384, 'cock': 4385, 'excitement': 4386, 'theatrical': 4387, 'fancied': 4388, 'madly': 4389, "couldn't": 4390, 'unhappy': 4391, 'broidered': 4392, 'pulling': 4393, '1890': 4394, '1909': 4395, '1913': 4396, 'bowing': 4397, 'plague': 4398, 'council': 4399, 'tunic': 4400, 'tapestries': 4401, 'woke': 4402, 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4460, 'fairies': 4461, 'moscow': 4462, 'players': 4463, 'modest': 4464, 'merton': 4465, 'moan': 4466, 'huyshe': 4467, 'edwin': 4468, 'stanzas': 4469, 'illusion': 4470, 'robertson': 4471, 'tzŭ': 4472, 'tuppy': 4473, 'narborough': 4474, 'masque': 4475, '36': 4476, 'nephew': 4477, 'meng': 4478, 'beng': 4479, 'courtiers': 4480, 'rubies': 4481, 'glow': 4482, 'attire': 4483, "father's": 4484, 'smiles': 4485, 'approaching': 4486, 'everyone': 4487, 'restraint': 4488, 'mocking': 4489, 'tail': 4490, 'ministers': 4491, 'princes': 4492, 'rush': 4493, 'bernhardt': 4494, 'noted': 4495, 'reviews': 4496, 'columns': 4497, 'theme': 4498, 'occurs': 4499, 'emphasis': 4500, 'cometh': 4501, 'idol': 4502, 'gazing': 4503, 'wickedness': 4504, 'drunk': 4505, 'gathered': 4506, 'treasures': 4507, 'wondrous': 4508, 'visited': 4509, 'acknowledged': 4510, 'walt': 4511, 'imaginary': 4512, 'rev': 4513, 'adds': 4514, 'reserved': 4515, 'romeo': 4516, 'apparent': 4517, 'striking': 4518, 'repeat': 4519, 'refinement': 4520, 'lightning': 4521, 'ghosts': 4522, 'stairs': 4523, 'denial': 4524, 'distinctly': 4525, 'weight': 4526, 'repair': 4527, 'plan': 4528, 'deserve': 4529, 'induce': 4530, 'properly': 4531, 'cookery': 4532, 'sleeping': 4533, 'dreamy': 4534, 'grasses': 4535, 'horns': 4536, 'ended': 4537, 'activity': 4538, 'inscription': 4539, 'birthday': 4540, 'inlaid': 4541, 'misty': 4542, 'orchard': 4543, 'curls': 4544, 'nile': 4545, 'homage': 4546, 'heat': 4547, 'curved': 4548, 'wooden': 4549, 'termed': 4550, 'misshapen': 4551, 'expect': 4552, 'philosophical': 4553, 'pan': 4554, 'damask': 4555, '‘of': 4556, 'weave': 4557, 'copper': 4558, 'opposite': 4559, 'arrows': 4560, 'cedar': 4561, '“it': 4562, 'mate': 4563, 'tremble': 4564, 'torn': 4565, 'forgetting': 4566, 'rejected': 4567, 'innocence': 4568, 'eternity': 4569, 'sympathise': 4570, 'qualifications': 4571, 'intensify': 4572, 'compliment': 4573, 'wound': 4574, 'refined': 4575, 'excess': 4576, 'nuisance': 4577, 'define': 4578, 'pleasurable': 4579, 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'revolutionary': 5873, 'mythology': 5874, 'convenient': 5875, 'army': 5876, 'cycle': 5877, 'analyse': 5878, 'garb': 5879, 'extended': 5880, 'caste': 5881, 'brilliancy': 5882, 'exclusive': 5883, 'profitless': 5884, 'deserved': 5885, 'hail': 5886, 'skull': 5887, 'subtleties': 5888, 'implies': 5889, 'prelude': 5890, 'albert': 5891, 'strangeness': 5892, 'precision': 5893, 'villanelle': 5894, 'innumerable': 5895, 'wordsworth’s': 5896, 'cooking': 5897, 'mirth': 5898, 'complaint': 5899, 'glories': 5900, 'cenci': 5901, 'confused': 5902, 'slander': 5903, 'potter': 5904, 'situations': 5905, 'waistcoat': 5906, 'themes': 5907, 'carving': 5908, 'colouring': 5909, 'iris': 5910, 'congratulate': 5911, 'newgate': 5912, 'palaces': 5913, 'seriousness': 5914, 'fare': 5915, 'dozen': 5916, 'row': 5917, 'afar': 5918, 'perfected': 5919, 'axe': 5920, 'roll': 5921, 'swan': 5922, 'vale': 5923, "christ's": 5924, 'gossamer': 5925, 'graves': 5926, 'oft': 5927, 'eros': 5928, 'daisies': 5929, 'sabouroff': 5930, 'wits': 5931, 'nervously': 5932, 'noose': 5933, 'mon': 5934, 'underlined': 5935, 'wrecked': 5936, 'cynical': 5937, 'relative': 5938, 'handed': 5939, 'shelf': 5940, 'primrose': 5941, 'hesitated': 5942, 'curzon': 5943, 'affectionate': 5944, 'widow': 5945, 'forgery': 5946, 'pembroke': 5947, 'churches': 5948, 'convinced': 5949, 'helped': 5950, 'bearded': 5951, 'whirling': 5952, 'myrtle': 5953, 'circling': 5954, 'wonted': 5955, 'idyll': 5956, 'appointed': 5957, 'cleanse': 5958, 'experiment': 5959, 'lucy': 5960, 'ha': 5961, 'wentworth': 5962, 'realized': 5963, 'vigorous': 5964, 'valued': 5965, 'descriptive': 5966, 'binding': 5967, 'originality': 5968, 'peasantry': 5969, 'publishers': 5970, 'biographer': 5971, 'giants': 5972, 'sitter': 5973, 'baireuth': 5974, 'magazines': 5975, "wordsworth's": 5976, 'bayliss': 5977, 'geoffrey': 5978, 'monthly': 5979, 'xliv': 5980, 'handmade': 5981, 'greatly': 5982, 'intricate': 5983, 'constance': 5984, 'wizard': 5985, 'glittering': 5986, 'steals': 5987, 'diamonds': 5988, 'crest': 5989, 'procession': 5990, 'disdain': 5991, 'arrest': 5992, 'paths': 5993, 'musicians': 5994, 'semi': 5995, 'hips': 5996, 'fringes': 5997, 'poignant': 5998, 'footnotes': 5999, 'f3': 6000, 'continental': 6001, 'contemporaries': 6002, 'auction': 6003, 'cape': 6004, 'dispute': 6005, 'cloaks': 6006, 'loathe': 6007, 'goddesses': 6008, 'smote': 6009, 'gateway': 6010, 'spices': 6011, 'robbers': 6012, 'cursed': 6013, 'jasper': 6014, 'naught': 6015, 'mantle': 6016, 'shattered': 6017, 'breeches': 6018, 'dealt': 6019, 'clarion': 6020, 'apostle': 6021, 'plead': 6022, 'recorded': 6023, 'attempted': 6024, 'chicago': 6025, 'ink': 6026, 'inhabitants': 6027, 'slang': 6028, 'brains': 6029, 'floated': 6030, 'jug': 6031, 'lithe': 6032, 'cheshire': 6033, 'calmly': 6034, 'decent': 6035, 'discussed': 6036, 'soiled': 6037, 'bedroom': 6038, 'martyr': 6039, 'injury': 6040, 'renowned': 6041, 'groan': 6042, 'thrilled': 6043, 'casque': 6044, 'raven': 6045, 'features': 6046, 'placard': 6047, 'uncomfortable': 6048, 'flashed': 6049, 'raising': 6050, 'assert': 6051, 'barn': 6052, 'lanes': 6053, 'dishonest': 6054, 'improve': 6055, 'searched': 6056, 'panel': 6057, 'necklace': 6058, 'natured': 6059, 'unmarried': 6060, 'expensive': 6061, '1997': 6062, 'cord': 6063, 'bending': 6064, 'ladder': 6065, 'screaming': 6066, 'shouldst': 6067, 'vices': 6068, 'gowns': 6069, 'tempered': 6070, 'sugar': 6071, 'easier': 6072, 'drenched': 6073, 'feared': 6074, 'devices': 6075, 'deer': 6076, 'phantoms': 6077, 'towers': 6078, 'philip': 6079, 'cells': 6080, 'weeds': 6081, 'mauve': 6082, 'loosened': 6083, 'sailors': 6084, 'mists': 6085, 'span': 6086, 'tempt': 6087, 'heels': 6088, 'besought': 6089, 'bury': 6090, 'highways': 6091, 'oval': 6092, 'eyebrows': 6093, 'safety': 6094, 'herbs': 6095, 'fir': 6096, 'crook': 6097, 'despised': 6098, 'alms': 6099, 'swoon': 6100, 'gladly': 6101, 'emphasise': 6102, 'unreadable': 6103, 'novelty': 6104, 'narrowed': 6105, "there's": 6106, 'marries': 6107, 'atone': 6108, 'deficient': 6109, 'interpret': 6110, 'savage': 6111, 'turbid': 6112, 'triumphs': 6113, 'renan': 6114, 'bachelors': 6115, 'exercises': 6116, 'developing': 6117, 'livery': 6118, 'labouring': 6119, 'viol': 6120, 'develops': 6121, 'sufficiently': 6122, 'pockets': 6123, 'decadence': 6124, 'unselfish': 6125, 'degrade': 6126, 'cadenced': 6127, 'loftier': 6128, 'forgetfulness': 6129, 'darwin': 6130, 'armed': 6131, 'manual': 6132, 'battles': 6133, 'realising': 6134, 'untroubled': 6135, 'messages': 6136, 'dictate': 6137, 'disturb': 6138, 'greed': 6139, 'annihilate': 6140, 'unintelligible': 6141, 'wills': 6142, 'governess': 6143, 'debts': 6144, 'lucky': 6145, 'mustn’t': 6146, 'complain': 6147, 'clergyman': 6148, 'happiest': 6149, 'trusted': 6150, 'atonement': 6151, 'flings': 6152, 'catching': 6153, 'flattering': 6154, 'wrongs': 6155, 'lied': 6156, 'longed': 6157, 'sighs': 6158, 'metaphor': 6159, 'southern': 6160, 'historic': 6161, 'arguing': 6162, 'sceptical': 6163, 'instruction': 6164, 'faut': 6165, 'hellas': 6166, 'arose': 6167, 'reminiscence': 6168, 'reproduction': 6169, 'circles': 6170, 'aspirations': 6171, 'universe': 6172, 'passionless': 6173, 'smaller': 6174, 'bonds': 6175, 'conqueror': 6176, 'carelessness': 6177, 'serves': 6178, 'hymns': 6179, 'womb': 6180, 'raphaelite': 6181, 'creations': 6182, 'ballade': 6183, 'accidental': 6184, 'another’s': 6185, 'anarchy': 6186, 'arch': 6187, 'settle': 6188, 'corrected': 6189, 'chord': 6190, 'scythe': 6191, 'solid': 6192, 'sunbeams': 6193, 'loveliest': 6194, 'madonna': 6195, 'degenerate': 6196, 'niche': 6197, 'knock': 6198, 'per': 6199, 'maids': 6200, 'pedestal': 6201, 'forgets': 6202, 'idleness': 6203, 'ahem': 6204, 'discussing': 6205, 'stateliness': 6206, 'pines': 6207, 'searching': 6208, 'reminding': 6209, 'quivering': 6210, 'toll': 6211, 'horace': 6212, 'circulation': 6213, 'publish': 6214, 'intent': 6215, 'directions': 6216, 'fog': 6217, 'betrayed': 6218, 'tramp': 6219, 'folks': 6220, 'pallas': 6221, 'petulant': 6222, 'thrill': 6223, 'tarnished': 6224, 'portia': 6225, 'lover’s': 6226, 'twelfth': 6227, 'reedy': 6228, 'fretful': 6229, 'wastes': 6230, 'murderous': 6231, 'pipes': 6232, 'maidenhood': 6233, 'driving': 6234, 'refrain': 6235, 'cleaned': 6236, 'trafford': 6237, 'cab': 6238, 'topics': 6239, 'uttered': 6240, 'judges': 6241, 'he’s': 6242, 'bush': 6243, 'petticoats': 6244, 'clogs': 6245, 'warmth': 6246, 'bien': 6247, 'omission': 6248, 'emphasised': 6249, 'henley': 6250, 'aphorism': 6251, 'longmans': 6252, 'unimaginative': 6253, 'macbeth': 6254, 'johnson': 6255, 'lyrical': 6256, "jonson's": 6257, 'scholarship': 6258, 'lifelike': 6259, 'hymn': 6260, "'for": 6261, "'there": 6262, 'acquainted': 6263, 'enjoyment': 6264, "'we": 6265, 'masterly': 6266, 'assistant': 6267, 'oisin': 6268, 'thiodolf': 6269, "gray's": 6270, 'chelsea': 6271, 'indians': 6272, 'discovers': 6273, 'rhythm': 6274, 'numberless': 6275, 'scream': 6276, 'tire': 6277, 'chairs': 6278, 'silks': 6279, 'metals': 6280, 'claws': 6281, 'transform': 6282, 'revelation': 6283, 'attacked': 6284, 'replies': 6285, 'sheen': 6286, 'shaft': 6287, 'beloved': 6288, 'creamy': 6289, 'gathering': 6290, 'disliked': 6291, 'witty': 6292, 'strauss': 6293, 'anachronisms': 6294, 'fearless': 6295, 'cistern': 6296, 'forbidden': 6297, 'litter': 6298, 'elias': 6299, 'holes': 6300, 'trumpets': 6301, 'related': 6302, 'forbid': 6303, 'offerings': 6304, 'neighbourhood': 6305, 'pierce': 6306, 'fig': 6307, 'sunrise': 6308, 'insulted': 6309, 'therein': 6310, 'wouldst': 6311, 'rods': 6312, 'covering': 6313, 'lion’s': 6314, 'arriving': 6315, 'interview': 6316, 'banished': 6317, 'locks': 6318, 'advancing': 6319, 'invited': 6320, 'ferranti': 6321, 'authorised': 6322, 'insistence': 6323, 'handicraft': 6324, 'customary': 6325, 'rhythmic': 6326, 'puritanism': 6327, 'gently': 6328, 'countenance': 6329, 'continent': 6330, '14522': 6331, 'raced': 6332, 'hearse': 6333, 'parish': 6334, 'warned': 6335, 'patriotism': 6336, 'mossy': 6337, 'terrified': 6338, 'upset': 6339, 'rubbed': 6340, 'permanence': 6341, 'pillow': 6342, 'monsieur': 6343, 'pond': 6344, 'babe': 6345, 'vaulted': 6346, 'stab': 6347, 'steady': 6348, 'tripping': 6349, 'rolled': 6350, 'sweeping': 6351, 'transformation': 6352, 'haste': 6353, 'traversed': 6354, 'worm': 6355, 'insolent': 6356, 'missing': 6357, 'consoled': 6358, 'annoyance': 6359, 'county': 6360, 'games': 6361, 'hush': 6362, 'recollections': 6363, 'tasselled': 6364, 'pile': 6365, 'disclosed': 6366, 'objected': 6367, 'breadth': 6368, 'mouthed': 6369, 'anodyne': 6370, 'gauze': 6371, 'lacquer': 6372, 'pulled': 6373, 'clutching': 6374, 'streaming': 6375, 'aught': 6376, 'wroth': 6377, 'nurtured': 6378, '‘are': 6379, 'camels': 6380, 'strode': 6381, 'shone': 6382, 'tulips': 6383, 'visiting': 6384, 'invite': 6385, 'corset': 6386, 'pedro': 6387, 'childish': 6388, 'courtyard': 6389, 'malady': 6390, 'gloomy': 6391, 'sham': 6392, 'puppet': 6393, 'mayor': 6394, 'hobby': 6395, 'plunged': 6396, 'comforted': 6397, 'tricks': 6398, 'flag': 6399, 'pigeons': 6400, 'wreathed': 6401, 'hawthorn': 6402, 'brightest': 6403, 'glove': 6404, 'opal': 6405, 'fauns': 6406, 'blossoming': 6407, 'device': 6408, 'girdle': 6409, 'couched': 6410, 'strung': 6411, '‘as': 6412, 'dates': 6413, 'tops': 6414, 'interpreter': 6415, 'crowding': 6416, 'cloths': 6417, 'hammer': 6418, 'flee': 6419, 'sealed': 6420, 'inn': 6421, 'pools': 6422, 'threshold': 6423, 'fen': 6424, 'unprotected': 6425, 'miscellaneous': 6426, 'unselfishness': 6427, 'sensations': 6428, 'maladies': 6429, 'female': 6430, 'hypocrisy': 6431, 'disobedience': 6432, 'stake': 6433, 'understands': 6434, 'lends': 6435, 'bores': 6436, 'intimately': 6437, 'wholesome': 6438, 'converts': 6439, 'scandals': 6440, 'unsound': 6441, 'separation': 6442, 'incoherent': 6443, 'sentimentalist': 6444, 'treating': 6445, 'comedies': 6446, 'farce': 6447, "artist's": 6448, "moment's": 6449, 'spirituality': 6450, 'resolutions': 6451, 'insincere': 6452, 'shoe': 6453, "love's": 6454, 'surrenders': 6455, 'spirited': 6456, 'unsatisfied': 6457, 'formation': 6458, 'accumulating': 6459, 'organism': 6460, 'governments': 6461, 'enabled': 6462, 'accumulation': 6463, 'starved': 6464, 'scanty': 6465, "'who": 6466, 'cured': 6467, 'appalling': 6468, 'contemplating': 6469, 'wronged': 6470, 'nailed': 6471, 'appealing': 6472, 'furnished': 6473, 'enjoys': 6474, 'thinkers': 6475, 'torture': 6476, 'schemes': 6477, 'congratulated': 6478, 'charlotte': 6479, 'tastes': 6480, 'straws': 6481, 'aren’t': 6482, 'sinners': 6483, 'mockery': 6484, 'bids': 6485, 'samuel': 6486, 'picks': 6487, 'prettiest': 6488, 'dedicated': 6489, 'afforded': 6490, 'didactic': 6491, 'nero': 6492, 'corroboration': 6493, 'chronicles': 6494, 'religions': 6495, 'sunlit': 6496, 'athenians': 6497, 'inscriptions': 6498, 'violation': 6499, 'comparative': 6500, 'positive': 6501, 'unequal': 6502, 'anticipated': 6503, 'plants': 6504, 'truthful': 6505, 'banish': 6506, 'organic': 6507, 'aloof': 6508, 'reformers': 6509, 'fitful': 6510, 'heredity': 6511, 'exposed': 6512, 'strongest': 6513, 'documents': 6514, 'accused': 6515, 'livy': 6516, 'compare': 6517, 'transcendental': 6518, 'treads': 6519, 'incommunicable': 6520, 'accustomed': 6521, 'theocritus': 6522, 'clash': 6523, 'discussions': 6524, 'keats’s': 6525, 'edgar': 6526, 'plume': 6527, 'moonlit': 6528, 'imitators': 6529, 'proserpine': 6530, 'adorn': 6531, 'decorate': 6532, 'thirteenth': 6533, 'inner': 6534, 'uselessness': 6535, 'portico': 6536, 'omnibus': 6537, 'catches': 6538, 'hood': 6539, '1907': 6540, '“my': 6541, 'slumber': 6542, '“well': 6543, 'feeble': 6544, 'travel': 6545, 'disposition': 6546, 'domesticity': 6547, 'lifts': 6548, 'burial': 6549, 'roads': 6550, 'ghostly': 6551, 'blast': 6552, 'cadence': 6553, 'fane': 6554, 'disappointing': 6555, 'turkish': 6556, 'block': 6557, 'bigger': 6558, 'casual': 6559, 'bond': 6560, 'laura': 6561, 'scholars': 6562, 'austere': 6563, 'leaps': 6564, 'hum': 6565, 'poring': 6566, 'daphnis': 6567, 'proteus': 6568, 'binds': 6569, 'amaze': 6570, 'sisters': 6571, 'yielded': 6572, 'stainless': 6573, 'denys': 6574, 'mourners': 6575, 'stark': 6576, 'ceaseless': 6577, 'hunted': 6578, 'yards': 6579, 'scope': 6580, 'swollen': 6581, 'issues': 6582, 'contrasts': 6583, 'montford': 6584, 'improved': 6585, 'degradation': 6586, 'sexes': 6587, 'reynolds': 6588, 'paintings': 6589, "windermere's": 6590, 'marshall': 6591, 'tuberose': 6592, "'great": 6593, 'authoress': 6594, 'unwin': 6595, 'quotation': 6596, 'socialists': 6597, 'theatric': 6598, 'blackwood': 6599, 'ranks': 6600, 'completion': 6601, "'but": 6602, 'cowper': 6603, 'fervour': 6604, 'becky': 6605, 'nesbit': 6606, 'plus': 6607, 'intelligent': 6608, 'griffiths': 6609, 'caesar': 6610, 'sladen': 6611, 'caustic': 6612, 'guizot': 6613, 'guilderoy': 6614, 'today': 6615, 'bookbinding': 6616, 'xlvi': 6617, 'permit': 6618, 'luminous': 6619, 'unconsciously': 6620, 'sewn': 6621, 'measured': 6622, 'agreeable': 6623, 'elephant': 6624, 'orchids': 6625, 'signal': 6626, 'emeralds': 6627, 'concluded': 6628, 'converse': 6629, 'swinging': 6630, 'intervals': 6631, 'subdued': 6632, 'distress': 6633, 'elderly': 6634, 'quiver': 6635, 'airs': 6636, 'sighted': 6637, 'bewildered': 6638, 'fountains': 6639, 'pillared': 6640, 'spreads': 6641, 'tones': 6642, 'eagerly': 6643, 'gazed': 6644, 'skins': 6645, 'generously': 6646, 'internet': 6647, 'tigellinus': 6648, 'jews': 6649, 'seldom': 6650, '1893': 6651, 'values': 6652, 'regularly': 6653, 'gratified': 6654, 'mounting': 6655, 'strayed': 6656, 'sirens': 6657, 'formally': 6658, 'babylon': 6659, 'redder': 6660, 'mines': 6661, 'corpse': 6662, 'raises': 6663, 'wanton': 6664, 'swords': 6665, 'sinned': 6666, 'hither': 6667, 'garland': 6668, 'hearken': 6669, 'rays': 6670, "men's": 6671, 'disappear': 6672, 'mane': 6673, 'describing': 6674, '1883': 6675, 'prince’s': 6676, 'insisting': 6677, 'agitated': 6678, 'whistle': 6679, 'destructive': 6680, 'honoured': 6681, 'underneath': 6682, 'selling': 6683, 'lingered': 6684, 'etching': 6685, 'pageants': 6686, 'dollars': 6687, 'james’s': 6688, 'goldsmith': 6689, 'pony': 6690, 'photographs': 6691, 'leaped': 6692, 'galloping': 6693, 'rector': 6694, 'paragon': 6695, 'sternly': 6696, 'accent': 6697, 'gyves': 6698, 'wakened': 6699, 'accomplishment': 6700, 'hesitate': 6701, 'faintly': 6702, 'spectre': 6703, 'grisly': 6704, 'stalked': 6705, 'seize': 6706, 'tripped': 6707, 'treading': 6708, 'wishing': 6709, 'regent': 6710, 'feathered': 6711, 'hedge': 6712, 'gravity': 6713, 'ancestor': 6714, 'ruffs': 6715, 'officers': 6716, "'when": 6717, 'tightly': 6718, 'disappearance': 6719, 'telegraph': 6720, 'grated': 6721, 'vii': 6722, 'flooded': 6723, 'allowing': 6724, 'recognize': 6725, 'mediævalism': 6726, 'document': 6727, 'marchioness': 6728, 'abbey': 6729, 'desiring': 6730, 'floating': 6731, 'pressing': 6732, 'lustre': 6733, 'veined': 6734, 'onyx': 6735, 'drooped': 6736, 'pouring': 6737, 'meagre': 6738, 'earrings': 6739, 'youngest': 6740, 'chattered': 6741, 'vessel': 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6803, "nature's": 6804, 'approval': 6805, 'loyalty': 6806, 'impossibility': 6807, 'repeating': 6808, 'organisation': 6809, 'reserve': 6810, 'forgives': 6811, 'fulfilment': 6812, 'callous': 6813, 'circumstance': 6814, 'spectators': 6815, 'consistent': 6816, 'reap': 6817, 'absorb': 6818, 'logic': 6819, 'fatality': 6820, 'chastity': 6821, 'increases': 6822, 'mess': 6823, 'breezes': 6824, 'giorgione': 6825, 'wither': 6826, 'borrowed': 6827, 'harp': 6828, 'commonest': 6829, 'spoils': 6830, 'accurately': 6831, 'cowardice': 6832, 'newman': 6833, 'invents': 6834, 'accord': 6835, 'translate': 6836, 'starvation': 6837, 'intelligence': 6838, 'fetid': 6839, 'unclean': 6840, 'lodging': 6841, 'impertinent': 6842, 'tooth': 6843, 'governing': 6844, 'despotism': 6845, 'prizes': 6846, 'services': 6847, 'considerably': 6848, 'ecclesiastical': 6849, 'distasteful': 6850, 'attacks': 6851, 'suburban': 6852, 'applies': 6853, 'misuse': 6854, 'publishing': 6855, 'differently': 6856, 'crucified': 6857, 'infant': 6858, 'lets': 6859, 'toy': 6860, 'decidedly': 6861, 'breathing': 6862, 'amateur': 6863, 'victoria': 6864, 'attribute': 6865, 'moment’s': 6866, 'illingworth’s': 6867, 'lacked': 6868, 'untrue': 6869, 'candidly': 6870, 'wisely': 6871, 'topic': 6872, 'homes': 6873, 'you’re': 6874, 'blushing': 6875, 'kneels': 6876, 'shirt': 6877, 'laying': 6878, 'mourn': 6879, 'histories': 6880, 'nemesis': 6881, 'chasm': 6882, 'secondly': 6883, 'predecessors': 6884, 'occupy': 6885, 'judging': 6886, 'characterised': 6887, 'pastoral': 6888, 'stages': 6889, 'treatise': 6890, 'carthage': 6891, 'incarnation': 6892, 'athlete': 6893, 'divinity': 6894, 'spencer': 6895, 'supremacy': 6896, 'christians': 6897, 'complexity': 6898, 'width': 6899, 'adopts': 6900, 'characterises': 6901, 'recognising': 6902, 'senate': 6903, 'colonus': 6904, 'questioning': 6905, 'abstractions': 6906, 'corrections': 6907, 'mazzini': 6908, 'pursuits': 6909, 'realm': 6910, 'æsthetics': 6911, 'substitute': 6912, 'borgia': 6913, 'art’s': 6914, 'rhythmical': 6915, 'profound': 6916, 'patience': 6917, 'soar': 6918, 'clamour': 6919, 'cumberland': 6920, 'conquest': 6921, 'england’s': 6922, 'fourteenth': 6923, 'upland': 6924, 'mutilated': 6925, 'louvre': 6926, 'observations': 6927, 'pots': 6928, 'stepping': 6929, 'carve': 6930, 'fain': 6931, 'transparent': 6932, 'asunder': 6933, 'seer': 6934, 'westminster': 6935, 'rosa': 6936, 'laurel': 6937, 'bishops': 6938, 'scorching': 6939, 'stretching': 6940, 'auctioneer': 6941, 'posers': 6942, 'rulers': 6943, 'notably': 6944, 'attracted': 6945, '“she': 6946, 'admirer': 6947, 'mast': 6948, 'proclamation': 6949, 'sailed': 6950, 'patient': 6951, 'envy': 6952, 'dig': 6953, 'fireworks': 6954, 'covent': 6955, "l'envoi": 6956, "boy's": 6957, 'comrades': 6958, 'stared': 6959, 'crested': 6960, 'bark': 6961, 'stays': 6962, 'n': 6963, 'condemned': 6964, 'password': 6965, 'naples': 6966, 'graces': 6967, 'esprit': 6968, 'marq': 6969, 'poiv': 6970, "wasn't": 6971, 'limb': 6972, 'consps': 6973, 'dined': 6974, 'wanting': 6975, 'diamond': 6976, 'blackened': 6977, 'bleak': 6978, 'numbers': 6979, 'easter': 6980, 'convent': 6981, 'fits': 6982, 'sickening': 6983, 'brocade': 6984, 'flickering': 6985, 'herr': 6986, 'winckelkopf': 6987, 'recklessly': 6988, 'dandies': 6989, 'diplomatic': 6990, 'exceed': 6991, 'preceding': 6992, 'identity': 6993, 'entreat': 6994, 'ophelia': 6995, 'discusses': 6996, 'precursor': 6997, 'sacra': 6998, 'flown': 6999, 'threnody': 7000, 'cromwell': 7001, 'pictured': 7002, 'gabriel': 7003, 'enchanted': 7004, 'helm': 7005, 'taint': 7006, 'toss': 7007, 'medea': 7008, 'girdled': 7009, 'melpomene': 7010, 'seneschal': 7011, 'hempen': 7012, 'tryst': 7013, 'laced': 7014, 'healthful': 7015, 'thorny': 7016, 'daffodils': 7017, 'schoolboy': 7018, 'dame': 7019, 'lys': 7020, 'adieu': 7021, 'wring': 7022, 'beer': 7023, 'fetters': 7024, 'printers': 7025, 'draft': 7026, 'languidly': 7027, 'platitudes': 7028, 'liege': 7029, 'caricature': 7030, 'rivals': 7031, 'sup': 7032, 'offended': 7033, "brother's": 7034, 'overcoat': 7035, 'excessive': 7036, 'imprisonment': 7037, 'centres': 7038, 'simpkin': 7039, 'enables': 7040, 'perspective': 7041, 'bentley': 7042, 'pedant': 7043, 'adequately': 7044, 'bourchier': 7045, 'fascinates': 7046, "'why": 7047, "o'": 7048, 'felicity': 7049, 'conceits': 7050, 'pleasanter': 7051, "'an": 7052, 'devoid': 7053, 'lang': 7054, "'if": 7055, "'one": 7056, 'sappho': 7057, 'pitch': 7058, "'no": 7059, 'sic': 7060, 'bust': 7061, 'von': 7062, 'hartley': 7063, 'veitch': 7064, 'colvin': 7065, 'saxon': 7066, "mahaffy's": 7067, 'mathematician': 7068, 'sont': 7069, 'actuality': 7070, 'styles': 7071, 'banshee': 7072, "swinburne's": 7073, 'dorinda': 7074, 'rydal': 7075, 'moncrieff': 7076, "hallward's": 7077, 'rai': 7078, 'gyan': 7079, 'thoo': 7080, 'sunshine': 7081, 'flowery': 7082, 'listens': 7083, 'declares': 7084, 'trembles': 7085, 'embroideries': 7086, 'murmurs': 7087, 'priceless': 7088, 'opium': 7089, 'lattice': 7090, 'weird': 7091, 'elbow': 7092, 'physicians': 7093, 'illness': 7094, 'stricken': 7095, 'retreat': 7096, "heart's": 7097, 'flush': 7098, 'aubrey': 7099, 'executioner': 7100, '1892': 7101, 'prohibited': 7102, 'censor': 7103, 'greeted': 7104, 'attributed': 7105, 'frontispiece': 7106, 'holland': 7107, 'score': 7108, 'sources': 7109, 'fighting': 7110, 'plagiarism': 7111, 'tulip': 7112, 'ricketts': 7113, 'climax': 7114, 'jerusalem': 7115, 'banquet': 7116, 'lakes': 7117, 'scatter': 7118, 'whitened': 7119, 'mire': 7120, 'tigers': 7121, 'clothe': 7122, 'drunken': 7123, 'tables': 7124, 'dip': 7125, 'thirsty': 7126, 'healed': 7127, 'wipe': 7128, 'figs': 7129, 'random': 7130, 'counsel': 7131, 'anon': 7132, 'pigeon': 7133, 'sapphires': 7134, 'ebony': 7135, 'seizes': 7136, 'proofreading': 7137, 'keystone': 7138, '500': 7139, 'shreds': 7140, 'mer': 7141, 'gleams': 7142, 'engine': 7143, 'ravelled': 7144, 'they’re': 7145, 'exclusively': 7146, 'toward': 7147, 'lecturing': 7148, 'barrett': 7149, 'purposes': 7150, 'pupil': 7151, 'chivalrous': 7152, 'courteous': 7153, 'relics': 7154, 'impressed': 7155, 'racing': 7156, 'tin': 7157, 'kettle': 7158, 'transaction': 7159, 'visitor': 7160, 'colonies': 7161, 'buildings': 7162, 'languid': 7163, 'attired': 7164, 'acropolis': 7165, 'originally': 7166, 'bibliography': 7167, 'satirical': 7168, "'have": 7169, 'suspended': 7170, 'weaknesses': 7171, 'winning': 7172, 'consented': 7173, 'peal': 7174, 'salary': 7175, 'suspect': 7176, 'violently': 7177, 'ghastly': 7178, 'confessed': 7179, 'wardrobe': 7180, 'rolling': 7181, 'streamed': 7182, 'dropping': 7183, 'grapple': 7184, 'clasping': 7185, 'clutched': 7186, 'crow': 7187, 'vigil': 7188, 'conscientious': 7189, 'disguise': 7190, 'invalid': 7191, 'annoy': 7192, 'prevail': 7193, 'gipsies': 7194, 'galloped': 7195, 'mute': 7196, 'blossomed': 7197, 'fortnight': 7198, '2014': 7199, 'newly': 7200, 'stooped': 7201, 'journeys': 7202, 'costly': 7203, 'persia': 7204, 'drinks': 7205, 'threaded': 7206, 'weaving': 7207, 'turban': 7208, 'spears': 7209, 'string': 7210, 'snakes': 7211, 'clenched': 7212, 'wheeled': 7213, 'shrieking': 7214, 'sayest': 7215, 'climbing': 7216, 'male': 7217, 'heresy': 7218, 'suspicion': 7219, 'papal': 7220, 'entry': 7221, 'niece': 7222, 'precedence': 7223, 'charged': 7224, 'ambassador': 7225, 'applause': 7226, 'tribe': 7227, 'hanged': 7228, 'peeping': 7229, 'irresistible': 7230, 'indignant': 7231, 'blooms': 7232, 'ostentatious': 7233, 'attitudes': 7234, 'wasn’t': 7235, 'repose': 7236, 'bamboo': 7237, 'anemones': 7238, 'primroses': 7239, 'spires': 7240, 'shouted': 7241, 'dawned': 7242, 'swam': 7243, 'shells': 7244, 'clinging': 7245, 'latch': 7246, 'pound': 7247, 'witches': 7248, 'listless': 7249, 'cat': 7250, 'wares': 7251, 'orient': 7252, 'entreated': 7253, '‘one': 7254, 'saffron': 7255, 'granite': 7256, '‘let': 7257, 'worships': 7258, 'widows': 7259, 'bitten': 7260, 'faggots': 7261, 'pick': 7262, 'divide': 7263, 'highway': 7264, 'favoured': 7265, 'fairness': 7266, 'banner': 7267, 'accidents': 7268, 'philosophies': 7269, 'interfering': 7270, 'purification': 7271, 'mania': 7272, 'responsibility': 7273, 'mutual': 7274, 'philanthropy': 7275, 'misunderstood': 7276, 'certainty': 7277, 'security': 7278, "another's": 7279, 'glancing': 7280, 'washing': 7281, 'preoccupied': 7282, 'existent': 7283, "other's": 7284, 'inconsistent': 7285, 'generalities': 7286, 'deceiving': 7287, 'millions': 7288, 'instinctively': 7289, 'gutter': 7290, 'occurrence': 7291, 'lasts': 7292, 'organised': 7293, 'instincts': 7294, 'immorality': 7295, 'toujours': 7296, 'recreate': 7297, 'hermes': 7298, 'rapture': 7299, 'faithless': 7300, 'idly': 7301, 'tressed': 7302, 'travail': 7303, 'intelligible': 7304, 'unfinished': 7305, 'conceit': 7306, 'gallant': 7307, 'imagines': 7308, 'teaches': 7309, 'loathing': 7310, 'unpardonable': 7311, "england's": 7312, 'entrancing': 7313, 'reproduced': 7314, 'preoccupation': 7315, 'ungrateful': 7316, 'labourer': 7317, 'insecure': 7318, 'exaggerate': 7319, 'unwholesome': 7320, 'annihilates': 7321, 'conform': 7322, 'incalculable': 7323, 'sickened': 7324, 'distressing': 7325, 'flatter': 7326, 'spheres': 7327, 'subjected': 7328, 'uncritical': 7329, 'limiting': 7330, 'joined': 7331, 'honeyed': 7332, 'spontaneous': 7333, 'lax': 7334, 'hopeless': 7335, 'ladyship': 7336, 'communicate': 7337, 'brick': 7338, 'outcasts': 7339, 'lunatic': 7340, 'harford': 7341, 'ambitions': 7342, 'rescue': 7343, 'improving': 7344, 'withdraw': 7345, 'tended': 7346, 'salver': 7347, 'romances': 7348, 'author’s': 7349, 'gifted': 7350, 'artist’s': 7351, 'reluctance': 7352, 'analogies': 7353, 'tortured': 7354, 'theology': 7355, 'agamemnon': 7356, 'weapon': 7357, 'siege': 7358, 'similarly': 7359, 'marathon': 7360, 'rationalistic': 7361, 'explicitly': 7362, 'spartan': 7363, 'conspiracy': 7364, 'mentions': 7365, 'crisis': 7366, 'civil': 7367, 'iliad': 7368, 'philology': 7369, 'euripides': 7370, 'relatives': 7371, 'sway': 7372, 'regulations': 7373, 'bodily': 7374, 'qualification': 7375, 'choir': 7376, 'y': 7377, 'secondary': 7378, 'oligarchy': 7379, 'di': 7380, 'sublime': 7381, 'aflame': 7382, 'comprehend': 7383, 'varieties': 7384, 'cicero': 7385, 'strait': 7386, 'candid': 7387, 'perseus': 7388, 'epigram': 7389, 'timæus': 7390, 'wrangle': 7391, 'spreading': 7392, 'sown': 7393, 'flows': 7394, 'pericles': 7395, 'thebes': 7396, 'unbiassed': 7397, 'unsatisfactory': 7398, 'serving': 7399, 'loire': 7400, 'breasted': 7401, 'equality': 7402, 'eccentric': 7403, 'eras': 7404, 'informing': 7405, 'sophocles': 7406, 'damascus': 7407, 'whirlwind': 7408, 'beam': 7409, 'mouthpiece': 7410, 'serenity': 7411, '‘not': 7412, 'resolve': 7413, 'elevated': 7414, 'cathedrals': 7415, 'inseparable': 7416, 'iridescent': 7417, 'divorced': 7418, 'barrenness': 7419, 'pisa': 7420, 'bravely': 7421, 'abyss': 7422, 'advise': 7423, 'godlike': 7424, 'guilds': 7425, 'proportions': 7426, 'loftiest': 7427, 'pupils': 7428, 'heath': 7429, 'shakespearean': 7430, '‘all': 7431, 'impressionist': 7432, 'garlands': 7433, 'worshippers': 7434, '“he': 7435, '“why': 7436, 'ripples': 7437, 'soared': 7438, 'heart’s': 7439, 'bloomed': 7440, 'filling': 7441, 'notices': 7442, 'fur': 7443, 'stammer': 7444, "rodd's": 7445, 'thrush': 7446, 'flights': 7447, 'marring': 7448, 'flanders': 7449, "girl's": 7450, 'flitting': 7451, 'awakening': 7452, 'homeward': 7453, 'lore': 7454, 'westward': 7455, 'curling': 7456, 'fret': 7457, 'starry': 7458, 'steer': 7459, 'sandy': 7460, 'darkened': 7461, 'medicine': 7462, 'cow': 7463, 'warns': 7464, 'officer': 7465, 'sergeant': 7466, 'aide': 7467, 'concern': 7468, 'throats': 7469, "i'": 7470, 'mediocrities': 7471, 'appointment': 7472, 'dieu': 7473, 'ringing': 7474, 'heroines': 7475, 'jaws': 7476, 'geniuses': 7477, 'moderate': 7478, 'cheiromancy': 7479, 'arabesques': 7480, 'mart': 7481, 'clementina': 7482, 'clem': 7483, 'medical': 7484, 'smoked': 7485, 'remembrance': 7486, 'sweets': 7487, 'dean': 7488, 'barge': 7489, 'brougham': 7490, 'alroy': 7491, 'visits': 7492, 'bits': 7493, 'commission': 7494, 'graham’s': 7495, 'poesy': 7496, 'abandon': 7497, 'pace': 7498, 'rejoined': 7499, 'hoarded': 7500, 'lads': 7501, 'summer’s': 7502, 'merlin': 7503, 'panoply': 7504, 'narcissi': 7505, 'blot': 7506, 'wheat': 7507, 'foster': 7508, '—o': 7509, 'rustic': 7510, 'bleating': 7511, 'brimming': 7512, 'quay': 7513, 'fling': 7514, 'venturous': 7515, 'fright': 7516, 'tunes': 7517, 'boisterous': 7518, 'kin': 7519, 'winter’s': 7520, 'unchanged': 7521, 'bargain': 7522, 'guarded': 7523, 'sidney': 7524, 'kindest': 7525, 'asphalte': 7526, '100': 7527, 'brilliantly': 7528, 'arnheim': 7529, 'argentine': 7530, 'complains': 7531, 'duchesses': 7532, 'acres': 7533, 'justices': 7534, 'achievement': 7535, 'byzantium': 7536, 'hose': 7537, 'etre': 7538, 'graduate': 7539, 'cuffs': 7540, 'vivacity': 7541, 'amply': 7542, 'ruthlessly': 7543, 'melchior': 7544, 'blended': 7545, 'playwright': 7546, 'adjective': 7547, 'humorous': 7548, 'thackeray': 7549, 'andrew': 7550, 'disinterested': 7551, 'endowed': 7552, 'panegyrics': 7553, 'ils': 7554, 'martinengo': 7555, 'folklore': 7556, 'herrick': 7557, 'robins': 7558, 'marston': 7559, "balzac's": 7560, 'routledge': 7561, 'excluded': 7562, 'hexameter': 7563, 'froude': 7564, "'of": 7565, 'stuffs': 7566, "dante's": 7567, 'portray': 7568, 'lending': 7569, "'she": 7570, 'summed': 7571, 'emily': 7572, 'ticket': 7573, 'albany': 7574, 'ferns': 7575, 'arab': 7576, 'contribute': 7577, 'shakespearian': 7578, 'deux': 7579, 'stael': 7580, 'manufacture': 7581, 'suis': 7582, 'journalistic': 7583, 'subordinate': 7584, 'celt': 7585, 'wolfings': 7586, "willis's": 7587, "froude's": 7588, 'parkinson': 7589, 'gemma': 7590, 'balzac’s': 7591, 'sanderson': 7592, 'whibley': 7593, 'timaeus': 7594, 'xliii': 7595, 'xlviii': 7596, 'bunburyist': 7597, 'abercrombie': 7598, 'donnerai': 7599, 'loudly': 7600, 'fro': 7601, 'gathers': 7602, 'grouping': 7603, 'parrots': 7604, 'alarm': 7605, 'fears': 7606, 'gigantic': 7607, 'divan': 7608, 'piled': 7609, 'grain': 7610, 'prospect': 7611, 'restored': 7612, 'vow': 7613, 'translator': 7614, 'marc': 7615, 'judæa': 7616, 'heartily': 7617, 'glamour': 7618, 'refer': 7619, 'contemplated': 7620, 'bias': 7621, 'mat': 7622, 'laboriously': 7623, 'complained': 7624, 'coils': 7625, 'palestine': 7626, 'serpent': 7627, 'abominations': 7628, 'iniquities': 7629, 'beseech': 7630, 'mower': 7631, 'driver': 7632, 'tidings': 7633, 'prophesied': 7634, 'charger': 7635, 'topazes': 7636, 'ostrich': 7637, 'straightway': 7638, 'hateful': 7639, 'virginity': 7640, 'pgdp': 7641, 'sunflower': 7642, 'muffled': 7643, 'auspices': 7644, 'proceeded': 7645, 'thence': 7646, 'halifax': 7647, 'trousers': 7648, '“as': 7649, 'lecturer': 7650, 'bernard': 7651, 'subsequent': 7652, 'stroll': 7653, 'naive': 7654, 'plains': 7655, 'youths': 7656, 'brigade': 7657, 'pp': 7658, 'lady’s': 7659, 'facing': 7660, 'rabbits': 7661, 'neatly': 7662, 'detergent': 7663, 'psychical': 7664, 'alluded': 7665, 'lubricator': 7666, 'groans': 7667, 'cheated': 7668, 'début': 7669, 'polite': 7670, 'comment': 7671, 'joke': 7672, 'backed': 7673, 'materialism': 7674, 'cantervilles': 7675, 'friday': 7676, 'rattled': 7677, 'beds': 7678, 'masked': 7679, 'gaiety': 7680, 'stealthily': 7681, 'blazoned': 7682, 'brandishing': 7683, 'nameless': 7684, 'grin': 7685, 'aloft': 7686, 'kitchen': 7687, 'homestead': 7688, 'isaac': 7689, 'enraged': 7690, 'stove': 7691, 'depression': 7692, 'nicer': 7693, 'curiosities': 7694, 'wrung': 7695, 'groom': 7696, 'bathed': 7697, 'trick': 7698, 'egad': 7699, 'day’s': 7700, 'messenger': 7701, 'adoration': 7702, 'magical': 7703, 'cords': 7704, '‘with': 7705, 'oars': 7706, 'clung': 7707, 'walled': 7708, 'isis': 7709, 'goats': 7710, 'briar': 7711, 'moors': 7712, 'foxes': 7713, 'coast': 7714, 'bedfellow': 7715, '‘where': 7716, 'stems': 7717, 'lizards': 7718, 'cumbrous': 7719, 'da': 7720, 'monastery': 7721, 'fourteen': 7722, 'flitted': 7723, 'juice': 7724, 'sting': 7725, 'berries': 7726, 'wolves': 7727, 'crumbs': 7728, 'noses': 7729, 'vintage': 7730, 'flemish': 7731, 'drag': 7732, 'glades': 7733, 'loathed': 7734, 'fainter': 7735, '‘because': 7736, 'coiled': 7737, 'frozen': 7738, 'merciful': 7739, 'tents': 7740, 'hollows': 7741, 'sicken': 7742, 'battlements': 7743, 'eaves': 7744, 'islands': 7745, 'bruised': 7746, 'lance': 7747, 'sweat': 7748, 'ate': 7749, 'booth': 7750, 'league': 7751, 'kinsman': 7752, '‘she': 7753, 'deaths': 7754, 'shod': 7755, '‘do': 7756, 'maimed': 7757, 'trap': 7758, 'wallet': 7759, 'compromise': 7760, 'dragging': 7761, 'flirt': 7762, 'thrift': 7763, 'earnestness': 7764, 'despots': 7765, 'customs': 7766, 'consoles': 7767, 'perpetual': 7768, 'dealings': 7769, 'unreasonable': 7770, 'completeness': 7771, 'unscrupulous': 7772, 'supplies': 7773, 'necessities': 7774, 'effeminate': 7775, 'frenchman': 7776, 'inspire': 7777, 'survives': 7778, 'expects': 7779, 'sinful': 7780, 'powder': 7781, 'investigating': 7782, 'poisons': 7783, 'unison': 7784, 'victims': 7785, 'foreigners': 7786, 'quickens': 7787, 'reminiscences': 7788, 'examinations': 7789, 'amiable': 7790, 'helena': 7791, 'poplars': 7792, 'shifting': 7793, 'alters': 7794, 'unrest': 7795, "he's": 7796, 'brutes': 7797, 'spinoza': 7798, 'comedian': 7799, 'uniformity': 7800, 'hawk': 7801, "'be": 7802, 'conventions': 7803, 'modesty': 7804, 'academe': 7805, 'uncomely': 7806, 'resides': 7807, 'caprice': 7808, 'mannerism': 7809, 'promises': 7810, 'respected': 7811, 'acquaintances': 7812, 'acquiesce': 7813, 'lasting': 7814, 'altruistic': 7815, 'dole': 7816, 'continuance': 7817, 'agitators': 7818, 'abolition': 7819, 'hire': 7820, 'freer': 7821, 'christianity': 7822, 'servitude': 7823, 'kingsley': 7824, 'adjectives': 7825, 'cant': 7826, 'trials': 7827, 'audiences': 7828, 'assumption': 7829, 'entertained': 7830, 'distorted': 7831, 'individualist': 7832, 'knives': 7833, 'executor': 7834, 'shawl': 7835, 'poorer': 7836, 'millionaire': 7837, 'amusements': 7838, 'exeunt': 7839, 'divinely': 7840, 'missions': 7841, 'investigated': 7842, 'recall': 7843, 'headache': 7844, 'grande': 7845, 'drowning': 7846, 'hasn’t': 7847, 'clutches': 7848, 'examining': 7849, 'wrestle': 7850, 'arguments': 7851, 'pulls': 7852, 'quarrelled': 7853, 'jests': 7854, 'annals': 7855, 'underlying': 7856, 'periods': 7857, 'trammelling': 7858, 'legacy': 7859, 'metaphors': 7860, 'unscientific': 7861, 'politicians': 7862, 'troops': 7863, 'characterise': 7864, 'investigate': 7865, 'revealing': 7866, 'beings': 7867, 'sojourn': 7868, 'pious': 7869, 'theseus': 7870, 'estimating': 7871, 'illustrate': 7872, 'preach': 7873, 'analyses': 7874, 'confuse': 7875, 'plato’s': 7876, 'representative': 7877, 'races': 7878, 'lasted': 7879, 'herd': 7880, 'καὶ': 7881, 'reflected': 7882, 'widening': 7883, 'explicit': 7884, 'fated': 7885, 'neglected': 7886, 'limitless': 7887, 'struggles': 7888, 'ad': 7889, 'unaware': 7890, 'faculties': 7891, 'farther': 7892, 'arcadian': 7893, 'stable': 7894, 'accusation': 7895, 'improvements': 7896, 'rust': 7897, 'conjunction': 7898, 'statical': 7899, 'analysing': 7900, 'geography': 7901, 'combined': 7902, 'incapacity': 7903, 'rome’s': 7904, 'intervention': 7905, 'ignored': 7906, 'delphi': 7907, 'indolence': 7908, 'sacrifices': 7909, 'verbal': 7910, 'imagining': 7911, 'records': 7912, 'blotted': 7913, 'realist': 7914, 'armies': 7915, 'dado': 7916, 'rightness': 7917, 'beethoven': 7918, 'ungovernable': 7919, 'incomprehensible': 7920, 'preferable': 7921, 'sibyls': 7922, 'brawling': 7923, 'brussels': 7924, 'medici': 7925, 'purified': 7926, '‘no': 7927, 'achieve': 7928, 'petrarch': 7929, 'bygone': 7930, 'instructed': 7931, 'vat': 7932, 'drawers': 7933, 'pillage': 7934, 'unusual': 7935, 'milliner': 7936, 'handing': 7937, 'whereon': 7938, 'gentleness': 7939, 'transferred': 7940, 'furnace': 7941, 'factory': 7942, 'sickle': 7943, 'separating': 7944, 'buffalo': 7945, 'mosaic': 7946, 'cane': 7947, 'epigrams': 7948, 'convention': 7949, 'dimmed': 7950, 'adapt': 7951, 'mathematics': 7952, 'handicrafts': 7953, 'desecrated': 7954, 'grimy': 7955, 'buds': 7956, 'generosity': 7957, 'approved': 7958, 'interrupted': 7959, 'associate': 7960, 'arrives': 7961, 'acrobat': 7962, 'lutes': 7963, 'feasting': 7964, 'tresses': 7965, 'idols': 7966, 'archway': 7967, 'crack': 7968, 'visitors': 7969, 'teller': 7970, '“‘well': 7971, 'timid': 7972, 'duly': 7973, 'cough': 7974, 'bengal': 7975, 'indignantly': 7976, 'pole': 7977, 'frog': 7978, 'atalanta': 7979, 'departed': 7980, 'resource': 7981, 'sonorous': 7982, 'warrior': 7983, 'learnt': 7984, 'shaven': 7985, 'glimmer': 7986, 'flashing': 7987, 'chiselled': 7988, 'pet': 7989, '1880': 7990, 'woodlands': 7991, 'dell': 7992, 'illuminated': 7993, 'identified': 7994, 'prologue': 7995, 'petrovitch': 7996, "shan't": 7997, 'spies': 7998, 'forged': 7999, 'signed': 8000, 'traitors': 8001, 'tableau': 8002, 'committee': 8003, 'archangel': 8004, 'stealthy': 8005, 'murderer': 8006, 'treason': 8007, 'greedy': 8008, 'peacefully': 8009, 'mes': 8010, 'clogged': 8011, 'favourites': 8012, 'crushing': 8013, 'advertisement': 8014, 'belgrave': 8015, 'sunburnt': 8016, 'recommended': 8017, 'bloomsbury': 8018, 'hock': 8019, 'bureau': 8020, 'porter': 8021, 'percy': 8022, 'comic': 8023, 'verdict': 8024, 'chaff': 8025, 'death’s': 8026, 'parisian': 8027, 'moulded': 8028, 'ma': 8029, 'rent': 8030, 'relentless': 8031, 'philanthropic': 8032, 'seventeen': 8033, 'crediton': 8034, 'farmer': 8035, 'imogen': 8036, 'cleopatra': 8037, 'perusal': 8038, 'folio': 8039, 'furious': 8040, 'throb': 8041, 'grant': 8042, 'fullest': 8043, 'marlowe': 8044, 'tavern': 8045, 'wilfulness': 8046, 'treachery': 8047, 'fitting': 8048, 'renunciation': 8049, 'sistine': 8050, 'marguerite': 8051, 'inviolate': 8052, 'brittle': 8053, 'soothe': 8054, 'atones': 8055, 'hylas': 8056, '—and': 8057, 'idolatry': 8058, 'quenched': 8059, 'rainbow': 8060, 'robin': 8061, 'sightless': 8062, '’t': 8063, 'satyrs': 8064, 'slope': 8065, 'marsyas': 8066, 'rapturous': 8067, 'marks': 8068, 'bud': 8069, 'vows': 8070, 'hazel': 8071, 'milky': 8072, 'poop': 8073, 'car': 8074, 'ruth': 8075, 'steed': 8076, 'brine': 8077, 'cuts': 8078, 'existences': 8079, 'quickening': 8080, 'ripple': 8081, 'inform': 8082, 'nature’s': 8083, 'asp': 8084, 'load': 8085, 'cowslips': 8086, 'mow': 8087, 'scale': 8088, 'lisa': 8089, 'crave': 8090, 'oracles': 8091, 'ape': 8092, 'coins': 8093, 'fingering': 8094, 'guardsman': 8095, 'masquerade': 8096, 'fraud': 8097, 'madman': 8098, 'greasy': 8099, '1877': 8100, 'mocks': 8101, 'trammelled': 8102, 'managers': 8103, '1895': 8104, 'accompanies': 8105, 'prejudiced': 8106, 'defend': 8107, 'boundless': 8108, 'ornamental': 8109, 'doubted': 8110, 'jeppo': 8111, 'o’': 8112, 'woo': 8113, 'carelessly': 8114, 'tipstaff': 8115, 'worshipping': 8116, 'miscellanies': 8117, "pope's": 8118, 'solving': 8119, 'bands': 8120, 'collars': 8121, 'flounces': 8122, 'significance': 8123, 'moderately': 8124, 'combines': 8125, 'adoption': 8126, 'substitution': 8127, 'oldham': 8128, "child's": 8129, 'tombstones': 8130, 'convicted': 8131, 'irresponsible': 8132, 'conviction': 8133, 'insane': 8134, 'egg': 8135, 'zola': 8136, 'wilson': 8137, "painter's": 8138, 'pronounce': 8139, 'elliot': 8140, 'struggling': 8141, 'pedantic': 8142, 'guildenstern': 8143, "coleridge's": 8144, "'twas": 8145, 'squire': 8146, 'experienced': 8147, 'webster': 8148, 'archbishop': 8149, 'unpublished': 8150, 'cleverness': 8151, 'melodrama': 8152, 'melodramatic': 8153, 'disraeli': 8154, 'downey': 8155, 'saul': 8156, 'lurid': 8157, 'stanza': 8158, 'beranger': 8159, 'edmund': 8160, 'simile': 8161, 'sampson': 8162, 'comedie': 8163, 'preferences': 8164, 'faire': 8165, "'his": 8166, "symonds'": 8167, 'erudition': 8168, "heaven's": 8169, 'champagne': 8170, 'ernst': 8171, 'hatchards': 8172, 'ample': 8173, 'utterances': 8174, 'perception': 8175, 'tourist': 8176, 'scottish': 8177, 'richmond': 8178, "sharp's": 8179, "'mr": 8180, 'ariel': 8181, 'textures': 8182, 'largeness': 8183, 'irony': 8184, 'brightness': 8185, 'clergy': 8186, 'reverie': 8187, 'craik': 8188, 'balfour': 8189, "'thou": 8190, "ismay's": 8191, 'avec': 8192, 'femmes': 8193, 'aussi': 8194, 'margery': 8195, 'spaces': 8196, 'enriched': 8197, 'inherited': 8198, 'melos': 8199, 'tracing': 8200, "sand's": 8201, "'my": 8202, 'cope': 8203, 'belonging': 8204, 'ardours': 8205, 'stimulus': 8206, 'sydney': 8207, 'talent': 8208, 'si': 8209, 'wyke': 8210, 'croker': 8211, 'walford': 8212, 'elvira': 8213, 'wudsworth': 8214, "lady's": 8215, 'fitz': 8216, 'venetia': 8217, 'victrix': 8218, 'ouida': 8219, 'ki': 8220, 'impressionists': 8221, 'kipling': 8222, 'xli': 8223, 'te': 8224, "m'as": 8225, 'robbie': 8226, 'rosalie': 8227, 'hubbard': 8228, 'singleton': 8229, "husband's": 8230, 'pagoda': 8231, 'bearers': 8232, 'cushion': 8233, 'invitation': 8234, 'abrupt': 8235, 'recumbent': 8236, 'balls': 8237, 'tellers': 8238, 'discordant': 8239, 'hut': 8240, 'humble': 8241, 'villa': 8242, 'supports': 8243, 'erected': 8244, 'richest': 8245, 'cushions': 8246, 'bevy': 8247, 'learns': 8248, 'lanterns': 8249, 'planet': 8250, 'declare': 8251, 'erect': 8252, 'beardsley': 8253, 'transfigured': 8254, 'louise': 8255, 'lawrence': 8256, 'sorts': 8257, 'smyrna': 8258, 'defiled': 8259, 'caverns': 8260, 'arabia': 8261, 'tipped': 8262, 'incestuous': 8263, 'agate': 8264, 'languorous': 8265, 'omens': 8266, 'hurts': 8267, 'stains': 8268, 'dancers': 8269, 'minion': 8270, 'chained': 8271, 'opals': 8272, 'beryls': 8273, 'decked': 8274, 'carbuncles': 8275, 'column': 8276, 'quench': 8277, 'ledger': 8278, 'steersman': 8279, 'previously': 8280, 'thereby': 8281, 'stockings': 8282, 'genial': 8283, 'poe': 8284, 'california': 8285, 'singularly': 8286, 'behaviour': 8287, 'steam': 8288, 'turmoil': 8289, 'inordinate': 8290, 'photographed': 8291, 'superstition': 8292, 'addressing': 8293, 'peopled': 8294, 'supplied': 8295, 'fantastically': 8296, 'amelia': 8297, 'patron': 8298, 'plaster': 8299, 'supposing': 8300, 'embrace': 8301, 'chocolate': 8302, '“that': 8303, 'quotations': 8304, 'footnote': 8305, 'halls': 8306, "'poor": 8307, 'purchase': 8308, 'qualified': 8309, 'brooding': 8310, 'stillness': 8311, 'triumphantly': 8312, 'dogmatic': 8313, 'wrists': 8314, 'realize': 8315, 'bedrooms': 8316, 'gull': 8317, 'notorious': 8318, 'sceptic': 8319, 'pane': 8320, 'recalled': 8321, 'barred': 8322, 'rites': 8323, 'rubbing': 8324, 'remedy': 8325, 'idiocy': 8326, 'frighten': 8327, 'paused': 8328, 'blanched': 8329, 'writhed': 8330, 'swathed': 8331, 'safely': 8332, 'baffled': 8333, 'consulted': 8334, 'obligations': 8335, 'constructed': 8336, 'duel': 8337, 'strip': 8338, 'rufford': 8339, 'shrieked': 8340, 'strewed': 8341, 'helpless': 8342, 'culminated': 8343, 'astonishment': 8344, 'stamping': 8345, 'babies': 8346, 'hemlock': 8347, 'portals': 8348, 'sighing': 8349, 'firmly': 8350, 'footmen': 8351, 'frantic': 8352, 'tramps': 8353, 'shutters': 8354, 'swung': 8355, 'trencher': 8356, 'plainly': 8357, 'decision': 8358, 'tombstone': 8359, '1915': 8360, 'rimini': 8361, 'florid': 8362, 'traffic': 8363, 'enamel': 8364, 'luxurious': 8365, 'pinewood': 8366, 'fretted': 8367, 'dashed': 8368, 'dripped': 8369, 'lashed': 8370, 'surf': 8371, 'bubbles': 8372, 'apes': 8373, '‘give': 8374, 'faster': 8375, 'pleasaunce': 8376, 'chamberlain': 8377, '‘take': 8378, 'beggars': 8379, 'mouldering': 8380, 'arcades': 8381, 'peeped': 8382, 'aragon': 8383, 'inquisitor': 8384, 'madrid': 8385, 'secular': 8386, 'queen’s': 8387, 'bohemia': 8388, 'wedded': 8389, 'parma': 8390, 'combat': 8391, 'wires': 8392, 'guns': 8393, 'drill': 8394, 'grinning': 8395, 'restrain': 8396, 'shuts': 8397, 'gardener': 8398, 'haughty': 8399, 'elm': 8400, 'curl': 8401, 'cupids': 8402, 'stopping': 8403, 'flocks': 8404, 'beards': 8405, 'travellers': 8406, 'rippled': 8407, 'lined': 8408, 'drums': 8409, 'bartered': 8410, 'tarried': 8411, 'paved': 8412, 'kid': 8413, 'peach': 8414, 'oranges': 8415, 'trunk': 8416, 'scourge': 8417, 'stall': 8418, 'wrist': 8419, 'tortoise': 8420, 'jar': 8421, 'hook': 8422, 'loosed': 8423, 'nigher': 8424, 'fulness': 8425, 'censers': 8426, 'lieth': 8427, 'linnets': 8428, 'growled': 8429, 'whit': 8430, 'marsh': 8431, 'giveth': 8432, 'sparrows': 8433, 'weakly': 8434, 'comeliness': 8435, 'inquiry': 8436, 'crawls': 8437, 'stung': 8438, 'gleamed': 8439, 'loaded': 8440, "friend's": 8441, 'astounding': 8442, 'misunderstanding': 8443, 'boring': 8444, 'unemployed': 8445, 'moderation': 8446, 'altruism': 8447, 'scandalous': 8448, 'illiterate': 8449, 'meals': 8450, 'weapons': 8451, 'quart': 8452, 'calculating': 8453, 'activities': 8454, 'painfully': 8455, 'cowardly': 8456, 'risk': 8457, 'reliable': 8458, 'dangers': 8459, 'horizon': 8460, 'conformity': 8461, 'submission': 8462, 'aiming': 8463, 'bared': 8464, 'meddle': 8465, 'mutilation': 8466, 'unreality': 8467, 'saves': 8468, 'physiology': 8469, 'appearances': 8470, 'bric': 8471, 'brac': 8472, 'gape': 8473, 'dryads': 8474, 'destroys': 8475, 'deception': 8476, 'strive': 8477, 'excesses': 8478, 'follies': 8479, 'drown': 8480, 'arbitrary': 8481, 'orthodoxy': 8482, 'consist': 8483, 'warn': 8484, 'childhood': 8485, 'unnatural': 8486, 'solution': 8487, 'benevolence': 8488, 'dens': 8489, 'disgusting': 8490, 'economic': 8491, 'industrial': 8492, 'collective': 8493, 'rebellious': 8494, 'rates': 8495, 'socialistic': 8496, 'voluntary': 8497, "day's": 8498, 'relieved': 8499, 'obscured': 8500, 'confusing': 8501, 'citizenship': 8502, 'orb': 8503, 'assisted': 8504, 'displays': 8505, 'extremes': 8506, 'impoverished': 8507, 'repented': 8508, 'cruelly': 8509, 'diminish': 8510, 'punishes': 8511, 'morally': 8512, 'aggressive': 8513, 'employs': 8514, 'rack': 8515, 'statesman': 8516, 'revolting': 8517, 'appealed': 8518, 'suspense': 8519, 'vagrant': 8520, 'stoop': 8521, 'triple': 8522, 'farquhar': 8523, 'arbuthnot’s': 8524, 'holman': 8525, 'kelly': 8526, 'feminine': 8527, 'women’s': 8528, 'expectation': 8529, 'infamy': 8530, 'chose': 8531, 'gerald’s': 8532, 'typical': 8533, 'discovering': 8534, 'shan’t': 8535, 'maxim': 8536, 'anxiously': 8537, 'purify': 8538, 'purest': 8539, 'that’s': 8540, 'i’ve': 8541, 'disgraced': 8542, 'robbing': 8543, 'holier': 8544, 'ashby': 8545, 'siècle': 8546, 'dazed': 8547, '157': 8548, 'evinced': 8549, 'ægean': 8550, 'illumination': 8551, 'flood': 8552, 'hegel': 8553, 'ancestors': 8554, 'ranked': 8555, 'penelope': 8556, 'heritage': 8557, 'excused': 8558, 'declared': 8559, 'mortals': 8560, 'cosmopolitan': 8561, 'unimportant': 8562, 'priam': 8563, 'concludes': 8564, 'consequent': 8565, 'trojan': 8566, 'aroused': 8567, 'sided': 8568, 'l’art': 8569, 'antecedents': 8570, 'asiatic': 8571, 'citadel': 8572, 'spots': 8573, 'outset': 8574, 'relationship': 8575, 'detect': 8576, 'ascribed': 8577, 'τὸ': 8578, 'progression': 8579, 'elected': 8580, 'sentiments': 8581, 'bourne': 8582, 'harbour': 8583, 'humanism': 8584, 'facilities': 8585, 'impatient': 8586, 'surer': 8587, 'tract': 8588, 'tacitus': 8589, 'alludes': 8590, 'assisi': 8591, 'argued': 8592, '‘nothing': 8593, 'socrates': 8594, 'exposition': 8595, 'calculation': 8596, 'dictum': 8597, 'involved': 8598, 'contend': 8599, 'gibbon': 8600, 'disclose': 8601, 'flora': 8602, 'lifeless': 8603, 'colony': 8604, 'runaway': 8605, 'tribune': 8606, 'attended': 8607, 'samples': 8608, 'pervading': 8609, 'cult': 8610, 'paradoxical': 8611, 'conservative': 8612, 'excite': 8613, 'cheating': 8614, 'blend': 8615, 'allegory': 8616, 'prescience': 8617, 'antiquated': 8618, 'chaucer': 8619, 'andre': 8620, 'remoteness': 8621, 'faultless': 8622, 'quarries': 8623, 'melodies': 8624, 'dictionary': 8625, 'pulsations': 8626, 'subordination': 8627, 'surest': 8628, 'rider': 8629, 'trodden': 8630, 'tile': 8631, 'inventive': 8632, 'rien': 8633, 'fait': 8634, 'productive': 8635, 'aimlessly': 8636, 'harshness': 8637, 'whim': 8638, 'reproached': 8639, 'counting': 8640, 'preparation': 8641, 'dyer': 8642, 'restraining': 8643, 'engendered': 8644, 'surround': 8645, 'oppression': 8646, 'adapted': 8647, 'ornaments': 8648, 'millionaires': 8649, 'stolid': 8650, 'decorating': 8651, 'fashioning': 8652, 'brimmed': 8653, 'digging': 8654, 'thousands': 8655, 'designers': 8656, 'whitewashed': 8657, 'toned': 8658, 'scrubbed': 8659, 'perugia': 8660, 'goth': 8661, 'miniato': 8662, 'hound': 8663, 'exeter': 8664, 'vilest': 8665, 'cheer': 8666, 'flames': 8667, 'ray': 8668, 'pleading': 8669, 'grandes': 8670, 'gaily': 8671, 'hamlets': 8672, 'gamin': 8673, 'hapless': 8674, 'robs': 8675, 'brompton': 8676, 'endureth': 8677, 'flint': 8678, 'teacher': 8679, 'skirts': 8680, 'centaur': 8681, 'pitied': 8682, 'versions': 8683, 'glowed': 8684, 'hilt': 8685, 'miller’s': 8686, 'hit': 8687, 'sculptured': 8688, 'bath': 8689, 'phenomenon': 8690, 'shines': 8691, 'dearer': 8692, 'purchased': 8693, 'prints': 8694, 'cottage': 8695, 'sacks': 8696, 'mended': 8697, 'sack': 8698, 'ditch': 8699, 'aurora': 8700, 'drawer': 8701, 'prominent': 8702, 'uncommon': 8703, 'heaved': 8704, 'glee': 8705, 'vault': 8706, 'questionings': 8707, 'fragrance': 8708, 'constancy': 8709, 'cottages': 8710, 'barges': 8711, 'lipped': 8712, 'dewy': 8713, 'quest': 8714, 'jagged': 8715, 'mellow': 8716, 'threat': 8717, 'pitiful': 8718, 'heeled': 8719, 'outer': 8720, 'greeting': 8721, 'nightingales': 8722, 'dawns': 8723, 'twain': 8724, 'stoddart': 8725, 'x': 8726, 'luxe': 8727, 'dated': 8728, 'editing': 8729, 'omitted': 8730, "gutenberg's": 8731, 'maraloffski': 8732, 'nicholas': 8733, 'siberia': 8734, 'purse': 8735, 'unmask': 8736, 'conspirator': 8737, 'omnes': 8738, 'gaining': 8739, 'progresses': 8740, 'shrugging': 8741, 'degenerated': 8742, 'mademoiselle': 8743, 'interrupting': 8744, 'spendthrift': 8745, 'emperors': 8746, 'absent': 8747, 'prisoned': 8748, 'insert': 8749, '‘your': 8750, '‘good': 8751, '‘ah': 8752, 'pompous': 8753, 'arthur’s': 8754, 'framed': 8755, 'waiter': 8756, 'apologies': 8757, 'fun': 8758, 'licence': 8759, 'reggie': 8760, 'schoolroom': 8761, 'ingenious': 8762, 'anew': 8763, 'deceased': 8764, '‘poor': 8765, 'daresay': 8766, 'tories': 8767, 'inconnue': 8768, 'cumnor': 8769, 'seltzer': 8770, 'informs': 8771, 'corroborated': 8772, 'establish': 8773, 'concluding': 8774, 'woes': 8775, 'feigned': 8776, 'merriment': 8777, 'devote': 8778, 'cemetery': 8779, 'resigned': 8780, '1878': 8781, 'wildest': 8782, 'gaping': 8783, 'surmise': 8784, 'reapers': 8785, 'dye': 8786, 'requiem': 8787, 'sylvan': 8788, 'flits': 8789, 'vestiture': 8790, 'empery': 8791, 'naiad': 8792, 'flakes': 8793, 'stride': 8794, 'streaked': 8795, 'pilgrimage': 8796, 'sheaves': 8797, 'gaped': 8798, 'sullen': 8799, 'salamis': 8800, 'ford': 8801, 'bard': 8802, 'chased': 8803, 'steeds': 8804, 'mix': 8805, 'voiceless': 8806, 'piping': 8807, 'thrilling': 8808, 'griffin': 8809, 'horrors': 8810, 'trimmed': 8811, 'flanks': 8812, 'violins': 8813, 'oily': 8814, 'silky': 8815, 'shard': 8816, 'triton': 8817, 'laburnum': 8818, 'satyr': 8819, 'fishes': 8820, 'trooping': 8821, 'watery': 8822, 'tangles': 8823, 'ellen': 8824, 'anthony': 8825, 'delights': 8826, 'buries': 8827, 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'affections': 8941, 'reproducing': 8942, 'mastered': 8943, 'considers': 8944, 'sonnenschein': 8945, 'caine': 8946, "writers'": 8947, "dickens's": 8948, 'dash': 8949, 'primers': 8950, 'keener': 8951, 'perdita': 8952, 'promptly': 8953, "we'll": 8954, 'demetrius': 8955, 'commits': 8956, 'tiff': 8957, 'processes': 8958, "'not": 8959, 'wilhelmine': 8960, 'shallowness': 8961, 'windsor': 8962, 'naturalism': 8963, 'personification': 8964, 'distinctions': 8965, "'o": 8966, 'aeneid': 8967, 'cobden': 8968, "n'est": 8969, 'chattering': 8970, "hadn't": 8971, 'kent': 8972, 'fragrant': 8973, 'frequent': 8974, 'occupations': 8975, 'glowing': 8976, 'cadences': 8977, 'xv': 8978, 'burgundy': 8979, 'medicis': 8980, 'aimed': 8981, 'roi': 8982, "n'y": 8983, 'englishwoman': 8984, 'marvels': 8985, 'crawford': 8986, 'smouse': 8987, 'hindu': 8988, 'undergraduate': 8989, 'giles': 8990, 'appreciations': 8991, 'fluid': 8992, 'dogma': 8993, 'béranger': 8994, 'swinburne’s': 8995, 'there’s': 8996, '‘art': 8997, 'comédie': 8998, 'browning’s': 8999, 'sand’s': 9000, 'fortnightly': 9001, 'kottabos': 9002, 'ta': 9003, 'tes': 9004, "lad's": 9005, 'iso': 9006, '646': 9007, 'richly': 9008, 'revelations': 9009, 'blinding': 9010, 'grouped': 9011, 'vases': 9012, 'inscribed': 9013, 'groups': 9014, 'tom': 9015, 'hue': 9016, 'stalls': 9017, 'casting': 9018, 'invites': 9019, 'verify': 9020, 'signifies': 9021, 'cigar': 9022, 'pensive': 9023, 'refuses': 9024, 'fitted': 9025, 'drooping': 9026, 'mythical': 9027, 'advances': 9028, 'douglas': 9029, '2013': 9030, 'unsuccessful': 9031, 'cordially': 9032, 'owing': 9033, 'palpable': 9034, 'catalogue': 9035, "else's": 9036, 'parade': 9037, 'responsible': 9038, "tetrarch's": 9039, 'prays': 9040, 'rejoice': 9041, 'devour': 9042, 'narraboth': 9043, 'clusters': 9044, 'galilee': 9045, 'delicious': 9046, 'camel': 9047, 'submit': 9048, 'saviour': 9049, 'harlot': 9050, 'vineyards': 9051, 'restoration': 9052, 'worms': 9053, 'loosen': 9054, 'moonstones': 9055, 'turquoises': 9056, 'scared': 9057, 'pledge': 9058, 'leans': 9059, 'darting': 9060, 'curses': 9061, 'lily’s': 9062, 'hoping': 9063, '14th': 9064, 'newdigate': 9065, 'plenty': 9066, 'namely': 9067, '“a': 9068, '17th': 9069, 'lectured': 9070, 'plea': 9071, 'reginald': 9072, 'trains': 9073, 'waked': 9074, 'sensibility': 9075, 'niagara': 9076, 'mackintosh': 9077, 'borders': 9078, 'locke': 9079, 'restaurant': 9080, 'miners': 9081, 'whisky': 9082, 'imported': 9083, 'mischievous': 9084, 'necktie': 9085, '“will': 9086, 'oiling': 9087, 'successive': 9088, 'peerage': 9089, 'ascot': 9090, 'fern': 9091, 'rooks': 9092, 'admiring': 9093, 'precede': 9094, 'fanny': 9095, 'slippers': 9096, 'uttering': 9097, 'tennis': 9098, 'pillows': 9099, 'shouts': 9100, 'reformed': 9101, 'crash': 9102, 'indigestion': 9103, 'fury': 9104, 'clammy': 9105, 'hissed': 9106, 'palsy': 9107, 'nightmare': 9108, 'bleached': 9109, 'schoolboys': 9110, 'panes': 9111, 'falchion': 9112, 'sped': 9113, 'apartment': 9114, 'posture': 9115, 'chanticleer': 9116, 'consequences': 9117, 'expedition': 9118, 'poker': 9119, 'bloodless': 9120, 'apoplexy': 9121, 'keyholes': 9122, 'sandwich': 9123, 'falter': 9124, 'boom': 9125, 'hallo': 9126, 'illumine': 9127, 'wales': 9128, 'copse': 9129, 'heirlooms': 9130, 'trip': 9131, 'objections': 9132, 'snared': 9133, 'hunters': 9134, 'physician': 9135, 'deathbed': 9136, 'noting': 9137, 'panels': 9138, 'pacing': 9139, 'jasmine': 9140, 'warp': 9141, 'rides': 9142, 'diver': 9143, 'panting': 9144, 'weighed': 9145, 'slime': 9146, '‘will': 9147, 'rein': 9148, 'knit': 9149, 'stiffly': 9150, 'embalmed': 9151, 'englishmen': 9152, 'alliance': 9153, 'sounding': 9154, 'wicker': 9155, 'benches': 9156, 'coup': 9157, 'cleared': 9158, 'mechanically': 9159, 'african': 9160, 'wedge': 9161, 'swaying': 9162, 'whirled': 9163, 'gipsy': 9164, 'stumbled': 9165, 'merrily': 9166, 'aback': 9167, '‘certainly': 9168, 'incessant': 9169, 'hopping': 9170, 'nests': 9171, 'caps': 9172, 'hawks': 9173, 'grape': 9174, 'glossy': 9175, 'gilding': 9176, 'stag': 9177, 'magnificence': 9178, 'dappled': 9179, 'festooned': 9180, 'petit': 9181, 'bella': 9182, 'swim': 9183, 'masts': 9184, 'swimming': 9185, 'steered': 9186, 'slippery': 9187, 'sink': 9188, 'oftentimes': 9189, 'plaited': 9190, '‘tell': 9191, 'leman': 9192, 'blessing': 9193, 'sailing': 9194, '‘then': 9195, '‘come': 9196, 'waggons': 9197, 'dwellers': 9198, 'craftsmen': 9199, 'porcelain': 9200, '“let': 9201, '‘so': 9202, 'glide': 9203, 'nard': 9204, 'nail': 9205, 'hollowed': 9206, 'palms': 9207, 'planted': 9208, 'approached': 9209, 'swayed': 9210, 'napkin': 9211, 'bottles': 9212, 'rested': 9213, 'awoke': 9214, 'escapes': 9215, 'explanations': 9216, 'willows': 9217, 'stooping': 9218, 'child’s': 9219, '‘have': 9220, 'frown': 9221, 'squirrel': 9222, 'mildew': 9223, 'clattered': 9224, 'humphreys': 9225, 'indiscretion': 9226, 'indiscreet': 9227, 'letting': 9228, 'uncertainty': 9229, 'realities': 9230, 'fourths': 9231, 'microscope': 9232, 'crinoline': 9233, 'hypocrite': 9234, 'utopia': 9235, 'outrage': 9236, 'flattered': 9237, 'radically': 9238, 'engagements': 9239, 'insincerity': 9240, 'multiply': 9241, 'concentrate': 9242, 'destruction': 9243, 'rationally': 9244, 'detested': 9245, 'chef': 9246, 'gravest': 9247, 'culminate': 9248, 'dowdy': 9249, 'sows': 9250, 'inexperienced': 9251, 'rebel': 9252, 'rely': 9253, 'intellects': 9254, 'helps': 9255, 'pretending': 9256, 'uncivilised': 9257, 'rewarded': 9258, 'bankrupt': 9259, 'altars': 9260, 'furnish': 9261, "'les": 9262, 'drawback': 9263, "'let": 9264, 'acrobats': 9265, 'praxiteles': 9266, 'vesture': 9267, 'instant': 9268, 'tank': 9269, 'epos': 9270, 'sequence': 9271, 'fabric': 9272, 'defeat': 9273, 'believing': 9274, 'elevating': 9275, 'mentally': 9276, 'secrecy': 9277, 'salvation': 9278, 'average': 9279, 'involve': 9280, 'guise': 9281, 'hates': 9282, 'straw': 9283, 'bruno': 9284, 'renunciations': 9285, 'tissues': 9286, 'juno': 9287, 'intends': 9288, 'repeats': 9289, 'imploring': 9290, 'impulses': 9291, 'degrades': 9292, 'operation': 9293, 'tyrannies': 9294, 'pulpit': 9295, 'possessions': 9296, 'enormously': 9297, 'worry': 9298, 'pauperism': 9299, 'legislation': 9300, 'abolished': 9301, 'utopian': 9302, 'conclusions': 9303, 'burlesque': 9304, 'selects': 9305, 'apologise': 9306, 'orchid': 9307, 'inability': 9308, 'temporal': 9309, 'brutality': 9310, 'pump': 9311, 'constrain': 9312, 'impede': 9313, 'oblige': 9314, 'arbiter': 9315, 'iago': 9316, 'vatican': 9317, 'cardinals': 9318, 'obscene': 9319, 'egotistic': 9320, 'entirety': 9321, 'consumption': 9322, 'welcomes': 9323, 'pontefract': 9324, 'julia': 9325, 'kelso': 9326, 'concealing': 9327, 'allude': 9328, 'allows': 9329, '—that': 9330, 'curates': 9331, 'chaps': 9332, 'puritans': 9333, 'challenge': 9334, 'beforehand': 9335, 'remarkably': 9336, 'variations': 9337, 'cooks': 9338, 'noticing': 9339, 'examination': 9340, 'refining': 9341, 'partridge': 9342, 'inconstant': 9343, 'impertinence': 9344, 'guided': 9345, 'alternative': 9346, 'mastery': 9347, 'sneers': 9348, 'thanked': 9349, 'relying': 9350, 'berkeley': 9351, 'equipped': 9352, 'attains': 9353, 'empirical': 9354, 'estimation': 9355, 'orthodox': 9356, 'dilettante': 9357, 'myths': 9358, 'homer’s': 9359, 'pioneer': 9360, 'olympus': 9361, 'universality': 9362, 'instructive': 9363, 'acknowledges': 9364, 'eighty': 9365, 'vividly': 9366, 'rationalist': 9367, 'chronicler': 9368, 'naval': 9369, 'insignificant': 9370, 'necessitate': 9371, 'unit': 9372, 'symbolism': 9373, 'capture': 9374, '37': 9375, 'inventions': 9376, 'maine': 9377, 'proverbs': 9378, '43': 9379, 'germ': 9380, 'requisite': 9381, 'affords': 9382, 'varying': 9383, 'fortunes': 9384, 'continuous': 9385, 'physics': 9386, 'syracuse': 9387, 'inconsistency': 9388, 'haunting': 9389, 'exemplifying': 9390, 'renders': 9391, 'unlimited': 9392, 'resulted': 9393, 'enable': 9394, 'drapeau': 9395, 'commonwealth': 9396, 'stability': 9397, 'divisions': 9398, 'tocqueville': 9399, 'expounded': 9400, 'implicit': 9401, 'commend': 9402, 'mahomet': 9403, 'founding': 9404, 'fertile': 9405, 'apollo’s': 9406, 'inviolable': 9407, 'inclination': 9408, 'comprehensive': 9409, 'tabulated': 9410, 'avowedly': 9411, 'holiest': 9412, 'glimmering': 9413, 'springing': 9414, 'ionian': 9415, 'widened': 9416, 'particulars': 9417, 'ritual': 9418, 'liber': 9419, 'mourned': 9420, 'reflects': 9421, 'brother’s': 9422, 'elemental': 9423, 'splendours': 9424, 'unauthorised': 9425, 'intricacy': 9426, 'measureless': 9427, 'awkwardness': 9428, 'regeneration': 9429, 'nous': 9430, 'blackfriars': 9431, 'conventional': 9432, 'théophile': 9433, 'controlling': 9434, 'unattainable': 9435, 'castaly': 9436, 'absorption': 9437, 'glorify': 9438, 'materialistic': 9439, 'titian': 9440, 'borrowing': 9441, 'lorenzo': 9442, 'clearer': 9443, 'traverse': 9444, 'product': 9445, 'roadside': 9446, 'affinity': 9447, 'supervision': 9448, 'liberal': 9449, 'empires': 9450, 'leopards': 9451, 'dividing': 9452, 'lightened': 9453, 'unspoiled': 9454, 'sanctify': 9455, 'corinthian': 9456, 'encouragement': 9457, 'eventide': 9458, 'earnestly': 9459, 'shaded': 9460, 'assume': 9461, 'furnishing': 9462, 'workshop': 9463, 'decorations': 9464, 'whirls': 9465, 'desecrate': 9466, 'expanse': 9467, 'tintoret': 9468, 'fortress': 9469, 'physique': 9470, 'smirking': 9471, 'universities': 9472, 'oar': 9473, 'pope’s': 9474, 'castles': 9475, 'pretence': 9476, 'cloister': 9477, 'arched': 9478, 'nineteen': 9479, 'handled': 9480, 'heroism': 9481, 'gorgon': 9482, 'valueless': 9483, 'excuses': 9484, 'leighton': 9485, 'cloisters': 9486, 'hoary': 9487, 'steadfast': 9488, 'summit': 9489, 'specialist': 9490, 'dames': 9491, 'argot': 9492, 'atelier': 9493, 'veteran': 9494, 'patiently': 9495, 'apotheosis': 9496, 'soap': 9497, 'underground': 9498, 'mathematical': 9499, 'proprietors': 9500, 'clowns': 9501, 'forgave': 9502, 'oreads': 9503, 'devils': 9504, 'eleventh': 9505, 'suffice': 9506, 'xvi': 9507, 'resembled': 9508, '“ah': 9509, 'moth': 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'sherry': 9629, 'freckled': 9630, 'tatters': 9631, 'velasquez': 9632, 'jove': 9633, 'gustave': 9634, 'chatterton': 9635, 'lighting': 9636, 'chambers': 9637, 'hews': 9638, 'flaw': 9639, 'etched': 9640, 'splashed': 9641, 'concession': 9642, 'expanded': 9643, 'overlooked': 9644, 'dionysos': 9645, 'froth': 9646, 'sheets': 9647, 'xx': 9648, 'polish': 9649, 'massacre': 9650, 'italia': 9651, 'lune': 9652, 'harlot’s': 9653, 'wingèd': 9654, 'ravine': 9655, 'senseless': 9656, 'milton’s': 9657, 'dolorous': 9658, 'lightening': 9659, 'wed': 9660, 'hesperus': 9661, 'discrowned': 9662, 'weaves': 9663, 'fresher': 9664, 'spied': 9665, 'retinue': 9666, 'time’s': 9667, 'curtained': 9668, 'alps': 9669, 'twining': 9670, 'autumn’s': 9671, 'adown': 9672, 'fra': 9673, 'leas': 9674, 'linden': 9675, 'cuckoo': 9676, 'unfamiliar': 9677, 'hedges': 9678, 'prodigal': 9679, 'marge': 9680, 'leafy': 9681, 'sober': 9682, 'niobe': 9683, 'rabbit': 9684, 'rill': 9685, 'hark': 9686, 'shoon': 9687, 'clomb': 9688, 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'lolling': 10253, 'struggled': 10254, 'gulls': 10255, 'dart': 10256, 'ribbed': 10257, 'mermaids': 10258, 'bossy': 10259, 'baskets': 10260, '‘alas': 10261, 'smelling': 10262, 'alack': 10263, 'storms': 10264, '‘go': 10265, 'hoofs': 10266, 'sulphurous': 10267, 'bayed': 10268, 'spasm': 10269, 'tartars': 10270, '‘at': 10271, 'lamb’s': 10272, 'scaled': 10273, 'syria': 10274, 'waxed': 10275, 'crescents': 10276, 'slanting': 10277, '‘love': 10278, 'koran': 10279, 'leopard': 10280, 'strew': 10281, 'marvelled': 10282, 'hastened': 10283, 'lances': 10284, 'lidded': 10285, 'turbaned': 10286, 'jars': 10287, 'dazzled': 10288, 'couldst': 10289, 'tithe': 10290, 'purses': 10291, 'evilly': 10292, 'bridal': 10293, 'changeling': 10294, 'shivered': 10295, 'parentage': 10296, 'afflicted': 10297, 'mole': 10298, 'drave': 10299, 'brackish': 10300, 'bringest': 10301, 'sore': 10302, 'rescued': 10303, "they're": 10304, 'governed': 10305, 'multiform': 10306, 'remotest': 10307, 'advising': 10308, 'heralds': 10309, 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'della': 10794, 'dei': 10795, 'phèdre': 10796, '158': 10797, 'tuileries': 10798, 'panneau': 10799, 'ballons': 10800, 'canzonet': 10801, 'watchmen': 10802, 'honied': 10803, 'hewn': 10804, 'harshly': 10805, 'loth': 10806, 'ida': 10807, 'victories': 10808, 'goodlier': 10809, 'colonos': 10810, 'lowing': 10811, 'arisen': 10812, 'wrestled': 10813, 'waxen': 10814, 'factories': 10815, '—he': 10816, 'deathless': 10817, 'warfare': 10818, 'palsied': 10819, 'gat': 10820, 'blooming': 10821, 'lordliest': 10822, 'giovanni': 10823, 'bawling': 10824, 'carols': 10825, 'bursting': 10826, 'elegy': 10827, 'fringe': 10828, 'stem': 10829, 'wharf': 10830, 'hornèd': 10831, 'unravished': 10832, 'ambuscade': 10833, 'lengthening': 10834, 'nocturne': 10835, 'loitered': 10836, 'aboard': 10837, 'brook': 10838, 'seeded': 10839, 'bower': 10840, 'hoisted': 10841, 'broideries': 10842, 'ravenous': 10843, 'lyres': 10844, 'blinking': 10845, 'ripening': 10846, 'deemed': 10847, 'neat': 10848, 'straggling': 10849, 'argosies': 10850, 'overbold': 10851, 'dipping': 10852, 'lullaby': 10853, 'glassy': 10854, 'crownèd': 10855, 'hued': 10856, 'spouse': 10857, 'herds': 10858, 'oaten': 10859, 'would’st': 10860, 'backward': 10861, 'chambering': 10862, 'raptures': 10863, 'ken': 10864, 'straining': 10865, 'aerial': 10866, 'athwart': 10867, 'isabella': 10868, 'sae': 10869, 'argosy': 10870, 'heated': 10871, 'eastward': 10872, 'richard’s': 10873, 'scentless': 10874, 'toils': 10875, 'balm': 10876, 'stretches': 10877, 'snap': 10878, 'velvets': 10879, 'thrice': 10880, 'prudent': 10881, 'chuck': 10882, 'capitol': 10883, 'fates': 10884, 'loathes': 10885, 'chastened': 10886, 'symmetry': 10887, 'pity’s': 10888, 'staunch': 10889, 'throstle': 10890, 'tree’s': 10891, 'petalled': 10892, 'withers': 10893, 'leviathan': 10894, 'archaic': 10895, 'berkshire': 10896, 'garish': 10897, 'sheriff': 10898, 'gloats': 10899, 'ticks': 10900, 'thongs': 10901, 'caiaphas': 10902, 'fleeces': 10903, 'peek': 10904, 'murderer’s': 10905, 'gin': 10906, 'slouch': 10907, 'floors': 10908, 'rails': 10909, 'soaped': 10910, 'pails': 10911, 'sewed': 10912, 'banged': 10913, 'bawled': 10914, 'watchers': 10915, 'padlocked': 10916, 'corse': 10917, 'sponge': 10918, 'savour': 10919, 'lame': 10920, 'sidled': 10921, 'leer': 10922, 'sliding': 10923, 'sweats': 10924, 'downcast': 10925, 'gouts': 10926, 'uniforms': 10927, 'spick': 10928, 'quicklime': 10929, 'seedling': 10930, 'unreproachful': 10931, 'kindlier': 10932, 'pebble': 10933, 'unholy': 10934, 'lampless': 10935, 'bricks': 10936, 'blur': 10937, 'flog': 10938, 'latrine': 10939, 'weigh': 10940, 'radiance': 10941, 'gaston': 10942, 'minstrel': 10943, 'leonard': 10944, '885': 10945, 'lewis': 10946, 'waller': 10947, 'watteau': 10948, 'genially': 10949, 'poses': 10950, 'corots': 10951, 'shares': 10952, 'commissioners': 10953, 'jaded': 10954, 'uphold': 10955, 'taunt': 10956, 'irrevocable': 10957, 'lounging': 10958, 'pillory': 10959, 'gospels': 10960, 'disarm': 10961, 'guessed': 10962, 'luncheon': 10963, 'dressmaker': 10964, 'brancaster': 10965, 'clubs': 10966, 'needlework': 10967, 'triviality': 10968, 'attentively': 10969, 'settlement': 10970, 'gulf': 10971, 'sentimentality': 10972, 'inarticulate': 10973, 'electric': 10974, 'oratory': 10975, 'womanly': 10976, 'vacant': 10977, 'newcastle': 10978, 'petrucci': 10979, 'ungenerous': 10980, 'raw': 10981, 'restrains': 10982, 'seizing': 10983, 'dulled': 10984, 'builded': 10985, 'pronounced': 10986, 'precedent': 10987, 'demanded': 10988, 'simultaneously': 10989, 'management': 10990, 'transmuted': 10991, 'accompany': 10992, 'enlarged': 10993, 'dazzle': 10994, 'oxen': 10995, 'casts': 10996, 'weekly': 10997, 'pales': 10998, "murderer's": 10999, 'coventry': 11000, 'ac': 11001, 'uk': 11002, 'revised': 11003, 'mostly': 11004, 'carnegie': 11005, 'mellon': 11006, 'lists': 11007, 'major': 11008, 'link': 11009, 'curve': 11010, 'leda': 11011, 'silliness': 11012, 'prescribed': 11013, 'monstrosity': 11014, 'adaptation': 11015, 'rippling': 11016, 'retained': 11017, 'labels': 11018, 'super': 11019, 'wearer': 11020, 'realizes': 11021, 'grandfathers': 11022, 'rains': 11023, 'correspondent': 11024, 'athletes': 11025, "sailor's": 11026, 'manufacturing': 11027, 'posthumous': 11028, 'milieu': 11029, 'civilization': 11030, 'prigs': 11031, 'baltimore': 11032, 'steamer': 11033, 'strangers': 11034, 'newton': 11035, 'memorial': 11036, 'reliefs': 11037, 'biscuits': 11038, 'galleries': 11039, 'practised': 11040, 'inhuman': 11041, 'reverse': 11042, 'diet': 11043, 'discipline': 11044, 'mills': 11045, 'hysterical': 11046, 'bloated': 11047, 'beaconsfield': 11048, 'distrusted': 11049, 'talkers': 11050, 'cheese': 11051, 'powerfully': 11052, 'unrhymed': 11053, "irving's": 11054, 'ado': 11055, 'straits': 11056, 'jets': 11057, 'macaulay': 11058, 'meadowsweet': 11059, 'raffalovich': 11060, 'trisyllable': 11061, 'whitechapel': 11062, 'henceforth': 11063, 'replaced': 11064, 'elocution': 11065, 'manages': 11066, 'tawdry': 11067, "'from": 11068, 'esmond': 11069, 'romola': 11070, 'dryden': 11071, 'contributes': 11072, 'proctor': 11073, 'youthful': 11074, 'edmonds': 11075, 'honeycomb': 11076, 'trubner': 11077, "zola's": 11078, 'presenting': 11079, 'cherry': 11080, 'archibald': 11081, 'sententious': 11082, 'sussex': 11083, 'solomon': 11084, 'matrimony': 11085, 'saintsbury': 11086, 'comparing': 11087, 'shoots': 11088, 'ledos': 11089, 'beaufort': 11090, 'longs': 11091, 'fils': 11092, 'armstrong': 11093, 'myrrha': 11094, 'rhymer': 11095, "'twixt": 11096, 'ribs': 11097, 'cameron': 11098, 'pirated': 11099, "'la": 11100, 'provence': 11101, 'dimensions': 11102, 'fastidious': 11103, 'dogmas': 11104, 'alma': 11105, 'orchestra': 11106, 'handmaidens': 11107, 'spenser': 11108, 'designing': 11109, 'essentials': 11110, "'are": 11111, 'animated': 11112, 'agrees': 11113, 'cesar': 11114, 'birotteau': 11115, 'langeais': 11116, 'manville': 11117, 'penniless': 11118, 'heck': 11119, 'alchemist': 11120, 'drummond': 11121, 'hawthornden': 11122, 'heywood': 11123, 'seeker': 11124, 'testament': 11125, "arnold's": 11126, 'lee': 11127, 'profusely': 11128, 'eric': 11129, 'interminable': 11130, 'backgrounds': 11131, 'policy': 11132, "'go": 11133, 'threatened': 11134, 'bologna': 11135, 'protestant': 11136, 'linton': 11137, 'jeremy': 11138, 'archaisms': 11139, 'graver': 11140, 'parable': 11141, "knight's": 11142, 'horne': 11143, "'so": 11144, 'consult': 11145, 'capabilities': 11146, 'provocation': 11147, 'frenzy': 11148, 'prefixed': 11149, 'injured': 11150, 'rhyming': 11151, 'conspicuous': 11152, 'compiled': 11153, 'untouched': 11154, 'sculptors': 11155, 'miranda': 11156, 'stapfer': 11157, 'moliere': 11158, 'meme': 11159, 'placing': 11160, 'tartuffe': 11161, 'gosse': 11162, 'anecdotes': 11163, 'lexicographer': 11164, 'saga': 11165, 'selections': 11166, 'tourgenieff': 11167, 'differs': 11168, 'mulholland': 11169, 'vizetelly': 11170, 'arrowsmith': 11171, 'personage': 11172, 'pseudonym': 11173, 'rally': 11174, 'blinds': 11175, 'saunders': 11176, 'skating': 11177, 'mantegna': 11178, 'bewilder': 11179, 'brasenose': 11180, 'genre': 11181, 'scamp': 11182, 'hepburn': 11183, 'elders': 11184, 'christina': 11185, 'maintained': 11186, 'intoxicated': 11187, 'frances': 11188, 'norton': 11189, 'eliza': 11190, 'juliana': 11191, 'label': 11192, 'characterisation': 11193, 'sterility': 11194, 'colleges': 11195, 'lucian': 11196, 'scraps': 11197, "bowen's": 11198, 'eclogues': 11199, 'vainly': 11200, 'bellairs': 11201, 'confine': 11202, 'sparrow': 11203, 'prophecies': 11204, 'spuller': 11205, 'boileau': 11206, 'jamais': 11207, 'grands': 11208, 'warnings': 11209, 'pleases': 11210, 'consummate': 11211, 'talker': 11212, 'shameless': 11213, 'accidentally': 11214, 'ark': 11215, 'pins': 11216, 'leaven': 11217, 'etudes': 11218, 'souvenirs': 11219, 'obiter': 11220, 'dicta': 11221, 'defiant': 11222, 'hilary': 11223, 'dicky': 11224, 'havers': 11225, 'purifies': 11226, 'fulfil': 11227, 'transcript': 11228, 'jubilee': 11229, 'duffy': 11230, 'terrifies': 11231, 'matron': 11232, 'coercion': 11233, 'hypothesis': 11234, 'pausanias': 11235, 'architects': 11236, 'zanzibar': 11237, 'unshaken': 11238, 'cent': 11239, 'doings': 11240, 'masson': 11241, 'chiefs': 11242, 'phrased': 11243, "lefebure's": 11244, 'edged': 11245, 'fabrics': 11246, 'palermo': 11247, 'muslins': 11248, 'flax': 11249, 'carnation': 11250, 'lacis': 11251, 'squares': 11252, 'colbert': 11253, 'cheapness': 11254, "nesbit's": 11255, 'clarence': 11256, 'angular': 11257, 'loiter': 11258, 'afterglow': 11259, "gordon's": 11260, 'gum': 11261, 'wattle': 11262, "c'est": 11263, 'coldness': 11264, 'sanguine': 11265, 'thistles': 11266, 'habakkuk': 11267, 'worldly': 11268, 'doctrinaire': 11269, 'queer': 11270, 'enforce': 11271, 'reasoned': 11272, 'bookseller': 11273, 'survey': 11274, 'gambling': 11275, 'locker': 11276, 'condensed': 11277, 'thyrsis': 11278, "sister's": 11279, 'staggering': 11280, 'transformed': 11281, 'wilmot': 11282, 'davis': 11283, 'wordsworthiana': 11284, "wi'": 11285, "'because": 11286, 'cressy': 11287, 'elsmere': 11288, "country's": 11289, '1884': 11290, 'ramabai': 11291, 'strangest': 11292, 'contraries': 11293, 'utilitarian': 11294, 'unrivalled': 11295, 'preference': 11296, 'symonds’': 11297, 'monte': 11298, 'houghton’s': 11299, 'margin': 11300, 'correction': 11301, '’s': 11302, 'recognized': 11303, 'rubempré': 11304, 'stevenson': 11305, 'lefébure’s': 11306, 'trop': 11307, 'troubles': 11308, 'manifestation': 11309, 'vie': 11310, 'corps': 11311, 'beau': 11312, "houghton's": 11313, 'incompetent': 11314, 'reprints': 11315, 'criticising': 11316, 'xlvii': 11317, 'manor': 11318, 'cucumber': 11319, 'sandwiches': 11320, 'glares': 11321, 'luggage': 11322, 'christenings': 11323, "cardew's": 11324, 'forster': 11325, 'regarder': 11326, 'blanc': 11327, 'peut': 11328, 'dit': 11329, "d'argent": 11330, 'maintenant': 11331, 'pourquoi': 11332, 'ton': 11333, 'sneered': 11334, 'bain': 11335, 'lorton': 11336, 'isaacs': 11337, 'quincey': 11338, 'quatorze': 11339, 'illusionist': 11340, 'brandon': 11341, "dorian's": 11342, "basil's": 11343, 'devereux': 11344, 'shutting': 11345, 'laboratory': 11346, 'ruxton': 11347, 'hetty': 11348, '23229': 11349, 'introductory': 11350, 'barrister': 11351, 'acknowledging': 11352, 'outcome': 11353, 'bathing': 11354, 'countless': 11355, 'dazzling': 11356, 'hip': 11357, 'loong': 11358, 'finance': 11359, 'followers': 11360, 'proudly': 11361, "years'": 11362, 'sweeps': 11363, 'fastened': 11364, 'enclosed': 11365, 'backwards': 11366, 'commands': 11367, 'flare': 11368, 'trappings': 11369, 'trays': 11370, 'tolls': 11371, 'veritable': 11372, 'willing': 11373, 'cucumbers': 11374, 'rugs': 11375, 'crows': 11376, 'descends': 11377, 'ruler': 11378, 'entreats': 11379, 'wrinkles': 11380, 'unearthly': 11381, 'motions': 11382, 'turf': 11383, 'perched': 11384, 'courses': 11385, 'consternation': 11386, 'plumage': 11387, 'mortally': 11388, 'nears': 11389, 'implored': 11390, 'thrusting': 11391, 'feasts': 11392, 'spire': 11393, 'illustrator': 11394, '42704': 11395, 'naaman': 11396, 'rehearsal': 11397, 'ollendorff': 11398, 'artisan': 11399, 'susceptibilities': 11400, 'rhetorical': 11401, 'motifs': 11402, 'poë': 11403, 'théâtre': 11404, 'role': 11405, 'sarcey': 11406, 'pleaded': 11407, 'misrepresentation': 11408, 'toilette': 11409, '13th': 11410, 'ralph': 11411, 'vincent': 11412, 'bernhard': 11413, 'barbarians': 11414, 'begone': 11415, 'perfumed': 11416, 'writhing': 11417, 'persians': 11418, 'bite': 11419, 'liest': 11420, 'insulting': 11421, 'verily': 11422, 'nevertheless': 11423, 'yea': 11424, 'speakest': 11425, 'cappadocia': 11426, 'oaths': 11427, 'myrtles': 11428, 'grains': 11429, 'tend': 11430, 'furthermore': 11431, 'wanders': 11432, 'nacre': 11433, 'floods': 11434, '41806': 11435, 'stalk': 11436, 'æstheticism': 11437, 'cousins': 11438, 'tittle': 11439, '“mr': 11440, 'interviewer': 11441, 'kentucky': 11442, 'adelphi': 11443, 'offspring': 11444, 'max': 11445, 'ruskin’s': 11446, '7th': 11447, 'favourable': 11448, 'tickets': 11449, 'reduce': 11450, 'salisbury': 11451, 'disappointments': 11452, 'rail': 11453, 'blotting': 11454, 'mexico': 11455, 'rice': 11456, 'tabernacle': 11457, 'biblical': 11458, 'benvenuto': 11459, 'mortality': 11460, 'pianists': 11461, 'executed': 11462, 'miner': 11463, 'switzerland': 11464, 'prairie': 11465, 'shifted': 11466, 'supercilious': 11467, 'processions': 11468, 'tinged': 11469, 'bilton': 11470, 'discharged': 11471, 'pellets': 11472, 'coaches': 11473, 'hiram': 11474, 'punctilious': 11475, 'dampier': 11476, 'noises': 11477, 'valuation': 11478, 'prima': 11479, 'enterprising': 11480, 'amazon': 11481, 'guardians': 11482, 'knolls': 11483, 'panelled': 11484, 'tourists': 11485, 'fainted': 11486, 'emigration': 11487, 'joining': 11488, 'drawl': 11489, 'awakened': 11490, 'feverish': 11491, 'efficacious': 11492, 'dashing': 11493, 'housemaids': 11494, 'carp': 11495, 'bexley': 11496, 'chameleon': 11497, 'detached': 11498, 'californian': 11499, 'shriek': 11500, 'glared': 11501, 'agitation': 11502, 'frilled': 11503, 'gibber': 11504, 'stifling': 11505, 'twisting': 11506, 'chuckled': 11507, 'hasty': 11508, 'onlie': 11509, 'foiled': 11510, 'naughty': 11511, 'unmolested': 11512, 'hogley': 11513, 'rupert': 11514, 'barbara': 11515, 'inches': 11516, 'proceeding': 11517, 'frightening': 11518, 'jaw': 11519, 'impersonations': 11520, 'dirt': 11521, 'guineas': 11522, 'paralytic': 11523, 'distantly': 11524, 'sieur': 11525, 'vampire': 11526, "year's": 11527, 'cavalier': 11528, 'brockley': 11529, 'forlorn': 11530, 'rattle': 11531, 'reds': 11532, 'indigo': 11533, 'navy': 11534, 'huntsmen': 11535, 'blinked': 11536, 'inspectors': 11537, 'cologne': 11538, 'folding': 11539, 'mourner': 11540, 'spending': 11541, 'winters': 11542, 'monetary': 11543, 'toys': 11544, 'suburbs': 11545, 'involuntary': 11546, 'refusal': 11547, 'enervating': 11548, '873': 11549, '147': 11550, 'goatherd': 11551, 'saddle': 11552, 'knotted': 11553, 'chafe': 11554, 'sickness': 11555, 'voyages': 11556, 'worshipper': 11557, 'behalf': 11558, 'log': 11559, 'submitted': 11560, 'artificers': 11561, 'lazuli': 11562, 'fluted': 11563, 'looming': 11564, 'weavers': 11565, 'battens': 11566, 'sewing': 11567, '‘our': 11568, 'grind': 11569, 'sodden': 11570, 'rowed': 11571, 'arabs': 11572, 'dried': 11573, 'grabbled': 11574, 'cactus': 11575, 'dipped': 11576, 'trotting': 11577, 'habited': 11578, 'shaggy': 11579, 'abasement': 11580, 'caravans': 11581, 'gnaw': 11582, 'vial': 11583, 'incense': 11584, 'apparelled': 11585, 'monstrance': 11586, 'stalks': 11587, 'fluttered': 11588, 'cracked': 11589, 'aureole': 11590, 'granada': 11591, 'sadder': 11592, 'practices': 11593, 'reina': 11594, 'governs': 11595, 'betrothed': 11596, 'nuncio': 11597, 'bereft': 11598, 'abdicated': 11599, 'dominions': 11600, 'edict': 11601, 'netherlands': 11602, 'revolted': 11603, 'moue': 11604, 'longest': 11605, 'javelins': 11606, 'hind': 11607, 'bravo': 11608, 'toro': 11609, 'liveries': 11610, 'shriller': 11611, 'bounds': 11612, 'zithers': 11613, 'nod': 11614, 'chaunting': 11615, 'burners': 11616, 'nuts': 11617, 'hunch': 11618, 'vulgarising': 11619, 'orchards': 11620, 'jerkins': 11621, 'barefooted': 11622, 'pedestals': 11623, 'prettier': 11624, 'chandelier': 11625, 'tabouret': 11626, 'clumps': 11627, 'irises': 11628, 'patterned': 11629, 'dotted': 11630, 'screens': 11631, 'applauded': 11632, 'sobs': 11633, 'sauntered': 11634, 'ropes': 11635, 'corks': 11636, 'depart': 11637, 'dolphins': 11638, 'sunken': 11639, 'backs': 11640, 'tusks': 11641, 'tunny': 11642, '‘thy': 11643, 'clipped': 11644, 'sieve': 11645, 'whining': 11646, 'bats': 11647, 'wrestling': 11648, 'pear': 11649, 'runner': 11650, 'howls': 11651, 'baked': 11652, 'crocodile': 11653, 'sycamore': 11654, 'sidon': 11655, 'bulls': 11656, 'yellows': 11657, 'antimony': 11658, '‘after': 11659, 'combed': 11660, '“is': 11661, '“or': 11662, 'smeared': 11663, 'seest': 11664, 'cased': 11665, 'roofed': 11666, 'bazaar': 11667, 'brazier': 11668, 'caged': 11669, 'circassian': 11670, 'arcade': 11671, 'alabaster': 11672, 'eunuchs': 11673, 'scimitar': 11674, 'mid': 11675, 'ranged': 11676, 'wines': 11677, 'vinegar': 11678, 'swooned': 11679, 'gavest': 11680, 'avails': 11681, 'mayest': 11682, 'disks': 11683, 'feeds': 11684, 'weet': 11685, 'lustily': 11686, 'bundle': 11687, 'leaved': 11688, 'sorely': 11689, 'graved': 11690, 'thistle': 11691, 'daggers': 11692, 'released': 11693, 'testing': 11694, '33979': 11695, 'pretended': 11696, 'fibres': 11697, 'legacies': 11698, 'amuses': 11699, 'negative': 11700, 'foils': 11701, 'terrors': 11702, 'plenitude': 11703, 'contradictory': 11704, 'doublets': 11705, 'prevents': 11706, 'moralises': 11707, 'assertive': 11708, 'poisoner': 11709, 'improper': 11710, 'wholeness': 11711, 'sincerest': 11712, 'cowards': 11713, 'persistently': 11714, 'weaker': 11715, 'pessimism': 11716, 'equanimity': 11717, 'dictates': 11718, 'exercising': 11719, 'tolerant': 11720, 'sphinxes': 11721, 'cheats': 11722, 'busied': 11723, 'instantly': 11724, 'detriment': 11725, 'habitual': 11726, 'occasional': 11727, 'communistic': 11728, 'perfections': 11729, 'emancipated': 11730, 'occupies': 11731, 'singleness': 11732, 'intensifies': 11733, 'waltz': 11734, 'promissory': 11735, 'stagnate': 11736, 'grossest': 11737, 'moulding': 11738, 'invested': 11739, 'prate': 11740, 'tends': 11741, 'ont': 11742, 'faithfulness': 11743, 'merest': 11744, 'pun': 11745, 'attractions': 11746, 'gallop': 11747, 'imitations': 11748, "thyself'": 11749, 'absurdity': 11750, 'fragile': 11751, 'deliberation': 11752, 'dulls': 11753, 'deceive': 11754, 'weakest': 11755, 'experimenting': 11756, 'forte': 11757, 'assumes': 11758, 'animalism': 11759, 'psychologists': 11760, "ruskin's": 11761, 'canvases': 11762, 'divides': 11763, 'defiance': 11764, 'relieve': 11765, 'owners': 11766, 'tramping': 11767, 'converting': 11768, 'substituting': 11769, 'insure': 11770, 'authoritarian': 11771, 'partial': 11772, 'atom': 11773, 'prefers': 11774, 'paralysing': 11775, 'alight': 11776, 'feudalism': 11777, 'socialist': 11778, 'imaginatively': 11779, 'debarred': 11780, 'mommsen': 11781, 'resists': 11782, 'aurelius': 11783, 'worried': 11784, 'philistinism': 11785, 'dwellings': 11786, 'northward': 11787, 'signify': 11788, 'expended': 11789, 'selecting': 11790, 'damien': 11791, 'oligarchies': 11792, 'rewards': 11793, 'manufacturer': 11794, 'enjoying': 11795, 'reduction': 11796, 'diplomas': 11797, 'conditioned': 11798, 'barricade': 11799, 'reigns': 11800, 'retail': 11801, 'compete': 11802, 'dictating': 11803, 'receptivity': 11804, 'vigorously': 11805, "thackeray's": 11806, 'interpretative': 11807, 'hideousness': 11808, 'papacy': 11809, 'bribe': 11810, 'signification': 11811, 'acquiesces': 11812, 'spontaneously': 11813, 'prevalent': 11814, 'thebaid': 11815, 'pulpits': 11816, 'entails': 11817, '854': 11818, '1919': 11819, 'lessee': 11820, 'th': 11821, 'clark': 11822, 'suggesting': 11823, 'arduous': 11824, 'sheltered': 11825, 'matches': 11826, 'recreations': 11827, 'shrugs': 11828, 'gratification': 11829, 'fence': 11830, 'button': 11831, 'compel': 11832, 'renew': 11833, 'unhappiness': 11834, 'attract': 11835, 'reproaches': 11836, 'continuing': 11837, 'barriers': 11838, 'purer': 11839, 'branded': 11840, 'punish': 11841, 'dowagers': 11842, 'exposure': 11843, 'fearfully': 11844, 'irritably': 11845, 'comforting': 11846, 'hallowed': 11847, 'nurture': 11848, 'womanhood': 11849, 'saving': 11850, 'bedside': 11851, 'proposition': 11852, 'deference': 11853, 'fin': 11854, 'snatches': 11855, '774': 11856, 'paltry': 11857, 'parsley': 11858, 'wittiest': 11859, 'awarded': 11860, 'revising': 11861, 'innovation': 11862, 'resultant': 11863, 'pyramids': 11864, 'indissolubly': 11865, 'mingled': 11866, 'jour': 11867, 'chronological': 11868, 'aryan': 11869, 'encouraging': 11870, 'founders': 11871, 'contest': 11872, 'insolence': 11873, 'und': 11874, 'tiberius': 11875, 'mercenary': 11876, 'investigations': 11877, 'roland': 11878, 'scruple': 11879, 'aided': 11880, 'reappear': 11881, 'fable': 11882, 'manifested': 11883, 'hailed': 11884, 'glimpse': 11885, 'fabulous': 11886, 'cyrus': 11887, '63': 11888, 'notwithstanding': 11889, 'assertions': 11890, 'crusade': 11891, 'preconceived': 11892, 'prerogative': 11893, 'æschylus': 11894, 'deluge': 11895, 'elucidation': 11896, 'boeotia': 11897, 'scientifically': 11898, 'notion': 11899, 'accounted': 11900, 'linguistic': 11901, 'labours': 11902, 'aristotle’s': 11903, 'independence': 11904, 'polity': 11905, 'olympian': 11906, 'tylor': 11907, 'spontaneity': 11908, 'resemble': 11909, 'epidemic': 11910, 'vagueness': 11911, 'deduce': 11912, 'fichte': 11913, 'predict': 11914, 'categories': 11915, 'vegetable': 11916, 'elevation': 11917, 'timocracy': 11918, 'episodes': 11919, 'needless': 11920, '57': 11921, 'proximity': 11922, 'attainments': 11923, 'temperate': 11924, 'counteraction': 11925, 'opposing': 11926, 'theoretical': 11927, 'locomotion': 11928, 'instability': 11929, 'applicability': 11930, 'moneyed': 11931, 'homogeneous': 11932, 'evolutions': 11933, 'thucydidean': 11934, 'differentiated': 11935, 'montesquieu': 11936, 'effeminacy': 11937, 'legality': 11938, 'employing': 11939, 'uplands': 11940, 'superstitions': 11941, 'allied': 11942, 'prevention': 11943, '—for': 11944, 'investigator': 11945, 'generalise': 11946, 'aristotelian': 11947, 'overlooking': 11948, 'ascribe': 11949, '81': 11950, 'sample': 11951, 'botanist': 11952, 'punning': 11953, 'sparta': 11954, 'rhodes': 11955, 'lade': 11956, 'stuffed': 11957, '86': 11958, 'phalaris': 11959, 'locrian': 11960, 'locrians': 11961, 'sallust': 11962, 'chop': 11963, 'shorthand': 11964, 'debates': 11965, 'claudius': 11966, 'uprising': 11967, 'marius': 11968, 'rightful': 11969, 'arid': 11970, 'exponent': 11971, 'prodigy': 11972, 'abnormal': 11973, 'cithæron': 11974, 'birthplace': 11975, 'epaminondas': 11976, 'eclipses': 11977, 'epicurus': 11978, 'ordering': 11979, 'minerva': 11980, 'demeter': 11981, 'pontifical': 11982, 'antiquarians': 11983, 'aristocratic': 11984, 'via': 11985, 'unrolls': 11986, 'remus': 11987, 'mending': 11988, 'mammoth': 11989, 'woolly': 11990, 'rhinoceros': 11991, 'meed': 11992, 'catchwords': 11993, 'predominates': 11994, 'bastille': 11995, 'emile': 11996, 'werther': 11997, 'transcendentalism': 11998, 'displaced': 11999, 'crookedness': 12000, 'vileness': 12001, 'harming': 12002, 'diverse': 12003, 'clique': 12004, 'paros': 12005, 'metres': 12006, 'rondel': 12007, 'elaborated': 12008, 'agitating': 12009, 'poe’s': 12010, 'salutary': 12011, 'pamphlet': 12012, 'migrate': 12013, 'wanderers': 12014, 'rubens': 12015, 'cavalcade': 12016, 'communicable': 12017, 'healing': 12018, 'c’est': 12019, 'sublimity': 12020, 'armada': 12021, 'mistaking': 12022, 'fraternity': 12023, 'absorbing': 12024, 'inalienable': 12025, 'presiding': 12026, 'divina': 12027, 'spanned': 12028, 'hector': 12029, 'accustoming': 12030, 'shopman': 12031, 'buying': 12032, 'tendrils': 12033, 'adornment': 12034, 'regardless': 12035, 'cavaliers': 12036, 'fossils': 12037, 'correggio': 12038, 'attuned': 12039, 'vanish': 12040, 'secured': 12041, 'children’s': 12042, 'salesman': 12043, 'unsightly': 12044, 'bankers': 12045, 'graduated': 12046, 'advertisements': 12047, 'sonata': 12048, 'harrowing': 12049, 'grandest': 12050, 'impose': 12051, 'gymnasium': 12052, 'decorator': 12053, 'inlaying': 12054, 'painter’s': 12055, 'merchant’s': 12056, 'goblet': 12057, 'bat': 12058, 'levels': 12059, 'subdue': 12060, 'decorous': 12061, 'lineaments': 12062, 'reducing': 12063, 'pisano': 12064, 'clashing': 12065, 'gorgonian': 12066, 'arno’s': 12067, 'gower': 12068, 'category': 12069, 'quickness': 12070, 'nuance': 12071, 'naturalistic': 12072, 'postscript': 12073, 'distances': 12074, 'bedford': 12075, 'omnibuses': 12076, 'towing': 12077, 'baths': 12078, 'appreciates': 12079, 'blatant': 12080, 'costumier': 12081, 'artificiality': 12082, 'masquerading': 12083, 'doer': 12084, 'desolation': 12085, 'smear': 12086, 'suck': 12087, 'robbeth': 12088, 'forthwith': 12089, 'δ’': 12090, 'inaccuracy': 12091, '123': 12092, '902': 12093, 'fearing': 12094, 'slender': 12095, '“when': 12096, 'daytime': 12097, 'memnon': 12098, 'garret': 12099, 'desk': 12100, 'furs': 12101, 'baker': 12102, '“good': 12103, '“for': 12104, 'evermore': 12105, 'stringed': 12106, 'sunbeam': 12107, 'bluebells': 12108, 'wilder': 12109, 'giant’s': 12110, 'cornish': 12111, '“now': 12112, '“they': 12113, 'flower’s': 12114, 'nodded': 12115, 'envious': 12116, '“‘good': 12117, '“‘oh': 12118, 'unfriendly': 12119, '“oh': 12120, 'finland': 12121, 'doubled': 12122, 'pyrotechnist': 12123, 'dearly': 12124, 'cracker': 12125, 'reflect': 12126, 'balloon': 12127, 'whizz': 12128, 'deputation': 12129, 'watering': 12130, 'croaking': 12131, 'quack': 12132, 'plough': 12133, 'industries': 12134, 'residence': 12135, 'explode': 12136, '35903': 12137, 'andrea': 12138, 'portland': 12139, 'coliseum': 12140, 'lanuvium': 12141, 'disillusion': 12142, 'bibliographical': 12143, 'guerriers': 12144, 'romantique': 12145, 'font': 12146, 'vers': 12147, 'draughtsmanship': 12148, 'liken': 12149, 'straying': 12150, 'fitfully': 12151, 'fleeting': 12152, 'ressemblent': 12153, 'être': 12154, 'twilights': 12155, 'sportive': 12156, 'oleanders': 12157, 'hillsides': 12158, 'tip': 12159, "angel's": 12160, 'fades': 12161, 'rift': 12162, "earth's": 12163, 'awning': 12164, 'mound': 12165, 'gust': 12166, 'lightnings': 12167, 'brightens': 12168, 'shelves': 12169, 'shrouded': 12170, 'odes': 12171, 'guides': 12172, "sea's": 12173, 'dews': 12174, 'untold': 12175, 'softer': 12176, 'deepen': 12177, 'chime': 12178, "wind's": 12179, 'foaming': 12180, "fisherman's": 12181, 'hoist': 12182, 'bays': 12183, 'darker': 12184, 'noontide': 12185, 'shrines': 12186, 'laboured': 12187, 'unsung': 12188, '12mo': 12189, '115': 12190, 'cream': 12191, '221': 12192, '42': 12193, 'édition': 12194, '250': 12195, 'cheaper': 12196, 'consumed': 12197, 'conceded': 12198, '26494': 12199, 'ivan': 12200, 'poivrard': 12201, 'tut': 12202, 'horseback': 12203, 'revenged': 12204, 'recite': 12205, 'secretly': 12206, 'disguised': 12207, 'bravest': 12208, 'proclaimed': 12209, 'strangling': 12210, "paul's": 12211, 'priestess': 12212, 'brethren': 12213, 'martyrdoms': 12214, '35': 12215, 'salad': 12216, 'sauce': 12217, 'excitedly': 12218, "majesty's": 12219, 'cursing': 12220, 'assassin': 12221, 'ridden': 12222, "hasn't": 12223, 'cutting': 12224, 'gibbet': 12225, 'væ': 12226, 'den': 12227, 'messieurs': 12228, 'estates': 12229, 'abuses': 12230, 'civilized': 12231, 'regicide': 12232, 'medley': 12233, 'patriot': 12234, 'flogging': 12235, 'applaud': 12236, 'ribbon': 12237, 'kotemk': 12238, 'murderers': 12239, 'settles': 12240, 'bends': 12241, 'openly': 12242, 'vestured': 12243, "lover's": 12244, "'prince": 12245, '773': 12246, 'savile’s': 12247, '65': 12248, 'radicals': 12249, 'donna': 12250, 'usurps': 12251, 'tattered': 12252, 'attorney': 12253, 'grace’s': 12254, 'bayswater': 12255, 'scolding': 12256, 'flared': 12257, 'gait': 12258, 'railings': 12259, 'riband': 12260, 'inexpressibly': 12261, 'rustics': 12262, 'betrayal': 12263, 'buckingham': 12264, 'sybil’s': 12265, 'actuated': 12266, 'aconitine': 12267, 'certificate': 12268, 'norwegian': 12269, 'astonished': 12270, 'surbiton': 12271, 'yacht': 12272, 'sheaf': 12273, 'condolence': 12274, 'miniatures': 12275, 'directory': 12276, 'lodgings': 12277, 'blurred': 12278, 'ormolu': 12279, 'boudoir': 12280, 'irreligious': 12281, '—do': 12282, 'bulky': 12283, 'temporary': 12284, 'impostor': 12285, 'actresses': 12286, 'virginia’s': 12287, 'shabbiness': 12288, 'gioconda': 12289, 'indefinable': 12290, 'unapproachable': 12291, 'finishing': 12292, 'leant': 12293, '‘has': 12294, '‘did': 12295, 'crabbed': 12296, 'yachting': 12297, 'evenings': 12298, 'vernon': 12299, 'misprint': 12300, 'alluding': 12301, 'outlive': 12302, 'hughes’s': 12303, 'chapman’s': 12304, 'authentic': 12305, 'extending': 12306, 'night’s': 12307, 'beget': 12308, 'beauty’s': 12309, 'reliance': 12310, 'darkening': 12311, 'war’s': 12312, 'lxxxvii': 12313, 'blushes': 12314, 'prompt': 12315, 'knell': 12316, '1613': 12317, 'token': 12318, 'lessing': 12319, 'antinous': 12320, 'convince': 12321, 'enthralled': 12322, 'hôtel': 12323, '1057': 12324, 'hélas': 12325, 'bulgaria': 12326, 'gratia': 12327, 'plena': 12328, 'unvisited': 12329, 'æterna': 12330, 'iræ': 12331, 'tenebris': 12332, 'mia': 12333, 'itys': 12334, '136': 12335, '143': 12336, '146': 12337, '149': 12338, 'arno': 12339, 'fabien': 12340, 'franchi': 12341, 'camma': 12342, 'panthea': 12343, '161': 12344, 'amoris': 12345, 'vitæ': 12346, 'humanitad': 12347, '211': 12348, 'throated': 12349, 'afghan': 12350, 'flapped': 12351, 'clasp': 12352, 'pageantry': 12353, 'demagogues': 12354, 'flaunt': 12355, 'crownless': 12356, 'straitened': 12357, 'herakles': 12358, '—but': 12359, 'anemone': 12360, 'scorch': 12361, 'dian': 12362, 'chalices': 12363, 'shimmering': 12364, 'woodbine': 12365, 'whorls': 12366, 'dares': 12367, 'jacinth': 12368, 'proserpina': 12369, 'cynthia': 12370, 'fruitless': 12371, 'radiant': 12372, 'mightily': 12373, 'tuneful': 12374, 'enchantment': 12375, 'thrall': 12376, 'usurper': 12377, 'chides': 12378, 'bagley': 12379, 'blackbird': 12380, 'blindworm': 12381, 'adon': 12382, 'visage': 12383, 'corncrake': 12384, 'unmown': 12385, 'virginal': 12386, 'danae': 12387, 'roma': 12388, 'journeying': 12389, 'fiesole': 12390, 'apennines': 12391, 'cycles': 12392, 'garnered': 12393, 'peoples': 12394, 'mario': 12395, 'necks': 12396, 'bruise': 12397, 'baal': 12398, 'slumberous': 12399, 'flaming': 12400, 'untimely': 12401, 'vales': 12402, 'lethæan': 12403, 'planets': 12404, 'mitred': 12405, 'beanfields': 12406, 'starlit': 12407, 'mown': 12408, 'grumbling': 12409, 'frets': 12410, 'nuneham': 12411, 'poets’': 12412, 'advocate': 12413, 'clan': 12414, 'bacchus': 12415, 'ashtaroth': 12416, 'sheds': 12417, 'enna': 12418, 'despondent': 12419, 'dells': 12420, 'cotes': 12421, 'clang': 12422, 'wasting': 12423, 'ply': 12424, 'helice': 12425, 'jessamine': 12426, 'trader': 12427, 'comb': 12428, 'drip': 12429, 'deeming': 12430, 'undid': 12431, 'musicless': 12432, 'hungering': 12433, 'towered': 12434, 'passion’s': 12435, 'knoll': 12436, 'shady': 12437, 'breathless': 12438, 'wantonly': 12439, 'stack': 12440, 'swain': 12441, 'sleek': 12442, 'ouzel': 12443, 'whistling': 12444, 'mates': 12445, 'ocean’s': 12446, 'marking': 12447, 'helmsman': 12448, 'hoots': 12449, 'dank': 12450, 'hymettus': 12451, 'eared': 12452, 'poseidon’s': 12453, 'timorous': 12454, 'ebbing': 12455, 'austerity': 12456, 'holocaust': 12457, 'pastures': 12458, 'chilly': 12459, 'frogs': 12460, 'plumaged': 12461, 'berried': 12462, 'thievish': 12463, 'swelled': 12464, 'amaryllis': 12465, 'verdant': 12466, 'archèd': 12467, 'slake': 12468, 'dismal': 12469, 'furrow': 12470, 'wain': 12471, 'mows': 12472, '—alas': 12473, 'moonless': 12474, 'weighs': 12475, 'thrushes': 12476, 'timidly': 12477, 'lyre’s': 12478, 'hades': 12479, 'morte': 12480, 'sister’s': 12481, 'sophokles': 12482, 'peak': 12483, 'should’st': 12484, 'ganymede': 12485, 'fritillaries': 12486, 'mingle': 12487, 'kings’': 12488, 'lackey': 12489, 'nooks': 12490, 'pasture': 12491, 'beaded': 12492, 'carnations': 12493, 'response': 12494, 'servitor': 12495, 'alchemy': 12496, '—no': 12497, 'mnemosyne': 12498, 'athena’s': 12499, 'effete': 12500, 'giotto’s': 12501, 'tripod': 12502, 'unlawful': 12503, 'stiffened': 12504, '—this': 12505, 'springtime': 12506, 'builds': 12507, 'flap': 12508, 'elms': 12509, 'slimy': 12510, 'slink': 12511, 'sarcophagus': 12512, 'prone': 12513, 'strains': 12514, 'hale': 12515, 'crucifix': 12516, 'memoriam': 12517, 'trooper': 12518, 'fellow’s': 12519, 'trailed': 12520, 'witless': 12521, 'worldlings': 12522, 'sprite': 12523, 'rigadoon': 12524, 'mop': 12525, 'rout': 12526, 'pirouettes': 12527, 'oho': 12528, 'antics': 12529, 'frolicked': 12530, 'waltzed': 12531, 'mincing': 12532, 'demirep': 12533, 'fawning': 12534, 'filthy': 12535, 'grope': 12536, 'swerve': 12537, 'parricide': 12538, 'hems': 12539, 'gibe': 12540, 'chokes': 12541, 'crank': 12542, 'costliest': 12543, 'contrite': 12544, 'christ’s': 12545, 'heave': 12546, 'giotto': 12547, 'wast': 12548, 'vent': 12549, 'warring': 12550, 'warriors': 12551, '1141': 12552, 'smithers': 12553, '1899': 12554, 'anonymously': 12555, 'intervening': 12556, '116': 12557, '129': 12558, '1031': 12559, '77': 12560, 'neckties': 12561, 'garter': 12562, 'caversham’s': 12563, 'ladies’': 12564, 'fraudulent': 12565, 'hungarian': 12566, 'you—': 12567, 'you—and': 12568, 'ivories': 12569, 'yields': 12570, 'airily': 12571, 'cipher': 12572, 'settling': 12573, 'sacrificing': 12574, 'agricultural': 12575, 'inverness': 12576, 'retires': 12577, 'unexpected': 12578, 'burying': 12579, 'debate': 12580, 'guiltless': 12581, 'flirtation': 12582, 'disarmed': 12583, 'examines': 12584, 'determination': 12585, 'adjoining': 12586, 'unexpectedly': 12587, 'hereditary': 12588, 'tyne': 12589, '875': 12590, 'adulterous': 12591, 'palate': 12592, 'strips': 12593, 'grip': 12594, 'miser': 12595, 'heretic': 12596, 'knaves': 12597, 'dominick': 12598, 'what’s': 12599, 'whip': 12600, 'sirs': 12601, 'cresset': 12602, 'confines': 12603, 'willed': 12604, 'mistook': 12605, 'firmament': 12606, 'michaelmas': 12607, 'outlaw': 12608, 'untrammelled': 12609, 'courtesies': 12610, 'wavering': 12611, 'ills': 12612, 'usher': 12613, 'gusty': 12614, 'pietro': 12615, 'raging': 12616, 'drought': 12617, 'agonies': 12618, '1308': 12619, 'mentioning': 12620, 'harmonise': 12621, 'contrived': 12622, 'bankruptcy': 12623, 'misrepresentations': 12624, 'composing': 12625, 'entrusted': 12626, 'ahab': 12627, 'pharaoh': 12628, 'boatmen': 12629, 'lamented': 12630, 'unicorn': 12631, 'cilicia': 12632, 'spinning': 12633, 'dingy': 12634, 'thoughtless': 12635, 'stammering': 12636, 'prying': 12637, 'dreamers': 12638, 'pliant': 12639, '301': 12640, 'anniversary': 12641, "hangman's": 12642, 'ftp': 12643, 'nominally': 12644, 'sites': 12645, 'collections': 12646, 'equivalent': 12647, 'machines': 12648, 'lesser': 12649, 'leffler': 12650, 'busk': 12651, 'constrained': 12652, 'edgeworth': 12653, 'tortures': 12654, 'slightness': 12655, 'stoutness': 12656, 'diminishing': 12657, 'souffrir': 12658, 'mundus': 12659, 'conveniently': 12660, 'respiration': 12661, 'clog': 12662, 'ankle': 12663, 'superfluities': 12664, '1640': 12665, 'supple': 12666, 'consults': 12667, "godwin's": 12668, 'passably': 12669, 'totus': 12670, 'tags': 12671, 'revived': 12672, 'discomfort': 12673, 'announces': 12674, 'props': 12675, 'visibly': 12676, 'disregard': 12677, 'reappears': 12678, 'beaming': 12679, 'brigand': 12680, 'gainers': 12681, "delmonico's": 12682, 'vestry': 12683, 'mendacity': 12684, 'engage': 12685, 'staccato': 12686, 'exclamations': 12687, 'seclusion': 12688, 'inexperience': 12689, 'censuring': 12690, 'vaults': 12691, 'stumbling': 12692, 'preacher': 12693, 'strigil': 12694, 'phidian': 12695, 'honorary': 12696, 'introduces': 12697, 'portraiture': 12698, 'busts': 12699, 'marvellously': 12700, '42104': 12701, 'feeding': 12702, 'nursing': 12703, 'allotted': 12704, 'resolution': 12705, '14240': 12706, 'friendly': 12707, 'identifying': 12708, 'totally': 12709, 'salmis': 12710, 'ortolans': 12711, 'mutton': 12712, 'pepper': 12713, 'petersburg': 12714, 'roumania': 12715, 'truffles': 12716, 'dumas': 12717, 'bombay': 12718, 'curry': 12719, 'epicure': 12720, 'potato': 12721, 'elsinore': 12722, 'profitable': 12723, 'skilled': 12724, 'drury': 12725, 'overcrowded': 12726, 'furlong': 12727, 'knocker': 12728, 'synonyms': 12729, 'girton': 12730, "'on": 12731, 'lumpy': 12732, 'exponents': 12733, 'bouquet': 12734, "hamlet's": 12735, 'overshadowed': 12736, 'hurst': 12737, 'blackett': 12738, 'katherine': 12739, 'keble': 12740, 'archaeological': 12741, 'degrees': 12742, 'akin': 12743, 'vicar': 12744, 'annexes': 12745, 'posed': 12746, 'coombe': 12747, 'arden': 12748, 'necessitated': 12749, 'harmonised': 12750, 'amateurs': 12751, 'vezin': 12752, "campbell's": 12753, 'quotes': 12754, 'chancellor': 12755, 'bismarck': 12756, 'pull': 12757, 'cellars': 12758, 'abominable': 12759, 'blackmailing': 12760, 'remington': 12761, 'mandeville': 12762, 'marco': 12763, 'polo': 12764, 'figurines': 12765, 'excellently': 12766, 'slade': 12767, 'evangelist': 12768, 'poncy': 12769, 'dissections': 12770, 'extravagances': 12771, 'wicklow': 12772, 'appended': 12773, 'tennysonian': 12774, 'allen': 12775, 'hopkins': 12776, "'oh": 12777, "hero's": 12778, 'machinations': 12779, 'griffith': 12780, 'promenades': 12781, 'archeologiques': 12782, 'babbling': 12783, 'landlady': 12784, "l'air": 12785, 'triumphant': 12786, 'nos': 12787, 'beaux': 12788, 'vu': 12789, 'leurs': 12790, 'carabas': 12791, 'conventionality': 12792, 'corsican': 12793, 'crudity': 12794, 'cargo': 12795, 'hushaby': 12796, 'gilliflower': 12797, 'redway': 12798, 'avoided': 12799, 'hecuba': 12800, 'wolfe': 12801, 'badenoch': 12802, 'exclaims': 12803, 'adams': 12804, 'exaggerates': 12805, 'photography': 12806, 'perdues': 12807, 'fictions': 12808, 'muzzle': 12809, 'scullions': 12810, 'pere': 12811, 'goriot': 12812, 'reduces': 12813, "'well": 12814, "'grand": 12815, "statesman's": 12816, "'english": 12817, 'worthies': 12818, 'biographers': 12819, 'boswell': 12820, 'genesis': 12821, "'after": 12822, 'intricacies': 12823, 'fragmentary': 12824, 'hop': 12825, 'irwin': 12826, 'renderings': 12827, 'strictly': 12828, "jones's": 12829, 'misprints': 12830, 'canterbury': 12831, 'broughton': 12832, 'godfrey': 12833, 'daylesford': 12834, 'eckstein': 12835, 'peninsula': 12836, 'appreciative': 12837, 'marino': 12838, 'periphrases': 12839, 'autobiographical': 12840, 'walker': 12841, 'sententia': 12842, "'by": 12843, 'etchings': 12844, "chatterton's": 12845, 'imperfection': 12846, "'had": 12847, 'immortals': 12848, 'amends': 12849, 'preferring': 12850, 'thorough': 12851, 'skipsey': 12852, 'schoolmaster': 12853, 'bloweth': 12854, 'carter': 12855, 'nude': 12856, 'canto': 12857, 'calendars': 12858, 'chronicling': 12859, 'elegant': 12860, 'aeneas': 12861, 'thankful': 12862, 'nivalis': 12863, 'wadsworth': 12864, 'psalm': 12865, "'were": 12866, "apollo's": 12867, 'dogmatism': 12868, 'chandler': 12869, 'campaign': 12870, 'append': 12871, 'baroness': 12872, 'ramsay': 12873, 'arabella': 12874, 'grevel': 12875, 'edification': 12876, 'disregarded': 12877, 'memoir': 12878, 'watts': 12879, 'unmusical': 12880, 'embroiderers': 12881, 'norse': 12882, 'damsels': 12883, 'athene': 12884, 'coherence': 12885, 'vania': 12886, 'garth': 12887, 'gun': 12888, "bayle's": 12889, 'channel': 12890, 'homburg': 12891, 'cashmere': 12892, 'perks': 12893, 'pendant': 12894, 'cairns': 12895, 'storck': 12896, 'steeped': 12897, 'affluence': 12898, 'carl': 12899, 'responsive': 12900, 'raoul': 12901, 'misunderstandings': 12902, 'gardner': 12903, 'beguiling': 12904, 'agnes': 12905, 'glasgow': 12906, 'wordsworthian': 12907, 'inspires': 12908, 'braes': 12909, "'they": 12910, "margravine's": 12911, 'privations': 12912, 'apostolic': 12913, 'margrave': 12914, 'amiss': 12915, 'czarina': 12916, 'hof': 12917, 'hebrew': 12918, 'decayed': 12919, 'corresponded': 12920, 'tragedie': 12921, 'marian': 12922, 'matchless': 12923, 'baillie': 12924, 'thrale': 12925, 'dialogues': 12926, 'snub': 12927, 'dufferin': 12928, 'katharine': 12929, 'russell': 12930, 'guy': 12931, 'twentieth': 12932, 'autonomy': 12933, 'extinct': 12934, 'downwards': 12935, 'aristophanes': 12936, 'imperialism': 12937, 'commented': 12938, 'flippant': 12939, 'patches': 12940, 'grieved': 12941, 'otherwhere': 12942, 'thereto': 12943, 'bole': 12944, 'disclosure': 12945, 'bowen': 12946, 'naden': 12947, 'perch': 12948, "somerville's": 12949, 'waverley': 12950, 'bisons': 12951, 'irishman': 12952, "craik's": 12953, 'lui': 12954, 'healthiest': 12955, "'il": 12956, 'elle': 12957, 'ici': 12958, 'sens': 12959, 'societe': 12960, 'respectful': 12961, "'will": 12962, 'desirous': 12963, 'demeanour': 12964, "stokes's": 12965, 'missionaries': 12966, 'cong': 12967, 'ardagh': 12968, 'rath': 12969, 'archaeologists': 12970, 'aspiration': 12971, 'revivals': 12972, 'kells': 12973, 'engraven': 12974, 'hamper': 12975, 'voulu': 12976, 'denmark': 12977, 'pippa': 12978, 'plots': 12979, 'joan': 12980, 'curriculum': 12981, 'dressmaking': 12982, 'hildesheimer': 12983, 'faulkner': 12984, 'clair': 12985, 'districts': 12986, 'concerts': 12987, 'corkran': 12988, 'blackie': 12989, "folks'": 12990, 'dalziel': 12991, 'harald': 12992, 'buchan': 12993, 'affliction': 12994, 'thornton': 12995, 'canute': 12996, "ne'er": 12997, "'take": 12998, 'corinne': 12999, 'godolphin': 13000, 'professions': 13001, 'lids': 13002, 'millingen': 13003, 'apteros': 13004, 'precisely': 13005, 'mesket': 13006, 'consisted': 13007, 'schesade': 13008, "moments'": 13009, "robinson's": 13010, 'preston': 13011, 'inexpensive': 13012, 'hayes': 13013, 'tarsus': 13014, 'nash': 13015, 'faubourg': 13016, 'consuelo': 13017, 'antediluvian': 13018, 'airy': 13019, 'fielding': 13020, 'bourget': 13021, 'ian': 13022, 'hadji': 13023, 'catty': 13024, 'todhunter': 13025, 'natives': 13026, 'morine': 13027, 'engraving': 13028, 'engravings': 13029, 'opus': 13030, 'anglicanum': 13031, '800': 13032, 'danish': 13033, 'bayeux': 13034, 'zoroaster': 13035, 'constantinople': 13036, 'saracens': 13037, 'discs': 13038, 'etienne': 13039, 'antioch': 13040, 'portuguese': 13041, 'cluny': 13042, 'needles': 13043, 'palmates': 13044, 'depicted': 13045, 'edges': 13046, 'medallions': 13047, 'embroiderer': 13048, 'textile': 13049, 'boucher': 13050, '1527': 13051, 'pierre': 13052, 'transition': 13053, 'gobelins': 13054, 'francs': 13055, 'commendable': 13056, 'grieve': 13057, 'furze': 13058, 'persistent': 13059, 'hawthorne': 13060, 'walworth': 13061, 'rondeaus': 13062, "henley's": 13063, 'rhythms': 13064, 'pastels': 13065, 'jottings': 13066, 'hiss': 13067, 'toyokuni': 13068, 'flirted': 13069, 'phantasy': 13070, 'triolet': 13071, 'merci': 13072, 'cauld': 13073, 'hame': 13074, 'deid': 13075, 'unknowable': 13076, 'darwinism': 13077, 'heiress': 13078, "'lady": 13079, 'kendall': 13080, 'unstudied': 13081, 'grandmother': 13082, 'tres': 13083, 'ennuyeux': 13084, "'nothing": 13085, 'kindled': 13086, 'jeffrey': 13087, 'hilaire': 13088, 'nuances': 13089, 'grimm': 13090, 'anselm': 13091, 'liebe': 13092, 'lively': 13093, '1821': 13094, 'heinrich': 13095, 'sprites': 13096, 'milnes': 13097, 'doyle': 13098, 'sheykh': 13099, 'yoosuf': 13100, 'rebekah': 13101, 'padding': 13102, 'randolph': 13103, 'caldecott': 13104, 'molesworth': 13105, "here's": 13106, 'bashful': 13107, 'faltered': 13108, 'indispensable': 13109, 'innermost': 13110, 'shoemaker': 13111, 'disreputable': 13112, 'gaelic': 13113, 'dullahan': 13114, 'cluster': 13115, 'quaintness': 13116, 'levy': 13117, 'moralise': 13118, 'unfaithful': 13119, 'hatchet': 13120, 'orators': 13121, "carpenter's": 13122, 'carts': 13123, 'munster': 13124, 'hauberk': 13125, 'habitation': 13126, 'kindreds': 13127, 'melbourne': 13128, 'prosperous': 13129, 'denman': 13130, 'cockle': 13131, 'westmoreland': 13132, 'farmhouses': 13133, 'dalesmen': 13134, 'onpleasant': 13135, 'grasmere': 13136, 'dorothy': 13137, "a'": 13138, 'nowt': 13139, 'kna': 13140, 'faace': 13141, 'childer': 13142, 'jem': 13143, 'niver': 13144, 'skater': 13145, 'skate': 13146, 'goa': 13147, 'aggravated': 13148, "gerald's": 13149, 'pundita': 13150, "ouida's": 13151, 'hissing': 13152, 'lettres': 13153, 'byways': 13154, 'vasty': 13155, 'durant': 13156, 'tamsui': 13157, 'idealist': 13158, 'pities': 13159, 'yao': 13160, 'quaritch': 13161, 'constructive': 13162, 'elia': 13163, 'ghose': 13164, 'lucas': 13165, '30191': 13166, 'shelley’s': 13167, 'athenæum': 13168, 'horwood': 13169, 'tributary': 13170, 'buxton': 13171, 'forman': 13172, 'zola’s': 13173, 'margravine’s': 13174, '”’': 13175, 'somerville’s': 13176, 'stokes’s': 13177, 'casa': 13178, 'guidi': 13179, 'vibrations': 13180, 'completest': 13181, 'thackeray’s': 13182, '’em': 13183, 'provincialism': 13184, '921': 13185, 'handcuffed': 13186, 'glimpses': 13187, 'spiritualising': 13188, 'developments': 13189, 'inward': 13190, 'rending': 13191, 'contemplates': 13192, 'myriads': 13193, 'cithaeron': 13194, 'dynamic': 13195, 'initiation': 13196, 'repellent': 13197, 'clapham': 13198, 'junction': 13199, '14062': 13200, "angelo's": 13201, 'doubtful': 13202, 'seared': 13203, 'glazed': 13204, 'abused': 13205, 'candour': 13206, 'noir': 13207, "image's": 13208, 'satyricon': 13209, "lippincott's": 13210, 'cobban': 13211, 'rudyard': 13212, 'shannon': 13213, 'briefly': 13214, "o'connor's": 13215, 'leipzig': 13216, 'carrington': 13217, 'townsend': 13218, '844': 13219, 'eligible': 13220, 'christening': 13221, 'muffin': 13222, '1338': 13223, '1914': 13224, 'berneval': 13225, 'hyde': 13226, 'seconds': 13227, 'surgery': 13228, 'antonios': 13229, 'janus': 13230, 'sketching': 13231, 'poisoning': 13232, 'deprived': 13233, 'lionardo': 13234, 'lucifer': 13235, 'blindly': 13236, 'introspection': 13237, 'ai': 13238, 'vin': 13239, 'paons': 13240, 'possede': 13241, 'bouche': 13242, 'toi': 13243, 'swerved': 13244, '1017': 13245, '790': 13246, 'carlisle': 13247, 'darlington’s': 13248, '887': 13249, 'dreaded': 13250, '26740': 13251, 'buzzed': 13252, 'treadley': 13253, "harry's": 13254, "vane's": 13255, 'patti': 13256, 'ulster': 13257, 'ferrol': 13258, 'elephants': 13259, 'umbrellas': 13260, 'moung': 13261, 'pho': 13262, 'mhin': 13263, 'ceylon': 13264, 'moat': 13265, 'supported': 13266, 'mien': 13267, 'footlights': 13268, 'vizier': 13269, 'casket': 13270, 'delayed': 13271, 'meantime': 13272, 'fewer': 13273, 'circular': 13274, 'cheroots': 13275, 'gong': 13276, 'emerge': 13277, 'conversing': 13278, 'votive': 13279, 'disappears': 13280, 'precedes': 13281, 'chessmen': 13282, 'horsemen': 13283, 'dictator': 13284, 'summons': 13285, 'passive': 13286, 'gorgeousness': 13287, 'braided': 13288, 'dissents': 13289, 'astrologers': 13290, 'recovery': 13291, 'utters': 13292, 'superstitious': 13293, 'strokes': 13294, 'awaits': 13295, 'insensate': 13296, 'ascendant': 13297, 'antipas': 13298, 'venerable': 13299, 'scrip': 13300, 'preparing': 13301, 'mortified': 13302, 'luigne': 13303, 'praising': 13304, 'defending': 13305, 'maeterlinck': 13306, 'impersonation': 13307, 'farquharson': 13308, 'cul': 13309, 'uproar': 13310, 'cyprus': 13311, 'manes': 13312, 'imprisoned': 13313, 'negro': 13314, 'frizzed': 13315, 'tiaras': 13316, 'sodom': 13317, 'knot': 13318, 'adultery': 13319, 'reels': 13320, 'await': 13321, 'worketh': 13322, "cæsar's": 13323, 'messias': 13324, 'pharisee': 13325, 'jairus': 13326, 'samaria': 13327, 'obeys': 13328, 'crucify': 13329, 'awaiting': 13330, 'prophesy': 13331, 'beaks': 13332, 'crouch': 13333, 'wearest': 13334, 'cats': 13335, 'onyxes': 13336, 'sardonyx': 13337, 'befall': 13338, 'recoils': 13339, 'viper': 13340, 'socket': 13341, 'censer': 13342, 'coos': 13343, 'privet': 13344, 'shrouds': 13345, 'heaving': 13346, 'referred': 13347, '“his': 13348, 'ignore': 13349, 'beareth': 13350, 'cruse': 13351, 'parody': 13352, 'chickering': 13353, '“was': 13354, 'louisville': 13355, 'liverpool': 13356, 'rehearsals': 13357, '20th': 13358, 'advertised': 13359, '“in': 13360, 'evoked': 13361, 'bunthorne': 13362, 'fleshly': 13363, 'rochester': 13364, 'noticeable': 13365, 'winchester': 13366, 'crazy': 13367, 'favourably': 13368, 'cars': 13369, 'colorado': 13370, 'leadville': 13371, 'pianist': 13372, 'descend': 13373, 'rickety': 13374, '“yes': 13375, 'infinitesimal': 13376, 'gorges': 13377, 'memorials': 13378, '19th': 13379, '4to': 13380, '“one': 13381, 'sidenote': 13382, 'reclined': 13383, 'bordered': 13384, 'sipped': 13385, 'seam': 13386, 'patent': 13387, 'moustache': 13388, '120': 13389, '2004': 13390, 'ancestral': 13391, 'spilled': 13392, 'bolton': 13393, 'diplomacy': 13394, 'telegraphed': 13395, 'pheasant': 13396, 'brushwood': 13397, 'alighted': 13398, 'tudor': 13399, 'wraps': 13400, 'eleanore': 13401, 'cheroot': 13402, 'blessings': 13403, 'raged': 13404, 'myers': 13405, 'expectations': 13406, 'oblong': 13407, 'wrapper': 13408, 'whizzed': 13409, 'hysterics': 13410, 'reconciled': 13411, 'ninepins': 13412, 'renewal': 13413, 'mornings': 13414, 'acute': 13415, 'pea': 13416, 'complimented': 13417, 'barking': 13418, 'slouched': 13419, 'abject': 13420, 'charnel': 13421, 'twitching': 13422, 'rôle': 13423, 'maniac': 13424, 'sallied': 13425, 'croaked': 13426, 'baying': 13427, "madman's": 13428, 'privacy': 13429, 'dimity': 13430, 'cleaver': 13431, 'turnip': 13432, 'tiled': 13433, 'gorge': 13434, 'precaution': 13435, 'pistols': 13436, 'ajar': 13437, 'hemmed': 13438, 'chimneys': 13439, 'resumed': 13440, 'congratulations': 13441, 'sixes': 13442, 'apothecary': 13443, 'starched': 13444, 'dishonesty': 13445, 'chrome': 13446, 'bluest': 13447, 'satirically': 13448, 'goggle': 13449, 'wired': 13450, 'draper': 13451, 'rural': 13452, 'detectives': 13453, 'smothered': 13454, 'hinges': 13455, 'situated': 13456, 'scruples': 13457, 'appurtenances': 13458, 'memento': 13459, 'misguided': 13460, 'dumbleton': 13461, 'hanover': 13462, 'suite': 13463, 'sheepskin': 13464, 'hadrian': 13465, 'sandal': 13466, 'penthouse': 13467, 'coverlet': 13468, 'tufts': 13469, 'strewing': 13470, 'pinched': 13471, 'coffers': 13472, 'gangway': 13473, 'whips': 13474, 'cranes': 13475, 'gushed': 13476, 'quivered': 13477, 'adders': 13478, 'outskirts': 13479, 'ague': 13480, '‘get': 13481, 'marching': 13482, 'samarcand': 13483, 'osiris': 13484, 'whistled': 13485, '‘look': 13486, 'obeisance': 13487, 'kinglike': 13488, '‘sir': 13489, 'trow': 13490, 'halberts': 13491, 'copes': 13492, 'rayed': 13493, 'basking': 13494, 'split': 13495, 'trellis': 13496, 'rosettes': 13497, 'clutch': 13498, 'frontier': 13499, 'prior': 13500, 'expiration': 13501, 'instigation': 13502, 'leadership': 13503, 'petulance': 13504, 'dais': 13505, 'featured': 13506, 'seville': 13507, 'caparisoned': 13508, 'streamers': 13509, 'vaulting': 13510, 'prolonged': 13511, 'lorraine': 13512, 'hoods': 13513, 'wafer': 13514, 'humming': 13515, 'utmost': 13516, 'wizened': 13517, 'fired': 13518, 'equals': 13519, 'inferiors': 13520, 'unconsciousness': 13521, 'apartments': 13522, 'intrude': 13523, 'prickly': 13524, 'disgust': 13525, 'jumping': 13526, 'splashing': 13527, 'jointed': 13528, 'heron': 13529, 'tame': 13530, 'steely': 13531, 'mule': 13532, 'tanned': 13533, 'falconers': 13534, 'toledo': 13535, 'rearing': 13536, 'castile': 13537, 'mastiff': 13538, 'glens': 13539, 'celandine': 13540, 'speedwell': 13541, 'foxgloves': 13542, 'massive': 13543, 'hunchbacked': 13544, 'twin': 13545, 'that—': 13546, 'sprawling': 13547, '‘his': 13548, 'despatches': 13549, 'whipping': 13550, 'meshes': 13551, 'glistened': 13552, '‘wilt': 13553, 'finned': 13554, 'tunnies': 13555, 'heeded': 13556, 'wicket': 13557, '‘father': 13558, 'herb': 13559, 'knitting': 13560, 'pail': 13561, '‘yet': 13562, 'moonbeams': 13563, 'stroked': 13564, 'circled': 13565, 'dunes': 13566, 'fretting': 13567, 'pebbles': 13568, 'hornbeam': 13569, 'targe': 13570, 'sables': 13571, 'bird’s': 13572, 'jennet': 13573, '‘ask': 13574, 'viper’s': 13575, 'beach': 13576, 'crawling': 13577, 'harnessed': 13578, 'mules': 13579, 'guarding': 13580, 'oxus': 13581, 'scorpion': 13582, 'juices': 13583, 'bales': 13584, 'sponges': 13585, 'tinkle': 13586, 'thighs': 13587, 'cinnamon': 13588, 'ware': 13589, '“where': 13590, 'booths': 13591, 'frankincense': 13592, 'musk': 13593, 'plucking': 13594, 'lynx': 13595, 'drivers': 13596, 'barley': 13597, 'kinsmen': 13598, '‘rise': 13599, 'sleepeth': 13600, 'shedding': 13601, 'henna': 13602, 'pours': 13603, 'forsook': 13604, 'incensed': 13605, 'deacons': 13606, 'alb': 13607, 'maniple': 13608, 'turtle': 13609, '‘nonsense': 13610, 'owls': 13611, 'tenderly': 13612, 'foolishness': 13613, 'goodman': 13614, 'succour': 13615, 'rebuked': 13616, 'beggar’s': 13617, 'playmates': 13618, 'locking': 13619, 'libya': 13620, 'cowl': 13621, 'succoured': 13622, 'singed': 13623, 'irrational': 13624, 'wretches': 13625, 'civilisations': 13626, 'merciless': 13627, 'exacted': 13628, 'brickbat': 13629, 'utopias': 13630, 'exhausts': 13631, 'irretrievably': 13632, 'irresistibly': 13633, 'adorable': 13634, 'celibacy': 13635, 'scrupulous': 13636, 'arrogance': 13637, 'advisable': 13638, 'disrespectfully': 13639, 'absolution': 13640, 'disliking': 13641, 'beholder': 13642, 'elope': 13643, 'holiness': 13644, 'irreproachable': 13645, 'catastrophes': 13646, 'exquisites': 13647, 'alleviate': 13648, 'inversion': 13649, 'convincing': 13650, 'brutalised': 13651, 'flowerlike': 13652, 'cynicism': 13653, 'tradesmen': 13654, 'crucible': 13655, 'fumes': 13656, 'troubling': 13657, 'cheques': 13658, 'gratify': 13659, 'lucretias': 13660, 'merged': 13661, 'unpoetical': 13662, 'canonise': 13663, 'vulgarise': 13664, 'differentiation': 13665, 'organisms': 13666, 'stagnation': 13667, 'pheidias': 13668, 'consistency': 13669, 'fuss': 13670, 'saddening': 13671, 'solstice': 13672, 'diaphanous': 13673, 'priced': 13674, 'inappropriate': 13675, 'unmakes': 13676, 'archetypes': 13677, 'endeavouring': 13678, 'grovelling': 13679, 'faltering': 13680, 'handles': 13681, 'hedonism': 13682, 'profligacy': 13683, 'piety': 13684, 'tyrannise': 13685, 'invaded': 13686, 'litany': 13687, 'recreates': 13688, 'refashions': 13689, 'impenetrable': 13690, 'moralists': 13691, 'definitions': 13692, 'complaints': 13693, 'nobodies': 13694, 'fervid': 13695, 'bleach': 13696, 'currency': 13697, 'prig': 13698, "peacock's": 13699, 'maturity': 13700, "'under": 13701, 'misdirected': 13702, 'sentimentally': 13703, 'prolong': 13704, 'aggravation': 13705, 'repulsive': 13706, "night's": 13707, 'uncongenial': 13708, 'disobedient': 13709, 'ridiculously': 13710, 'unthrifty': 13711, 'disbelieve': 13712, 'unquestionably': 13713, 'antoinette': 13714, 'reserves': 13715, 'associations': 13716, 'latent': 13717, 'harmed': 13718, 'overwork': 13719, 'staggered': 13720, "byron's": 13721, 'disadvantage': 13722, 'commandments': 13723, 'ennobling': 13724, 'pressure': 13725, 'diminished': 13726, 'vautrins': 13727, 'valuing': 13728, 'organise': 13729, 'thieving': 13730, 'sanitary': 13731, 'steamers': 13732, 'vanishes': 13733, 'cognisance': 13734, 'solely': 13735, 'uncultivated': 13736, 'oblivious': 13737, 'conferred': 13738, "'unhealthy": 13739, 'vocabulary': 13740, 'burke': 13741, 'disgusted': 13742, 'insatiable': 13743, 'keyhole': 13744, 'acutely': 13745, 'poppied': 13746, 'despotisms': 13747, 'tyrannised': 13748, 'stoops': 13749, 'thunders': 13750, 'brutalise': 13751, 'tiara': 13752, 'area': 13753, 'whine': 13754, 'madonnas': 13755, 'christs': 13756, 'wrockley': 13757, 'kemble': 13758, 'montague': 13759, 'dislikes': 13760, 'nicely': 13761, 'pagden': 13762, 'directors': 13763, 'orphan': 13764, 'esteem': 13765, 'ruining': 13766, 'hadn’t': 13767, 'inexcusable': 13768, 'steadfastly': 13769, 'successes': 13770, 'mauvais': 13771, 'complimentary': 13772, 'dowdies': 13773, 'housing': 13774, 'cecilia': 13775, 'baubeny': 13776, 'rectory': 13777, 'daubeny’s': 13778, '—to': 13779, 'illogical': 13780, 'deft': 13781, 'bimetallism': 13782, 'implore': 13783, 'prospects': 13784, 'frowns': 13785, 'lorgnette': 13786, 'ashton': 13787, 'unwise': 13788, 'smooths': 13789, 'evensong': 13790, 'forwards': 13791, 'embracing': 13792, 'despises': 13793, '227': 13794, 'competitor': 13795, 'presume': 13796, 'induces': 13797, 'publicity': 13798, 'keenness': 13799, 'characterising': 13800, 'medal': 13801, 'draughtsman': 13802, 'spur': 13803, 'cylinders': 13804, 'hieroglyphics': 13805, 'analytical': 13806, 'clue': 13807, 'd’un': 13808, 'alluring': 13809, 'retrogression': 13810, 'ægis': 13811, 'allegorical': 13812, 'germs': 13813, '‘god': 13814, 'sporting': 13815, 'panoplied': 13816, 'substratum': 13817, 'mythopœic': 13818, 'charlemagne': 13819, 'husk': 13820, 'augustine': 13821, 'paganism': 13822, 'galilean': 13823, 'atreus': 13824, 'synchronous': 13825, 'rationalised': 13826, 'judicial': 13827, '118': 13828, 'harmodios': 13829, 'aristogeiton': 13830, 'argues': 13831, 'faction': 13832, 'borderland': 13833, 'credence': 13834, 'documentary': 13835, 'witnesses': 13836, 'years’': 13837, 'courting': 13838, 'τὸν': 13839, 'indicated': 13840, 'hippias': 13841, 'prominence': 13842, 'consciously': 13843, 'treatises': 13844, 'endeavours': 13845, 'divergence': 13846, 'hesiod': 13847, 'sparks': 13848, 'fittest': 13849, 'disquisition': 13850, 'influencing': 13851, 'corinth': 13852, 'generic': 13853, 'occurring': 13854, 'hegemony': 13855, 'monuments': 13856, 'fertility': 13857, 'factions': 13858, 'exemplifies': 13859, 'herding': 13860, 'kinsmanship': 13861, 'theban': 13862, 'thigh': 13863, 'induction': 13864, 'landmarks': 13865, 'ἐς': 13866, 'variable': 13867, 'confronted': 13868, 'sicyon': 13869, 'generalisations': 13870, 'chemists': 13871, 'styled': 13872, 'incompletely': 13873, 'furies': 13874, 'reductio': 13875, 'absurdum': 13876, 'indefinite': 13877, 'insecurity': 13878, 'assuming': 13879, 'darkly': 13880, 'slower': 13881, 'julian': 13882, 'chroniclers': 13883, 'prejudicial': 13884, 'gap': 13885, '68': 13886, 'scribes': 13887, '71': 13888, 'chemical': 13889, 'unforeseen': 13890, 'unmanageable': 13891, 'logically': 13892, 'ascertained': 13893, '76': 13894, 'applying': 13895, 'sequences': 13896, 'expulsion': 13897, 'alleged': 13898, 'intrigues': 13899, 'backstairs': 13900, 'overlook': 13901, 'experimental': 13902, 'chemist': 13903, 'asylums': 13904, 'penetrated': 13905, 'anatomist': 13906, 'acquisition': 13907, 'sciences': 13908, 'strictures': 13909, 'unwarrantable': 13910, 'accorded': 13911, 'unlikely': 13912, 'reporters': 13913, 'allowable': 13914, 'bookworm': 13915, 'synonym': 13916, 'epoch': 13917, 'generates': 13918, 'julius': 13919, 'inanimate': 13920, 'vocal': 13921, 'moisture': 13922, 'chæronea': 13923, 'martinmas': 13924, 'defining': 13925, 'wellnigh': 13926, 'verifying': 13927, 'upheld': 13928, 'unanimously': 13929, 'genealogies': 13930, 'heraldry': 13931, 'fenced': 13932, 'lawyers': 13933, 'pamphleteer': 13934, 'media': 13935, 'coriolanus': 13936, 'semite': 13937, 'columbus': 13938, 'astronomy': 13939, 'copernicus': 13940, 'revolutionised': 13941, 'monkish': 13942, 'unfolded': 13943, 'adolescence': 13944, 'apprehends': 13945, 'beforetime': 13946, 'averages': 13947, 'crucial': 13948, 'moulin': 13949, 'quignon': 13950, 'coeval': 13951, 'cerameician': 13952, 'lampadephoria': 13953, 'euphorion': 13954, 'unproductive': 13955, 'transfiguration': 13956, 'preserving': 13957, 'bungling': 13958, 'durer': 13959, 'bondage': 13960, 'cataclysm': 13961, 'phase': 13962, 'unerring': 13963, 'striven': 13964, 'adverse': 13965, 'apathy': 13966, 'consolations': 13967, 'voilà': 13968, 'pentelicus': 13969, '124': 13970, 'sustaining': 13971, 'gautier’s': 13972, 'leonardo': 13973, 'asserting': 13974, 'epics': 13975, 'wellington': 13976, 'sixtus': 13977, 'boors': 13978, 'angelico': 13979, 'leopardi': 13980, 'piquant': 13981, 'latmos': 13982, 'viking': 13983, 'outlet': 13984, 'elizabeth’s': 13985, 'rectitude': 13986, 'staining': 13987, 'insensibly': 13988, 'overrate': 13989, 'lucrece': 13990, 'vapid': 13991, 'sells': 13992, 'professing': 13993, 'hewers': 13994, 'toiler': 13995, 'brier': 13996, 'revered': 13997, 'offender': 13998, 'urns': 13999, 'tangible': 14000, 'purposeless': 14001, 'propounded': 14002, 'extensive': 14003, 'swiss': 14004, 'portions': 14005, 'traders': 14006, 'courier': 14007, 'undecorated': 14008, 'vitally': 14009, 'polluted': 14010, 'grime': 14011, 'monarque': 14012, '‘very': 14013, 'docks': 14014, 'hauling': 14015, 'aids': 14016, 'mosaics': 14017, 'hues': 14018, 'cherish': 14019, 'silenced': 14020, 'ruling': 14021, '206': 14022, 'slopes': 14023, 'peaks': 14024, 'literally': 14025, 'embankment': 14026, 'glaze': 14027, 'apprentices': 14028, 'ajax': 14029, 'happening': 14030, 'wink': 14031, 'earn': 14032, 'seaport': 14033, 'immortalised': 14034, 'fuseli': 14035, 'garlic': 14036, 'appointments': 14037, 'benevolent': 14038, 'undeserving': 14039, 'hampstead': 14040, 'oftener': 14041, 'yearly': 14042, 'circuses': 14043, 'professors': 14044, 'justify': 14045, 'keepers': 14046, 'thrones': 14047, 'wrongdoing': 14048, 'ambush': 14049, 'ceasing': 14050, 'ilion': 14051, 'xxii': 14052, '1902': 14053, 'weathercock': 14054, '“only': 14055, 'attachment': 14056, 'flirting': 14057, '“far': 14058, 'seamstress': 14059, 'embroidering': 14060, 'hopped': 14061, 'cataract': 14062, '“do': 14063, 'darted': 14064, 'cooing': 14065, 'colder': 14066, 'quarrelling': 14067, 'melt': 14068, '“give': 14069, '“if': 14070, 'bubbling': 14071, 'topmost': 14072, 'pang': 14073, 'now”': 14074, 'overheard': 14075, 'marjoram': 14076, 'odours': 14077, 'spelt': 14078, 'ale': 14079, '“certainly': 14080, 'windmill': 14081, 'honeysuckle': 14082, '“‘i': 14083, 'courageous': 14084, 'torrents': 14085, 'sledge': 14086, 'swan’s': 14087, 'ermine': 14088, 'squib': 14089, '“romance': 14090, '“ahem': 14091, 'rudest': 14092, 'tidy': 14093, 'mottled': 14094, 'pike': 14095, 'collie': 14096, 'reforming': 14097, 'smocks': 14098, 'fizz': 14099, 'mosher': 14100, 'viendra': 14101, 'peintres': 14102, 'peindre': 14103, 'hitzen': 14104, 'pilfered': 14105, 'filched': 14106, 'arabesque': 14107, 'affecting': 14108, 'disconnected': 14109, 'friendships': 14110, 'uselessly': 14111, 'suffices': 14112, 'momentariness': 14113, 'aspects': 14114, 'tinging': 14115, 'houssaye': 14116, "l'important": 14117, 'amboise': 14118, 'slate': 14119, 'nestle': 14120, 'doorways': 14121, 'ennuyer': 14122, 'philistins': 14123, 'matching': 14124, 'robing': 14125, 'transfigure': 14126, 'midway': 14127, 'creaking': 14128, 'prowed': 14129, 'harness': 14130, 'brand': 14131, 'lustreless': 14132, "singer's": 14133, 'startle': 14134, 'fathom': 14135, 'lash': 14136, 'pillaged': 14137, 'upwards': 14138, 'quid': 14139, 'twine': 14140, 'albeit': 14141, 'shoreless': 14142, 'fiend': 14143, 'decree': 14144, 'kindred': 14145, 'begotten': 14146, 'phantasies': 14147, 'blare': 14148, 'gliding': 14149, "autumn's": 14150, 'trellised': 14151, 'rudderless': 14152, 'caressed': 14153, 'ebb': 14154, 'sleepless': 14155, 'whirlwinds': 14156, 'forsaken': 14157, "wood's": 14158, 'flicker': 14159, 'laggard': 14160, 'clover': 14161, 'diadem': 14162, 'lapping': 14163, 'coolness': 14164, 'waver': 14165, 'unloved': 14166, 'hereafter': 14167, 'hasten': 14168, 'stranded': 14169, 'eddies': 14170, 'haven': 14171, 'aureoled': 14172, 'cherubim': 14173, 'furrowed': 14174, 'snowdrops': 14175, 'mile': 14176, 'seaward': 14177, 'apostles': 14178, 'printer': 14179, 'collector': 14180, '00': 14181, 'disclaims': 14182, 'scribe': 14183, 'effusive': 14184, 'complied': 14185, 'bogue': 14186, 'lapse': 14187, 'bestowed': 14188, 'credited': 14189, 'unsullied': 14190, '2008': 14191, 'marfa': 14192, 'wench': 14193, "aren't": 14194, 'brained': 14195, 'thatch': 14196, 'metallic': 14197, 'café': 14198, 'batch': 14199, 'villains': 14200, 'semicircle': 14201, 'conquer': 14202, 'disperse': 14203, 'torturing': 14204, "scholar's": 14205, 'secretaries': 14206, 'ensure': 14207, "guido's": 14208, 'tottering': 14209, 'ducat': 14210, 'novgorod': 14211, 'iniquity': 14212, 'killing': 14213, 'odessa': 14214, 'roubles': 14215, 'meanwhile': 14216, 'disapprove': 14217, 'diplomatist': 14218, 'pelted': 14219, 'clattering': 14220, 'hew': 14221, 'betrays': 14222, 'tiger': 14223, 'preaches': 14224, 'rogue': 14225, 'scourged': 14226, 'fondled': 14227, 'lazar': 14228, 'shots': 14229, 'cloaked': 14230, 'misleading': 14231, 'tyrants': 14232, 'gall': 14233, 'bauble': 14234, 'calvary': 14235, 'unobserved': 14236, "wife's": 14237, 'exiled': 14238, 'practising': 14239, 'session': 14240, 'dismiss': 14241, 'footstool': 14242, 'wearying': 14243, 'stabs': 14244, 'delete': 14245, "transcriber's": 14246, 'typographical': 14247, 'listed': 14248, 'amended': 14249, '145': 14250, 'pur': 14251, 'cheiropodist': 14252, 'thumb': 14253, '‘quite': 14254, 'adventurous': 14255, 'punctual': 14256, 'bushy': 14257, 'convulsively': 14258, 'restrained': 14259, 'froid': 14260, 'françois': 14261, 'gorgon’s': 14262, 'decipher': 14263, '‘mr': 14264, 'uneasily': 14265, 'septimus': 14266, 'portière': 14267, 'flickered': 14268, 'iteration': 14269, 'predestined': 14270, 'smocked': 14271, 'sturdily': 14272, 'vegetables': 14273, 'midday': 14274, 'glimmered': 14275, 'petite': 14276, 'lemon': 14277, 'toxicology': 14278, 'troublesome': 14279, 'mathew': 14280, 'reid': 14281, 'cuff': 14282, 'pestle': 14283, 'coachman': 14284, 'bonbonnière': 14285, 'pill': 14286, 'heartburn': 14287, 'bonbon': 14288, 'gondola': 14289, 'expecting': 14290, 'persuaded': 14291, '22nd': 14292, 'snatched': 14293, 'announcing': 14294, 'buoyant': 14295, 'ranging': 14296, 'bustled': 14297, 'destination': 14298, 'trampling': 14299, 'politely': 14300, 'sixpence': 14301, 'posting': 14302, 'unnerved': 14303, 'timed': 14304, 'deanery': 14305, 'mudie': 14306, 'unpacked': 14307, 'explosions': 14308, 'inventing': 14309, 'boomed': 14310, 'paul’s': 14311, 'loomed': 14312, 'parapet': 14313, 'bearer': 14314, 'alton': 14315, 'paralysed': 14316, 'ghost’s': 14317, 'george’s': 14318, 'murchison': 14319, 'boulevard': 14320, 'bois': 14321, 'carriages': 14322, 'maddened': 14323, 'looped': 14324, 'ineffectual': 14325, 'digestion': 14326, 'hansoms': 14327, 'palette': 14328, 'dines': 14329, 'invest': 14330, 'stammered': 14331, 'forgeries': 14332, '‘cyril': 14333, 'reciting': 14334, 'tutors': 14335, 'girls’': 14336, 'pembroke’s': 14337, '1598': 14338, 'satires': 14339, 'unlocks': 14340, 'viola': 14341, 'desdemona': 14342, 'rehearse': 14343, 'rhymers': 14344, 'illustrating': 14345, 'intrusted': 14346, 'actor’s': 14347, 'italics': 14348, 'mouse': 14349, '—i': 14350, 'unlock': 14351, 'fallacious': 14352, 'heaven’s': 14353, 'beauteous': 14354, 'adventurer': 14355, 'refers': 14356, 'posterity': 14357, 'nightly': 14358, 'virginals': 14359, 'stella': 14360, 'brandenburg': 14361, 'herder': 14362, 'mimetic': 14363, 'britannia': 14364, 'nuremberg': 14365, 'dressers': 14366, 'concealment': 14367, 'objectivity': 14368, 'reiteration': 14369, 'restoring': 14370, 'rescuing': 14371, '‘on': 14372, 'groaned': 14373, 'delusion': 14374, 'retaining': 14375, 'uncollected': 14376, 'désespoir': 14377, '39': 14378, '44': 14379, '49': 14380, '51': 14381, '52': 14382, '54': 14383, 'matin': 14384, '83': 14385, '89': 14386, '91': 14387, '97': 14388, 'silhouettes': 14389, '137': 14390, '139': 14391, '140': 14392, 'santa': 14393, 'henrietta': 14394, '180': 14395, 'tædium': 14396, 'ερως': 14397, '222': 14398, 'scrawled': 14399, 'dissonance': 14400, 'anarchies': 14401, 'dissonant': 14402, 'discreet': 14403, 'climbs': 14404, 'mountain’s': 14405, 'khan': 14406, 'slain—': 14407, 'sword—': 14408, 'delhi': 14409, 'trafalgar': 14410, 'cromwell’s': 14411, 'loiters': 14412, 'nook': 14413, '—ah': 14414, 'dis': 14415, 'smock': 14416, 'chimes': 14417, 'convolvulus': 14418, 'huntress': 14419, 'budding': 14420, 'waterloo': 14421, 'manlihood': 14422, 'riven': 14423, 'unassailed': 14424, 'heritor': 14425, 'troublous': 14426, 'loitering': 14427, '—such': 14428, '’mid': 14429, 'ungodly': 14430, 'hurls': 14431, 'scatters': 14432, 'tested': 14433, 'woodmen': 14434, 'avignon': 14435, 'earned': 14436, 'musing': 14437, 'turin': 14438, 'semele': 14439, 'anointed': 14440, 'italia’s': 14441, 'campagna’s': 14442, 'revolving': 14443, 'arona': 14444, 'age’s': 14445, 'montre': 14446, 'perished': 14447, 'ascend': 14448, 'silvered': 14449, 'blazed': 14450, 'wretchedness': 14451, 'fleck': 14452, 'master’s': 14453, 'blithe': 14454, 'kentish': 14455, 'linus': 14456, 'sandalled': 14457, 'heavenly': 14458, 'herdsman': 14459, 'dot': 14460, 'ravishment': 14461, 'cytheræa': 14462, 'wooing': 14463, 'salmacis': 14464, 'shielded': 14465, 'snaky': 14466, 'sandford': 14467, 'filch': 14468, 'shrilly': 14469, 'strawberries': 14470, 'bloomy': 14471, 'copses': 14472, 'launch': 14473, 'colchian': 14474, 'limpid': 14475, 'philomel': 14476, 'jocund': 14477, 'thrace': 14478, 'moonstruck': 14479, 'daphne': 14480, 'revelry': 14481, 'roving': 14482, 'gambols': 14483, 'cheered': 14484, 'hen': 14485, 'flit': 14486, 'flats': 14487, 'curfew': 14488, 'ochre': 14489, 'dropt': 14490, 'bridges': 14491, 'larch': 14492, 'rocking': 14493, 'amethystine': 14494, 'counts': 14495, 'flushing': 14496, 'gale': 14497, 'inwrought': 14498, 'oozy': 14499, 'aghast': 14500, 'precipitate': 14501, 'violate': 14502, 'cuirass': 14503, 'pulsation': 14504, 'withdrawn': 14505, 'trout': 14506, 'fanned': 14507, 'oats': 14508, 'city’s': 14509, 'shorn': 14510, 'grasshopper': 14511, 'beetle': 14512, 'downy': 14513, 'timbers': 14514, 'lading': 14515, 'cubit': 14516, 'galaxy': 14517, 'halcyon': 14518, 'clotted': 14519, 'diapered': 14520, 'deserts': 14521, 'ruder': 14522, 'girdles': 14523, 'dotting': 14524, 'drouth': 14525, 'renegade': 14526, 'entwine': 14527, 'corinth’s': 14528, 'crystalline': 14529, 'diamonded': 14530, 'unfold': 14531, 'washes': 14532, 'boreas': 14533, 'silvery': 14534, 'woos': 14535, 'decoy': 14536, 'burgeoned': 14537, 'sap': 14538, 'multitudinous': 14539, 'granary': 14540, 'endymion’s': 14541, 'ploughed': 14542, 'waggon': 14543, 'acheron': 14544, 'scanned': 14545, 'sappho’s': 14546, 'ebon': 14547, 'zone': 14548, 'disconsolate': 14549, 'proudest': 14550, 'hecate': 14551, 'rustle': 14552, 'squires': 14553, 'jeannette': 14554, 'gore': 14555, 'sordello’s': 14556, 'devious': 14557, 'uncomforted': 14558, 'cliff': 14559, 'oleander': 14560, 'witchery': 14561, 'finite': 14562, 'earth’s': 14563, 'hymeneal': 14564, 'resplendent': 14565, 'hurries': 14566, 'impetuous': 14567, 'cawing': 14568, 'speck': 14569, 'stamps': 14570, 'whoop': 14571, 'usurp': 14572, 'pansies': 14573, 'chrysanthemums': 14574, 'wantons': 14575, 'kine': 14576, 'lidless': 14577, 'watcher': 14578, 'drugs': 14579, 'quarry': 14580, 'equipage': 14581, 'æschylos': 14582, 'poised': 14583, 'eclipse': 14584, 'thermopylæ': 14585, 'treacherously': 14586, 'restlessly': 14587, 'rills': 14588, 'tool': 14589, 'empyreal': 14590, 'clarions': 14591, 'ægina': 14592, 'aspromonte': 14593, 'righteously': 14594, 'renovated': 14595, 'economies': 14596, 'balanced': 14597, 'wage': 14598, 'refreshed': 14599, 'rung': 14600, 'primal': 14601, 'headed': 14602, 'liebes': 14603, 'wheeling': 14604, 'automatons': 14605, 'silhouetted': 14606, 'skeletons': 14607, 'sidling': 14608, 'kiosk': 14609, 'globes': 14610, 'gryphon': 14611, 'fleur': 14612, 'ambergris': 14613, 'midge': 14614, 'warbled': 14615, 'blackbird’s': 14616, 'husks': 14617, 'marcel': 14618, 'schwob': 14619, 'statuesque': 14620, 'sandstone': 14621, 'obelisks': 14622, 'antony': 14623, 'crouching': 14624, 'lapped': 14625, 'chimera': 14626, 'behemoth': 14627, 'hebrews': 14628, 'steaming': 14629, 'oils': 14630, 'gibbers': 14631, 'gnaws': 14632, 'saracenic': 14633, 'sulphur': 14634, 'taper': 14635, 'bestial': 14636, 'styx': 14637, 'obiit': 14638, 'gardener’s': 14639, 'dock’s': 14640, 'debtors’': 14641, 'watcher’s': 14642, 'fools’': 14643, 'devil’s': 14644, 'we—the': 14645, 'knave—': 14646, 'gallows’': 14647, 'chaplain’s': 14648, 'peace—this': 14649, 'man—': 14650, 'moist': 14651, 'daughter’s': 14652, 'barbaric': 14653, 'meaner': 14654, 'galling': 14655, 'wrest': 14656, 'girlish': 14657, 'milan': 14658, 'slumbers': 14659, 'sprinkled': 14660, 'omissions': 14661, '108': 14662, '128': 14663, '144': 14664, '119': 14665, 'millet': 14666, 'statuette': 14667, 'tailor': 14668, 'aquiline': 14669, 'superciliously': 14670, 'schooldays': 14671, 'spelling': 14672, 'vandyck': 14673, 'matrimonial': 14674, 'imperceptible': 14675, 'radley’s': 14676, 'suez': 14677, 'swindle': 14678, 'platitude': 14679, 'contemptuously': 14680, 'foulness': 14681, 'claridge’s': 14682, 'replaces': 14683, 'recovers': 14684, 'untruthful': 14685, 'enamels': 14686, 'cheveley’s': 14687, 'withdrawing': 14688, 'robert’s': 14689, 'assuring': 14690, 'shred': 14691, 'oddest': 14692, 'gayer': 14693, 'jekyll': 14694, 'prowling': 14695, 'imperfections': 14696, 'unfashionable': 14697, 'impassive': 14698, 'widower': 14699, 'perplexed': 14700, 'filial': 14701, 'radley': 14702, 'mortlake': 14703, 'expose': 14704, 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15612, '‘la': 15613, 'l’assommoir': 15614, 'emphasize': 15615, 'greek’s': 15616, 'l’auxerrois': 15617, 'browne’s': 15618, '‘these': 15619, 'ristori’s': 15620, 'était': 15621, 'imperishable': 15622, 'delivering': 15623, 'wisest': 15624, 'fletcher': 15625, 'brutally': 15626, 'stillman’s': 15627, 'flaubert’s': 15628, 'impudent': 15629, 'rawnsley’s': 15630, 'a’': 15631, 'wi’': 15632, 'antinomian': 15633, 'comparable': 15634, 'crucifixion': 15635, "chopin's": 15636, 'olympians': 15637, 'verlaine': 15638, 'counterpart': 15639, 'christi': 15640, 'brutus': 15641, 'constituted': 15642, 'authenticity': 15643, 'spurious': 15644, 'coutts': 15645, 'cairo': 15646, 'compartment': 15647, 'preparatory': 15648, 'caesars': 15649, "tissot's": 15650, 'omit': 15651, "'girl": 15652, "'h": 15653, 'benjamin': 15654, 'expanses': 15655, 'attentive': 15656, 'margins': 15657, "'arts": 15658, 'leaded': 15659, 'puppies': 15660, 'suppressed': 15661, "'dorian": 15662, 'rejoinder': 15663, 'uncultured': 15664, '163': 15665, '164': 15666, '207': 15667, 'mediaevalism': 15668, 'periodicals': 15669, 'osgood': 15670, 'mcilvaine': 15671, 'bowden': 15672, 'tauchnitz': 15673, 'xxviii': 15674, 'lix': 15675, 'woolton': 15676, 'dentist': 15677, "bracknell's": 15678, 'outfit': 15679, 'glasses': 15680, "worthing's": 15681, 'counties': 15682, "guardian's": 15683, 'stations': 15684, 'meditative': 15685, 'perambulator': 15686, 'lining': 15687, 'inquisitive': 15688, 'bendz': 15689, 'holbrook': 15690, 'marion': 15691, 'ciel': 15692, 'carlo': 15693, 'relied': 15694, 'tokio': 15695, 'triangular': 15696, 'insurance': 15697, 'dissatisfied': 15698, 'couchant': 15699, 'mechanism': 15700, 'glides': 15701, 'carnal': 15702, 'incongruity': 15703, 'aspirates': 15704, 'cela': 15705, 'toute': 15706, 'votre': 15707, 'beaute': 15708, 'enfin': 15709, "c'etait": 15710, 'peur': 15711, 'entre': 15712, 'oiseaux': 15713, 'homme': 15714, "qu'il": 15715, 'malheur': 15716, "d'autres": 15717, 'porte': 15718, 'coffret': 15719, 'veux': 15720, 'baiserai': 15721, 'princesse': 15722, 'encore': 15723, 'aime': 15724, "d'aussi": 15725, 'bandeau': 15726, "m'aurais": 15727, 'aimee': 15728, "t'ai": 15729, "j'etais": 15730, "cyril's": 15731, 'giuseppe': 15732, 'all—well': 15733, '‘unhealthy': 15734, 'squander': 15735, 'erlynne’s': 15736, 'erlynne—': 15737, 'packing': 15738, 'me—i': 15739, 'brandy': 15740, 'impersonal': 15741, 'revive': 15742, 'disguises': 15743, 'καλος': 15744, 'companies': 15745, 'indictments': 15746, 'dvorák': 15747, 'theologians': 15748, 'acanthus': 15749, 'sprawled': 15750, 'ilyssus': 15751, 'florizel': 15752, 'arrays': 15753, 'othello': 15754, 'sois': 15755, 'cordelia': 15756, 'contemplative': 15757, 'crop': 15758, 'burdened': 15759, 'lytton’s': 15760, 'orlando’s': 15761, 'procured': 15762, 'bareheaded': 15763, 'intently': 15764, "aunt's": 15765, "agatha's": 15766, 'brushes': 15767, 'sulky': 15768, "kelso's": 15769, 'dartmoor': 15770, 'pork': 15771, 'ticking': 15772, 'flaring': 15773, 'euston': 15774, "sibyl's": 15775, 'acid': 15776, 'rumoured': 15777, 'pushing': 15778, '2007': 15779, '1922': 15780, 'cosgrove': 15781, 'lancaster': 15782, 'repentant': 15783, 'rug': 15784, 'throes': 15785, 'shah': 15786, 'poonygees': 15787, 'betel': 15788, 'nut': 15789, 'umbrella': 15790, "ceylon's": 15791, 'monastic': 15792, 'indescribable': 15793, 'ceremonious': 15794, 'alcove': 15795, 'distraction': 15796, 'buddha': 15797, 'incredulous': 15798, 'continuously': 15799, 'entranced': 15800, 'beckons': 15801, 'downward': 15802, 'thatched': 15803, 'encrusted': 15804, 'squat': 15805, 'croak': 15806, 'drowsily': 15807, 'intermittently': 15808, 'guitar': 15809, 'zephyr': 15810, 'suspects': 15811, 'presently': 15812, 'arranges': 15813, 'verandah': 15814, 'elapsed': 15815, 'menial': 15816, 'buddhas': 15817, 'predominate': 15818, 'colonnades': 15819, 'aglow': 15820, 'perturbed': 15821, 'nat': 15822, 'profoundly': 15823, 'ashen': 15824, 'pallor': 15825, 'caress': 15826, 'glitter': 15827, 'bodley': 15828, 'nazarenes': 15829, 'unsuspected': 15830, 'asset': 15831, 'correctness': 15832, 'impugned': 15833, 'misstatement': 15834, 'mme': 15835, 'vociferating': 15836, 'correspondents': 15837, 'operatic': 15838, 'consigned': 15839, 'shambles': 15840, 'recurring': 15841, 'mons': 15842, 'confuses': 15843, 'agrippa': 15844, 'xiii': 15845, 'intentional': 15846, 'rancour': 15847, 'stomach': 15848, "dancer's": 15849, 'lampe': 15850, 'rohan': 15851, 'banqueting': 15852, 'unloose': 15853, 'locusts': 15854, "camel's": 15855, 'jargon': 15856, "virgin's": 15857, 'basilisk': 15858, 'buyers': 15859, 'captains': 15860, 'assyria': 15861, 'lairs': 15862, 'seekest': 15863, 'speaketh': 15864, 'plastered': 15865, 'vipers': 15866, 'scorpions': 15867, 'edom': 15868, 'cedars': 15869, 'foretell': 15870, 'commanded': 15871, 'stoics': 15872, 'drain': 15873, 'insults': 15874, 'knoweth': 15875, 'peradventure': 15876, 'breaketh': 15877, 'mortar': 15878, 'capernaum': 15879, 'sadducee': 15880, 'samaritans': 15881, 'revile': 15882, 'sackcloth': 15883, 'chrysolites': 15884, 'chrysoprases': 15885, 'incrusted': 15886, 'seres': 15887, 'euphrates': 15888, 'recoil': 15889, 'athirst': 15890, 'sp1nd': 15891, 'jennifer': 15892, 'linklater': 15893, 'instruct': 15894, '24th': 15895, 'omaha': 15896, '“illy': 15897, 'shabbily': 15898, 'swells': 15899, 'they’ve': 15900, 'paumanokides': 15901, 'canada': 15902, '“vera': 15903, 'beere': 15904, '30th': 15905, 'southport': 15906, 'residents': 15907, 'chairman': 15908, 'elysium': 15909, '5th': 15910, '26th': 15911, '“art': 15912, 'itinerant': 15913, 'libeller': 15914, 'comfortably': 15915, 'shocking': 15916, 'noisiest': 15917, 'inventor': 15918, 'ingenuity': 15919, 'bully': 15920, 'keenest': 15921, 'vilely': 15922, 'disastrous': 15923, '“stranger': 15924, 'massachusetts': 15925, 'saloon': 15926, 'pennsylvania': 15927, 'grigsville': 15928, '“early': 15929, 'precocious': 15930, 'sallow': 15931, 'nonchalance': 15932, 'politically': 15933, '15th': 15934, '“once': 15935, 'whiteley’s': 15936, 'encircled': 15937, 'shapely': 15938, 'tension': 15939, 'bons': 15940, 'mots': 15941, '16mo': 15942, 'gide': 15943, 'unintelligent': 15944, 'wallace': 15945, 'htm': 15946, 'grandaunt': 15947, 'spry': 15948, 'donnas': 15949, 'resisted': 15950, 'overtures': 15951, 'impresarios': 15952, '1584': 15953, 'tappan': 15954, 'chronic': 15955, 'newport': 15956, 'casino': 15957, 'gardenias': 15958, 'swished': 15959, 'republicans': 15960, 'waggonette': 15961, 'scudded': 15962, 'overcast': 15963, 'signified': 15964, '1575': 15965, "pinkerton's": 15966, 'remover': 15967, 'scouring': 15968, 'cosmetic': 15969, 'pinkerton': 15970, 'overpopulated': 15971, 'breakages': 15972, "christian's": 15973, 'invoking': 15974, 'tottered': 15975, 'fiercely': 15976, 'podmore': 15977, 'sanguineous': 15978, 'phantasmata': 15979, 'buckwheat': 15980, 'hominy': 15981, 'baggage': 15982, 'phial': 15983, 'matted': 15984, 'manacles': 15985, 'tammany': 15986, 'testimonials': 15987, 'divines': 15988, 'emitting': 15989, 'dimension': 15990, 'uninterrupted': 15991, 'disorders': 15992, 'tremouillac': 15993, '£50': 15994, 'pantry': 15995, 'gibeon': 15996, 'sucker': 15997, 'furore': 15998, 'declines': 15999, 'episcopalian': 16000, 'kaleidoscopic': 16001, 'bets': 16002, 'unexplained': 16003, 'shooters': 16004, 'extinguishing': 16005, 'demoniac': 16006, 'governesses': 16007, 'tincture': 16008, 'horton': 16009, 'phosphorescent': 16010, 'whiled': 16011, 'kenilworth': 16012, 'tournament': 16013, 'overpowered': 16014, 'breastplate': 16015, 'bruising': 16016, 'knuckles': 16017, 'deciding': 16018, 'removing': 16019, 'foolhardy': 16020, 'grabble': 16021, 'counterpane': 16022, 'eyeball': 16023, "washington's": 16024, 'ghoste': 16025, 'originale': 16026, 'spook': 16027, 'imitationes': 16028, 'counterfeite': 16029, 'tricked': 16030, 'toothless': 16031, 'crowed': 16032, 'fowl': 16033, 'phantasmic': 16034, 'apparitions': 16035, 'astral': 16036, 'wednesdays': 16037, 'honourably': 16038, 'saturdays': 16039, 'humiliated': 16040, 'huntsman': 16041, 'slide': 16042, 'etonians': 16043, 'modish': 16044, 'gretna': 16045, 'declaring': 16046, 'wetting': 16047, 'arquebuse': 16048, 'saroni': 16049, 'graveless': 16050, 'snatcher': 16051, 'chertsey': 16052, 'syringe': 16053, 'flues': 16054, 'disorder': 16055, 'nutshells': 16056, 'clam': 16057, 'bake': 16058, 'lacrosse': 16059, 'otises': 16060, 'stilton': 16061, 'carbury': 16062, 'stiltons': 16063, 'secondes': 16064, 'noces': 16065, 'bulkeley': 16066, 'dukes': 16067, 'lineally': 16068, 'descended': 16069, 'benedictine': 16070, 'startup': 16071, '1764': 16072, 'piercing': 16073, 'disinheriting': 16074, 'bedchamber': 16075, 'yellowing': 16076, 'footfall': 16077, 'buck': 16078, 'pricket': 16079, 'furbish': 16080, 'emigrate': 16081, 'democrats': 16082, "death's": 16083, 'blackfell': 16084, 'scuffle': 16085, 'scour': 16086, 'despatched': 16087, 'kidnapped': 16088, 'scapegrace': 16089, 'patted': 16090, "horses'": 16091, 'homewards': 16092, 'chorton': 16093, 'eau': 16094, 'awestruck': 16095, 'capered': 16096, 'imbedded': 16097, 'fleshless': 16098, 'ewer': 16099, 'tuft': 16100, 'extinguished': 16101, "ghost's": 16102, 'mortmain': 16103, 'trinkets': 16104, 'gauds': 16105, 'heirloom': 16106, 'coronet': 16107, 'theoretically': 16108, 'overruled': 16109, 'aisle': 16110, 'prouder': 16111, "simon's": 16112, 'engrave': 16113, "gentleman's": 16114, 'chancel': 16115, 'lovingly': 16116, 'spiced': 16117, 'wakening': 16118, 'trusty': 16119, 'goatherd’s': 16120, 'joyeuse': 16121, 'lengthened': 16122, 'trance': 16123, 'bithynian': 16124, 'mosaiced': 16125, 'languor': 16126, 'disrobed': 16127, 'clatter': 16128, 'shuttles': 16129, 'wages': 16130, 'asses': 16131, 'weighted': 16132, 'monotonously': 16133, 'cleave': 16134, 'tortoises': 16135, 'toiling': 16136, 'pits': 16137, 'tartary': 16138, 'cisterns': 16139, 'overflowed': 16140, 'vultures': 16141, 'vinedresser': 16142, 'ravens': 16143, 'buyer': 16144, '“thou': 16145, '‘ay': 16146, '‘shall': 16147, 'pirates': 16148, 'beseemeth': 16149, 'tumult': 16150, 'pealed': 16151, 'trumpeters': 16152, 'bishop’s': 16153, 'lemons': 16154, 'profusion': 16155, 'confessor': 16156, 'assembling': 16157, 'albuquerque': 16158, 'almonds': 16159, 'forfeited': 16160, 'escurial': 16161, 'ringlet': 16162, 'burgos': 16163, 'celebration': 16164, 'atocha': 16165, 'auto': 16166, 'heretics': 16167, 'aggravate': 16168, 'trappist': 16169, 'titular': 16170, 'ordained': 16171, 'archduchess': 16172, 'emperor’s': 16173, 'fanatics': 16174, 'sourire': 16175, 'toreadors': 16176, 'uncovering': 16177, 'hidalgo': 16178, 'grandee': 16179, 'pranced': 16180, 'handkerchiefs': 16181, 'sensibly': 16182, 'gored': 16183, 'riders': 16184, 'dismounted': 16185, 'interlude': 16186, 'tightrope': 16187, 'sophonisba': 16188, 'sweetmeats': 16189, 'juggler': 16190, 'pilar': 16191, 'hearsay': 16192, 'cornered': 16193, 'accentuated': 16194, 'doffed': 16195, 'scowled': 16196, 'pommel': 16197, 'guttural': 16198, 'barbary': 16199, 'funniest': 16200, 'morning’s': 16201, 'waddling': 16202, 'precedents': 16203, 'burner': 16204, 'bouquets': 16205, 'sparkling': 16206, 'balustrade': 16207, 'titter': 16208, 'grasshoppers': 16209, 'trail': 16210, 'tap': 16211, 'deerskin': 16212, 'treaders': 16213, 'stabbing': 16214, 'hapsburg': 16215, 'sovereigns': 16216, 'cordovan': 16217, 'ceremonial': 16218, 'cardinal’s': 16219, 'tassels': 16220, 'holbein’s': 16221, 'nestled': 16222, 'catkins': 16223, 'said—': 16224, 'tugged': 16225, 'sware': 16226, 'hairy': 16227, 'filigrane': 16228, 'whales': 16229, 'icicles': 16230, 'mermen': 16231, 'harps': 16232, 'mariners': 16233, 'dived': 16234, 'dive': 16235, 'unused': 16236, 'novice': 16237, '‘alack': 16238, 'ponder': 16239, 'witcheries': 16240, 'mullet': 16241, 'broth': 16242, 'mockingly': 16243, '‘nought': 16244, '‘by': 16245, 'fishing': 16246, 'snarled': 16247, 'sniffed': 16248, '‘faster': 16249, 'toying': 16250, 'gauntleted': 16251, 'fawned': 16252, '‘lo': 16253, '‘should': 16254, '‘once': 16255, 'sunk': 16256, 'trotted': 16257, 'mohammed': 16258, 'roasted': 16259, 'gryphons': 16260, 'pygmies': 16261, 'levied': 16262, 'maize': 16263, 'bead': 16264, 'summits': 16265, 'magadae': 16266, 'laktroi': 16267, 'aurantes': 16268, 'krimnians': 16269, 'fowls': 16270, 'agazonbae': 16271, 'sibans': 16272, 'horses’': 16273, 'illel': 16274, 'sultry': 16275, 'hostages': 16276, 'crier': 16277, 'uncorded': 16278, 'ethiops': 16279, 'tilted': 16280, 'jutting': 16281, 'birds’': 16282, '‘“the': 16283, '‘“tell': 16284, '‘“show': 16285, 'chrysolite': 16286, 'selenites': 16287, 'reflecteth': 16288, 'looketh': 16289, 'archer': 16290, 'mecca': 16291, 'galbanum': 16292, 'passers': 16293, 'melons': 16294, 'palanquin': 16295, 'beetles’': 16296, 'mosque': 16297, 'boldness': 16298, 'tiles': 16299, 'watered': 16300, 'aloes': 16301, 'pastilles': 16302, 'motioned': 16303, 'purfled': 16304, 'bags': 16305, 'chalcedonies': 16306, 'sards': 16307, 'quill': 16308, 'eater': 16309, 'tasted': 16310, 'hoarsely': 16311, 'swingers': 16312, 'fullers': 16313, 'fullers’': 16314, 'woodcutters': 16315, 'torrent': 16316, 'twittered': 16317, 'whoo': 16318, 'grinding': 16319, '‘truly': 16320, 'clump': 16321, 'sheepfold': 16322, 'appeased': 16323, 'careth': 16324, '‘into': 16325, 'sawn': 16326, 'outlaws': 16327, 'priest’s': 16328, 'chide': 16329, 'roam': 16330, 'cleaving': 16331, 'scornfully': 16332, 'tellest': 16333, 'hired': 16334, 'tarrieth': 16335, 'pricked': 16336, '‘eat': 16337, '‘drink': 16338, 'nettles': 16339, 'repaid': 16340, 'magician’s': 16341, '‘hast': 16342, '‘follow': 16343, '‘mother': 16344, 'melmoth': 16345, 'incorruptibility': 16346, 'suspicious': 16347, 'trivially': 16348, 'unsophisticated': 16349, 'engrossing': 16350, 'conduce': 16351, 'lethargy': 16352, 'aggravating': 16353, 'unattractively': 16354, 'abominably': 16355, 'tampers': 16356, 'neglect': 16357, 'tress': 16358, 'visionaries': 16359, 'dowdiness': 16360, 'brokers': 16361, 'mortgaged': 16362, 'lumber': 16363, 'incoherence': 16364, 'refines': 16365, 'fascinatingly': 16366, 'decried': 16367, 'nil': 16368, 'egotists': 16369, 'perplexity': 16370, 'ignorantly': 16371, 'arrests': 16372, 'bothering': 16373, 'tort': 16374, 'transfigures': 16375, 'coursing': 16376, 'solvent': 16377, 'verities': 16378, 'hitting': 16379, 'verges': 16380, 'lydian': 16381, 'frequenting': 16382, "'know": 16383, 'ruffled': 16384, 'decencies': 16385, 'deadens': 16386, 'accidentals': 16387, 'footing': 16388, 'usurping': 16389, 'chilling': 16390, 'discloses': 16391, 'contour': 16392, 'lifelong': 16393, 'yearning': 16394, 'corrodes': 16395, 'untidy': 16396, 'banker': 16397, 'overdraw': 16398, 'achieved': 16399, 'egos': 16400, 'efficacy': 16401, 'unspeakable': 16402, 'uneatable': 16403, 'preposterous': 16404, 'unadulterated': 16405, 'crammed': 16406, 'transforming': 16407, 'diversity': 16408, "wagner's": 16409, "anybody's": 16410, 'splinters': 16411, 'remedying': 16412, 'demoralises': 16413, 'shelters': 16414, 'communism': 16415, 'peremptory': 16416, 'crushes': 16417, 'generated': 16418, 'restitution': 16419, 'pottage': 16420, 'employers': 16421, 'illegal': 16422, 'abolitionists': 16423, 'vendée': 16424, 'voluntarily': 16425, 'enslaving': 16426, 'inspector': 16427, 'potential': 16428, 'encumbering': 16429, 'confers': 16430, 'groove': 16431, 'tragically': 16432, 'rebels': 16433, 'friction': 16434, 'worrying': 16435, 'ochlocracies': 16436, 'bludgeoning': 16437, 'petted': 16438, 'standards': 16439, "'must": 16440, 'bribing': 16441, 'expurgated': 16442, 'passmen': 16443, 'dementia': 16444, 'macbeths': 16445, 'harshest': 16446, 'commodities': 16447, 'injurious': 16448, 'pleasureless': 16449, 'slushy': 16450, 'secures': 16451, 'unintellectual': 16452, 'stoker': 16453, 'competes': 16454, 'cocoa': 16455, 'devise': 16456, 'storages': 16457, 'degenerates': 16458, 'corrupting': 16459, 'distract': 16460, 'sensibilities': 16461, 'governmental': 16462, 'brutalising': 16463, 'disintegrating': 16464, 'checking': 16465, 'bludgeons': 16466, 'preventing': 16467, "'exotic": 16468, 'mushroom': 16469, 'twaddle': 16470, 'constitute': 16471, 'aggravates': 16472, 'petition': 16473, 'compels': 16474, 'indecent': 16475, "person's": 16476, "'macbeth'": 16477, 'avowed': 16478, "'philip": 16479, "'vanity": 16480, "fair'": 16481, 'sustenance': 16482, 'tenacity': 16483, "dyer's": 16484, 'conclave': 16485, 'dizzy': 16486, 'freedoms': 16487, 'predicate': 16488, 'artificially': 16489, 'obverse': 16490, 'egotist': 16491, 'obnoxious': 16492, 'lessened': 16493, 'cenobite': 16494, 'gashing': 16495, 'preoccupy': 16496, 'deplored': 16497, 'repel': 16498, 'trusts': 16499, 'provisional': 16500, 'lessens': 16501, 'ven': 16502, 'leclercq': 16503, 'blanche': 16504, 'neilson': 16505, 'mufflers': 16506, 'shetland': 16507, 'complications': 16508, 'protégé': 16509, 'overshoes': 16510, 'timbered': 16511, 'belton': 16512, 'votes': 16513, 'provides': 16514, 'femininity': 16515, 'stutfield’s': 16516, 'conjugal': 16517, 'congratulating': 16518, 'she’d': 16519, 'tantalising': 16520, 'threaten': 16521, 'foil': 16522, 'sofas': 16523, 'persecute': 16524, 'stratton': 16525, 'whims': 16526, 'caprices': 16527, 'reproaching': 16528, 'unforgiveable': 16529, 'weston': 16530, 'chancery': 16531, 'handsomest': 16532, 'duffer': 16533, 'privation': 16534, 'eyesight': 16535, 'so—but': 16536, 'daren’t': 16537, 'winces': 16538, 'harfords': 16539, 'patagonia': 16540, 'savages': 16541, '—on': 16542, 'astonishing': 16543, 'inconvenient': 16544, 'brace': 16545, 'and—and': 16546, 'drags': 16547, 'him—i': 16548, 'laziness': 16549, 'reparation': 16550, 'shrivelled': 16551, 'ma’am': 16552, 'entailed': 16553, 'allowance': 16554, 'weren’t': 16555, 'playthings': 16556, 'controls': 16557, 'waists': 16558, '173': 16559, 'victorian': 16560, 'chancellor’s': 16561, 'nurturing': 16562, 'felicitated': 16563, 'forestalled': 16564, 'sayings': 16565, 'provenance': 16566, 'humourist': 16567, 'humanist': 16568, 'relentlessness': 16569, 'traditional': 16570, 'mackail': 16571, 'stationary': 16572, 'ascending': 16573, 'directed': 16574, 'nomad': 16575, 'uninspired': 16576, 'conceives': 16577, 'invades': 16578, 'heracles': 16579, 'annihilation': 16580, 'inferno': 16581, 'ares': 16582, '‘far': 16583, 'premises': 16584, 'woof': 16585, 'tests': 16586, 'sarpedon': 16587, 'tenor': 16588, 'allegorising': 16589, '‘mere': 16590, 'misrepresented': 16591, '‘living': 16592, 'subscription': 16593, 'excavations': 16594, 'euhemeristic': 16595, 'felix': 16596, 'mystics': 16597, 'deities': 16598, 'pantheon': 16599, 'spiritualised': 16600, 'manifests': 16601, 'phoenix': 16602, 'τοῦτο': 16603, 'suckling': 16604, 'progressive': 16605, 'swimmer': 16606, 'countrymen': 16607, 'grapples': 16608, '45': 16609, 'dodona': 16610, '‘any': 16611, 'peloponnesian': 16612, 'attributing': 16613, 'peisistratid': 16614, 'hipparchos': 16615, 'euripidean': 16616, 'demander': 16617, 'passé': 16618, '‘their': 16619, 'archæologia': 16620, 'hellenes': 16621, 'argos': 16622, 'observing': 16623, 'conclude': 16624, 'legendary': 16625, 'strikingly': 16626, 'carian': 16627, 'islanders': 16628, 'anticipation': 16629, 'prosecuted': 16630, 'availing': 16631, 'gregarious': 16632, 'anthropologists': 16633, 'unanimous': 16634, 'commemoration': 16635, 'proverb': 16636, '‘worth': 16637, 'bull’s': 16638, 'rite': 16639, 'relic': 16640, 'shibboleth': 16641, 'disregarding': 16642, 'inquiries': 16643, 'τοῦ': 16644, 'πόλις': 16645, 'περὶ': 16646, 'antiquities': 16647, 'cyclic': 16648, 'surviving': 16649, 'researches': 16650, 'prometheus': 16651, 'verification': 16652, 'incorporate': 16653, 'presided': 16654, '‘which': 16655, 'severer': 16656, 'milder': 16657, 'exemplification': 16658, 'comtian': 16659, 'predicted': 16660, 'ideally': 16661, 'verifies': 16662, 'krause': 16663, 'proteste': 16664, 'nephelococcygia': 16665, 'theorist': 16666, 'persistence': 16667, 'injudicious': 16668, 'leontini': 16669, 'gela': 16670, 'neglects': 16671, 'residual': 16672, 'maestro': 16673, 'color': 16674, 'sanno': 16675, 'anomaly': 16676, 'bewildering': 16677, 'standpoints': 16678, 'pitfall': 16679, 'superimposed': 16680, 'them—': 16681, 'œdipus': 16682, 'adrastus': 16683, 'overpowering': 16684, 'impure': 16685, 'necessitarianism': 16686, 'modifiable': 16687, 'incapacitated': 16688, 'temperature': 16689, 'theory’': 16690, 'oligarchical': 16691, 'breeding': 16692, 'bravery': 16693, 'causal': 16694, 'respective': 16695, '59': 16696, 'ἐξ': 16697, 'fourier': 16698, 'imputing': 16699, 'fanaticism': 16700, 'theorists': 16701, 'conservatives': 16702, 'outcry': 16703, 'preponderance': 16704, 'defences': 16705, 'sirius': 16706, 'ἐκ': 16707, 'subsumed': 16708, '63a': 16709, 'impartial': 16710, '63b': 16711, 'constitutional': 16712, '63c': 16713, 'unifying': 16714, 'trenchant': 16715, 'minuteness': 16716, 'predicting': 16717, 'diapason': 16718, 'plutarch’s': 16719, 'pendulum': 16720, 'unbalanced': 16721, 'ochlocracy': 16722, 'lineal': 16723, 'vico': 16724, 'furthered': 16725, 'annalists': 16726, 'intervened': 16727, 'isocratean': 16728, 'overstrained': 16729, 'gracefulness': 16730, 'digressions': 16731, 'comets': 16732, 'diverted': 16733, 'alexandrines': 16734, 'sophists': 16735, 'unmanly': 16736, 'resultants': 16737, '69a': 16738, '69b': 16739, 'resistless': 16740, 'calpe': 16741, '69c': 16742, 'mediate': 16743, 'culmination': 16744, 'reasonably': 16745, '72a': 16746, '—are': 16747, 'τῇ': 16748, 'advisers': 16749, '72b': 16750, 'childlessness': 16751, 'disaster': 16752, 'overrunning': 16753, 'subsistence': 16754, 'assign': 16755, 'reluctantly': 16756, 'approving': 16757, 'meteorology': 16758, 'signifying': 16759, 'detract': 16760, 'exploit': 16761, 'groundwork': 16762, 'affording': 16763, 'establishing': 16764, 'validity': 16765, 'abrupolis': 16766, 'eumenes': 16767, 'seizure': 16768, 'pretexts': 16769, '78': 16770, 'originating': 16771, 'μικρῶν': 16772, 'plottings': 16773, 'boleyn’s': 16774, 'atossa': 16775, 'maintenon': 16776, 'simplified': 16777, 'extraneous': 16778, 'economists': 16779, 'dominion': 16780, 'expands': 16781, 'fauna': 16782, 'expounder': 16783, 'captious': 16784, 'pettiness': 16785, 'befitted': 16786, 'geographical': 16787, 'issus': 16788, 'ephorus': 16789, 'leuctra': 16790, 'mantinea': 16791, 'archives': 16792, 'antisthenes': 16793, 'respectably': 16794, 'demochares': 16795, 'unsparing': 16796, 'impugning': 16797, 'scholastic': 16798, 'vehement': 16799, 'perverting': 16800, 'inference': 16801, 'confute': 16802, 'locris': 16803, 'improbability': 16804, 'diametrically': 16805, 'furlough': 16806, 'adulterers': 16807, 'memmius': 16808, 'catilinarian': 16809, 'orations': 16810, 'hortensius': 16811, 'gauls': 16812, 'lugdunum': 16813, 'chantre': 16814, 'héros': 16815, 'pervades': 16816, 'indulge': 16817, 'falsify': 16818, 'historian’s': 16819, 'policies': 16820, 'narrator': 16821, 'clarendon': 16822, 'fabius': 16823, 'philistus': 16824, 'misled': 16825, 'inroad': 16826, 'pessinuntine': 16827, 'shapeless': 16828, 'castor': 16829, 'pollux': 16830, 'puteoli': 16831, 'gracchi': 16832, 'mendicant': 16833, 'sleet': 16834, 'olympia': 16835, 'hilled': 16836, 'peneus': 16837, 'fittingly': 16838, 'organs': 16839, 'temperatures': 16840, 'lampon': 16841, 'ram': 16842, 'anaxagoras': 16843, 'portended': 16844, 'bases': 16845, 'equation': 16846, 'orchomenus': 16847, 'minyan': 16848, 'phoenicia': 16849, 'pindar': 16850, 'helicon': 16851, 'corinna': 16852, 'capped': 16853, 'aftermath': 16854, 'mowers': 16855, 'cimmerian': 16856, 'concomitants': 16857, 'pontifices': 16858, 'atmospherical': 16859, 'unification': 16860, 'carneades': 16861, 'incubus': 16862, 'immoralities': 16863, 'outbreak': 16864, 'crystallised': 16865, 'personifications': 16866, 'sensualities': 16867, 'stoical': 16868, 'classified': 16869, 'lucretius': 16870, 'ceres': 16871, 'voluminous': 16872, 'cato': 16873, 'origines': 16874, 'eulogies': 16875, 'closset': 16876, 'horatii': 16877, 'albans': 16878, 'tribunes': 16879, 'cincinnatus': 16880, 'ploughing': 16881, 'suspends': 16882, 'collated': 16883, 'enjoyments': 16884, 'adventive': 16885, 'faust': 16886, 'disengaging': 16887, 'continuity': 16888, 'cosmical': 16889, 'pantheism': 16890, 'boundary': 16891, '‘great': 16892, 'inventors': 16893, 'spiritualities': 16894, 'positiveness': 16895, 'ephesus': 16896, 'chenier': 16897, 'prefigures': 16898, 'forerunner': 16899, 'tenths': 16900, 'revolutionise': 16901, 'irreverence': 16902, 'narrowness': 16903, 'confirming': 16904, 'newness': 16905, 'sauvera': 16906, 'disturbs': 16907, 'individualised': 16908, 'ravines': 16909, 'fifths': 16910, 'alliterations': 16911, 'needing': 16912, 'vinci': 16913, 'schiller': 16914, 'adjust': 16915, 'intruded': 16916, 'react': 16917, 'harms': 16918, 'choosing': 16919, 'debatable': 16920, 'taxation': 16921, 'bimetallic': 16922, 'whitman’s': 16923, 'ionia': 16924, 'inept': 16925, 'beauty—a': 16926, 'transitory': 16927, 'savonarola': 16928, 'underlie': 16929, 'escaping': 16930, 'pigment': 16931, 'avantage': 16932, 'abuser': 16933, 'omnipotence': 16934, 'disparu': 16935, 'us—the': 16936, 'complementary': 16937, 'squalor': 16938, 'idyllist': 16939, 'viewless': 16940, 'quicker': 16941, 'unimpeachableness': 16942, 'foresee': 16943, 'promotes': 16944, 'roughness': 16945, '‘must': 16946, 'secretion': 16947, 'overshadow': 16948, 'hatreds': 16949, 'korner': 16950, 'crimsoned': 16951, 'railways': 16952, 'harbours': 16953, 'serviceable': 16954, '—‘a': 16955, 'externally': 16956, 'città': 16957, '‘only': 16958, 'lionlike': 16959, 'camilla': 16960, 'rearranging': 16961, 'manufacturers': 16962, 'smug': 16963, 'accumulative': 16964, 'ennobled': 16965, 'erroneously': 16966, 'art—the': 16967, 'preciousness': 16968, 'exterior': 16969, 'palladium': 16970, 'doric': 16971, 'broadway': 16972, 'hallows': 16973, 'everyday': 16974, 'blames': 16975, 'workman’s': 16976, 'chandeliers': 16977, 'rosewood': 16978, 'dismally': 16979, 'ubiquitous': 16980, 'persist': 16981, 'indulged': 16982, 'garnished': 16983, 'thrive': 16984, 'notable': 16985, 'abound': 16986, 'parks': 16987, 'perpetuated': 16988, 'pardoned': 16989, 'incursions': 16990, 'deprecate': 16991, 'giraffe': 16992, 'blower': 16993, 'unaided': 16994, 'uglier': 16995, 'beautifies': 16996, 'beneficent': 16997, 'chipped': 16998, 'hulking': 16999, 'obstructions': 17000, 'leyland': 17001, 'abhor': 17002, 'dignifies': 17003, 'wronging': 17004, 'relieves': 17005, 'antipodes': 17006, 'tube': 17007, 'benefited': 17008, 'engines': 17009, 'utensil': 17010, 'terrapins': 17011, 'clams': 17012, 'handmaid': 17013, 'horridness': 17014, 'art—a': 17015, 'angle': 17016, 'claw': 17017, 'periwigged': 17018, 'pomposities': 17019, 'loading': 17020, 'windlass': 17021, 'saunterer': 17022, 'quoit': 17023, 'reaper': 17024, 'lasso': 17025, 'sideboard': 17026, 'is’': 17027, 'extents': 17028, 'benozzo': 17029, 'campo': 17030, 'santo': 17031, 'turkey': 17032, 'stork': 17033, 'aster': 17034, 'utensils': 17035, 'pediment': 17036, 'inlay': 17037, 'blocks': 17038, 'attainable': 17039, 'variegated': 17040, 'durable': 17041, 'lifelessness': 17042, 'dolphin': 17043, 'alabasters': 17044, 'promontory': 17045, 'goldsmiths’': 17046, 'unexhausted': 17047, 'etruria': 17048, 'sneering': 17049, 'tramway': 17050, 'desecrating': 17051, '—well': 17052, 'pewter': 17053, 'hinksey': 17054, 'villagers': 17055, 'morass': 17056, 'barrows': 17057, 'searchers': 17058, 'modellers': 17059, 'concord': 17060, 'materialise': 17061, 'salvator': 17062, 'shipwrecks': 17063, 'unrecognisable': 17064, 'exceptional': 17065, 'serpentine': 17066, 'quays': 17067, 'successions': 17068, 'thoughtfullest': 17069, 'enchant': 17070, 'apennine': 17071, 'cloven': 17072, 'carrara': 17073, 'imaged': 17074, 'unquestioned': 17075, 'awfulness': 17076, 'unites': 17077, 'racehorse': 17078, 'terrier': 17079, 'polygnotus': 17080, 'elpinice': 17081, 'inestimable': 17082, 'rarity': 17083, 'gil': 17084, 'blas': 17085, 'defying': 17086, 'blasted': 17087, 'whistlerites': 17088, 'pumper': 17089, 'peplum': 17090, 'phoebus': 17091, 'accommodating': 17092, 'vendor': 17093, '‘never': 17094, 'dreadfuls': 17095, 'tariff': 17096, 'gourmet': 17097, 'sittings': 17098, 'congregate': 17099, 'unendurable': 17100, 'patriarchs': 17101, 'anatomy': 17102, 'tibia': 17103, 'thorax': 17104, 'shininess': 17105, 'gamins': 17106, 'extorting': 17107, 'disfavour': 17108, 'election': 17109, 'gymnasts': 17110, 'oasis': 17111, 'spectacled': 17112, 'haute': 17113, 'manette': 17114, 'salomon': 17115, 'unmasking': 17116, 'zemganno': 17117, 'shortcomings': 17118, 'arimathea': 17119, 'fatherless': 17120, 'requite': 17121, 'thirsting': 17122, 'outlawed': 17123, '‘wherefore': 17124, '‘were': 17125, 'errs': 17126, 'monarchical': 17127, 'aristocratical': 17128, 'passim': 17129, 'ἡ': 17130, 'cf': 17131, 'δὲ': 17132, 'denunciation': 17133, 'depressed': 17134, 'lect': 17135, '1859': 17136, 'ed': 17137, '2015': 17138, 'jacomb': 17139, 'acre': 17140, '“shall': 17141, 'raining': 17142, 'beak': 17143, 'bargaining': 17144, 'weighing': 17145, 'feverishly': 17146, 'fanning': 17147, '“to': 17148, 'commissions': 17149, 'crocodiles': 17150, 'ibises': 17151, 'snapped': 17152, '“little': 17153, 'melted': 17154, '“of': 17155, 'dial': 17156, 'chilled': 17157, '“tell': 17158, '“be': 17159, '“press': 17160, 'nightingale’s': 17161, '“look': 17162, 'professor’s': 17163, 'chamberlain’s': 17164, 'gruff': 17165, '“any': 17166, 'roared': 17167, 'casement': 17168, 'beady': 17169, 'whiskers': 17170, '“every': 17171, 'columbine': 17172, 'cowslip': 17173, 'plums': 17174, 'cherries': 17175, 'cows': 17176, '“‘what': 17177, 'hans’': 17178, '‘really': 17179, '“then': 17180, '‘pooh': 17181, '“‘hans': 17182, '“‘a': 17183, '“‘certainly': 17184, '“‘dear': 17185, 'world’': 17186, '“poor': 17187, '“‘do': 17188, 'fireside': 17189, 'rap': 17190, 'doctor’s': 17191, '“‘little': 17192, '“everybody': 17193, 'place’': 17194, 'reindeer': 17195, 'balconies': 17196, 'page’s': 17197, '“it’s': 17198, 'coughed': 17199, 'parliamentary': 17200, 'pylotechnic': 17201, 'pyrotechnic': 17202, 'squibs': 17203, 'rudeness': 17204, '“pray': 17205, 'twinkle': 17206, 'marched': 17207, 'huzza': 17208, 'reserving': 17209, '“hallo': 17210, '“impossible': 17211, 'farmer’s': 17212, 'complacently': 17213, '“quack': 17214, 'distracts': 17215, 'you”': 17216, 'tingling': 17217, 'mdccccvi': 17218, 'heure': 17219, 'paiera': 17220, 'actea': 17221, 'imperator': 17222, 'perpetuum': 17223, 'frater': 17224, 'ερωτοϛ': 17225, 'ανδοϛ': 17226, 'hic': 17227, 'jacet': 17228, 'hammering': 17229, 'interludes': 17230, "rain's": 17231, 'veinings': 17232, 'sonnent': 17233, 'ronsardists': 17234, 'longings': 17235, 'erôs': 17236, 'émotions': 17237, 'showers': 17238, 'wanes': 17239, 'arches': 17240, "owl's": 17241, 'vikings': 17242, 'odin': 17243, 'sheath': 17244, 'burdens': 17245, 'faiths': 17246, 'wonderland': 17247, 'slackened': 17248, 'dreamful': 17249, 'howl': 17250, 'wraiths': 17251, 'friar': 17252, 'thumbs': 17253, 'nods': 17254, 'clap': 17255, 'droning': 17256, "circe's": 17257, 'nereid': 17258, 'tideless': 17259, 'tapers': 17260, 'clings': 17261, 'unrecorded': 17262, "o'erhead": 17263, 'onward': 17264, 'sweeten': 17265, 'currents': 17266, 'tracks': 17267, 'realms': 17268, 'gloaming': 17269, 'freezes': 17270, 'hurled': 17271, "sun's": 17272, 'restful': 17273, 'dreamless': 17274, 'unbounded': 17275, 'undertone': 17276, 'foreknowledge': 17277, 'marshy': 17278, 'misspent': 17279, 'peep': 17280, 'rivulets': 17281, 'pillowed': 17282, 'joints': 17283, 'interleaved': 17284, 'wrappers': 17285, 'blanks': 17286, '237': 17287, 'desirable': 17288, 'choicest': 17289, '75': 17290, 'lippincott': 17291, 'acumen': 17292, 'annoys': 17293, 'bach': 17294, 'blundell': 17295, 'libraries': 17296, 'innkeeper': 17297, 'ivanacievitch': 17298, "she'll": 17299, 'gamekeepers': 17300, 'sleigh': 17301, 'blight': 17302, 'clink': 17303, 'rascals': 17304, 'excellency': 17305, 'rye': 17306, 'scoundrels': 17307, 'unjustly': 17308, 'saucy': 17309, 'fists': 17310, 'tchernavaya': 17311, 'crucem': 17312, 'lucem': 17313, 'sanguinem': 17314, 'libertatem': 17315, 'assassination': 17316, 'cooped': 17317, 'vulnerable': 17318, 'diseases': 17319, 'pollute': 17320, 'poorly': 17321, 'blaze': 17322, 'sentenced': 17323, 'pleads': 17324, 'bloodhound': 17325, 'betters': 17326, '38': 17327, 'exhausting': 17328, 'thermometer': 17329, 'butchery': 17330, 'metier': 17331, 'cordon': 17332, 'bleu': 17333, 'embittered': 17334, 'parbleu': 17335, 'peaceably': 17336, 'infinity': 17337, "son's": 17338, "weren't": 17339, "who's": 17340, 'bloodhounds': 17341, 'valour': 17342, "he'll": 17343, 'republicanism': 17344, 'signature': 17345, 'marechale': 17346, 'warmed': 17347, 'norway': 17348, 'dane': 17349, "headsman's": 17350, 'leprosy': 17351, 'tyrannis': 17352, 'victis': 17353, 'marat': 17354, 'unmasks': 17355, "lion's": 17356, 'hospitable': 17357, 'entree': 17358, 'conspiracies': 17359, 'confiscated': 17360, 'manifesto': 17361, 'boars': 17362, 'cub': 17363, 'avenge': 17364, 'sop': 17365, 'code': 17366, 'rapine': 17367, 'counsellors': 17368, 'omened': 17369, 'gaud': 17370, 'drugged': 17371, 'corday': 17372, 'dedicate': 17373, 'convicts': 17374, 'wholesale': 17375, 'disapproved': 17376, 'deputies': 17377, 'dowry': 17378, 'turk': 17379, 'amis': 17380, 'resurrection': 17381, 'diplomatists': 17382, 'serf': 17383, 'smells': 17384, 'preyed': 17385, 'methought': 17386, 'barricades': 17387, 'significant': 17388, "'place": 17389, '121': 17390, '133': 17391, 'bentinck': 17392, 'sophia': 17393, 'immoderately': 17394, 'economist': 17395, 'virtuoso': 17396, 'hungary': 17397, 'debrett': 17398, 'contralto': 17399, 'foreigner': 17400, 'tempting': 17401, 'esoteric': 17402, 'paisley’s': 17403, '‘pray': 17404, '‘economy': 17405, 'hoops': 17406, '‘sybil': 17407, 'perspiration': 17408, 'rims': 17409, 'guildensterns': 17410, '‘guineas': 17411, 'magnifying': 17412, 'coated': 17413, 'cooling': 17414, '‘murder': 17415, 'huddled': 17416, 'marylebone': 17417, 'hoarding': 17418, 'scarred': 17419, 'placarded': 17420, 'carters': 17421, 'cracking': 17422, 'jangling': 17423, 'chubby': 17424, 'twitter': 17425, 'bathroom': 17426, 'dalliance': 17427, 'irresolution': 17428, 'rave': 17429, 'notepaper': 17430, 'beauchamp': 17431, 'payable': 17432, 'merton’s': 17433, 'rooted': 17434, 'ruff’s': 17435, 'bailey’s': 17436, 'handsomely': 17437, 'balled': 17438, 'deferential': 17439, 'milliners': 17440, 'jansen': 17441, 'nonsensical': 17442, 'liquid': 17443, 'medicines': 17444, 'postponement': 17445, 'corfu': 17446, 'lido': 17447, 'canals': 17448, 'florian’s': 17449, 'obituary': 17450, 'surbiton’s': 17451, 'charing': 17452, 'mertons': 17453, 'unstrung': 17454, 'clocks': 17455, 'laundry': 17456, 'rhine': 17457, 'monogram': 17458, 'chatting': 17459, 'guarantee': 17460, 'justifiable': 17461, '6d': 17462, 'verdicts': 17463, 'mansion': 17464, 'gingham': 17465, 'unbelief': 17466, 'whirring': 17467, 'puff': 17468, 'fender': 17469, 'alarum': 17470, 'poplin': 17471, 'underskirt': 17472, 'unite': 17473, 'ps': 17474, 'cleopatra’s': 17475, 'heading': 17476, 'peter’s': 17477, 'telepathy': 17478, 'we’d': 17479, '53rd': 17480, 'christian’s': 17481, 'madman’s': 17482, '’twere': 17483, '‘make': 17484, '‘please': 17485, '‘that’s': 17486, '‘hallo': 17487, 'simon’s': 17488, 'gentleman’s': 17489, 'vermouth': 17490, 'frankness': 17491, 'madeleine': 17492, 'mysteries—the': 17493, 'terrific': 17494, 'rastail': 17495, 'stupidly': 17496, '“please': 17497, 'infatuated': 17498, 'lungs': 17499, 'darlings': 17500, 'entrée': 17501, 'cher': 17502, 'percentage': 17503, 'easel': 17504, 'pitying': 17505, '‘thank': 17506, 'chacun': 17507, '£10': 17508, 'affaire': 17509, 'autres': 17510, 'sulkily': 17511, 'chuckling': 17512, 'apology': 17513, 'birdcage': 17514, 'macpherson': 17515, 'æsthetical': 17516, 'cropped': 17517, 'clouet’s': 17518, 'begetter': 17519, 'insuing': 17520, 'penshurst': 17521, 'abruptly': 17522, 'costermonger': 17523, 'fencer': 17524, 'football': 17525, 'freckles': 17526, 'debating': 17527, '“great': 17528, 'meres': 17529, 'buckhurst': 17530, 'cxxxv': 17531, 'cxliii': 17532, 'things—it': 17533, 'sonnet—': 17534, 'lxxxvi': 17535, 'says—': 17536, 'dulwich': 17537, 'thicker': 17538, 'clamped': 17539, 'portfolio': 17540, 'facsimile': 17541, '‘dead': 17542, '67th': 17543, 'versatility': 17544, 'him—': 17545, 'whereof': 17546, 'embody': 17547, 'begs': 17548, 'youth’s': 17549, 'masonry': 17550, 'judgement': 17551, 'lovers’': 17552, 'mobile': 17553, 'musically': 17554, 'desertion': 17555, 'pry': 17556, 'abandonment': 17557, 'laudatory': 17558, 'mephistopheles': 17559, 'gaveston': 17560, 'marlowe’s': 17561, 'partners': 17562, 'inseparably': 17563, 'audience—the': 17564, 'paleness': 17565, 'deceives': 17566, 'hewes': 17567, 'sidney’s': 17568, 'ooze': 17569, 'd’angleterre': 17570, 'cannes': 17571, 'beliefs': 17572, 'prized': 17573, 'eleutheria': 17574, 'quantum': 17575, 'mutata': 17576, 'theoretikos': 17577, 'mystica': 17578, '41': 17579, '53': 17580, '55': 17581, '61': 17582, 'athanasia': 17583, 'mente': 17584, '93': 17585, 'chanson': 17586, '95': 17587, '135': 17588, 'fuite': 17589, '138': 17590, 'amor': 17591, 'intellectualis': 17592, 'decca': 17593, '150': 17594, 'théàtre': 17595, '156': 17596, 'réveillon': 17597, 'apologia': 17598, '177': 17599, 'quia': 17600, 'multum': 17601, 'amavi': 17602, 'silentium': 17603, 'γλυκυπικρος': 17604, '220': 17605, '223': 17606, '229': 17607, 'décoratives': 17608, 'pomegranates’': 17609, 'virelay': 17610, 'pathan’s': 17611, 'steeps': 17612, 'armèd': 17613, 'marri': 17614, 'scout': 17615, 'kandahar': 17616, 'himalayan': 17617, 'saw’st': 17618, 'clanging': 17619, 'bokhara': 17620, 'ispahan': 17621, 'cabool': 17622, 'scarpèd': 17623, 'tanks': 17624, 'england—she': 17625, 'epaulette—some': 17626, 'anguished': 17627, 'ganges': 17628, 'land—': 17629, 'groweth': 17630, 'descry': 17631, 'embattled': 17632, 'delve': 17633, 'austerlitz': 17634, 'scion': 17635, 'starless': 17636, 'chiefest': 17637, 'heritors': 17638, 'season’s': 17639, 'usurer': 17640, 'kirtled': 17641, 'chorister': 17642, 'hollyhock': 17643, 'eucharis': 17644, 'cytheræa’s': 17645, '—these': 17646, 'clematis': 17647, 'narciss': 17648, 'intruder': 17649, 'votaries': 17650, 'consecrate': 17651, 'ilissos': 17652, 'mourns': 17653, 'tuskèd': 17654, 'galilæan’s': 17655, 'armoury': 17656, 'fight—': 17657, 'chaucer’s': 17658, 'spenser’s': 17659, 'beguiled': 17660, 'gudrun': 17661, 'aslaug': 17662, 'olafson': 17663, 'grettir': 17664, 'sigurd': 17665, 'brynhild': 17666, 'car—how': 17667, 'overstay': 17668, 'storm’s': 17669, 'seraph': 17670, 'vivien’s': 17671, 'unpainted': 17672, 'arrows—how': 17673, 'telescope': 17674, 'rosary': 17675, 'girl’s': 17676, 'nested': 17677, 'curlews': 17678, 'expectant': 17679, 'yearned': 17680, 'throned': 17681, 'unappeased': 17682, 'vans': 17683, 'scoglietto’s': 17684, 'o’erhanging': 17685, '‘jesus': 17686, 'marshals': 17687, 'seas—': 17688, 'thundering': 17689, 'gleaner’s': 17690, 'stormier': 17691, 'rideth': 17692, 'howled': 17693, 'carmel’s': 17694, 'calypso': 17695, 'mightst': 17696, 'crowning': 17697, 'harebells': 17698, '—god': 17699, 'likelier': 17700, 'monsignores': 17701, 'partibus': 17702, 'palæstrina': 17703, 'peaceless': 17704, 'esquiline': 17705, 'now—those': 17706, 'whets': 17707, 'milkmaid': 17708, 'farmyard': 17709, 'hops': 17710, 'swarms': 17711, 'heifer': 17712, 'recline': 17713, 'trancèd': 17714, 'flags': 17715, 'æolian': 17716, 'trespasser': 17717, 'untrodden': 17718, 'river’s': 17719, 'moil': 17720, 'daulian': 17721, 'tuscany': 17722, 'leto': 17723, 'cone': 17724, 'hooting': 17725, 'filmy': 17726, 'mænad': 17727, 'jolly': 17728, 'trample': 17729, 'crate': 17730, 'paddle': 17731, 'wooed': 17732, 'yoke': 17733, 'caverned': 17734, 'halloo': 17735, 'tenantless': 17736, 'leadenness': 17737, 'pandion': 17738, 'heraldries': 17739, 'jostling': 17740, 'eaved': 17741, 'swinked': 17742, 'arbitress': 17743, 'trill': 17744, 'bat’s': 17745, 'bluebell’s': 17746, 'willowy': 17747, 'thickets': 17748, 'magdalen’s': 17749, 'booming': 17750, 'swings': 17751, 'spring’s': 17752, 'rustles': 17753, 'tosses': 17754, 'wych': 17755, 'elm’s': 17756, 'kingfisher': 17757, 'unloosed': 17758, 'prowls': 17759, 'lad’s': 17760, 'rushlight': 17761, 'glimmers': 17762, 'linnet’s': 17763, 'reddens': 17764, 'pulpy': 17765, 'gear': 17766, 'nor’west': 17767, 'rowers’': 17768, 'soled': 17769, 'fishers’': 17770, 'swains': 17771, 'frolic': 17772, 'firstling': 17773, 'crackling': 17774, 'fang': 17775, 'voiced': 17776, 'beechen': 17777, 'wrestlers': 17778, 'tusked': 17779, 'precinct': 17780, 'entrancèd': 17781, 'sheeny': 17782, 'steeled': 17783, 'hooted': 17784, 'sunium': 17785, 'venery': 17786, 'forgat': 17787, 'dian’s': 17788, 'quaked': 17789, 'alarums': 17790, 'poseidon': 17791, 'prancing': 17792, 'neighed': 17793, 'troy’s': 17794, 'neigh': 17795, 'peplos': 17796, 'ditty': 17797, 'luxuries': 17798, 'ween': 17799, 'paddled': 17800, 'numidian': 17801, 'shipmen': 17802, 'ominous': 17803, 'grebe': 17804, 'woollen': 17805, 'afield': 17806, 'bleated': 17807, 'weald': 17808, 'fawnskin': 17809, 'herd’s': 17810, 'slung': 17811, 'wether': 17812, 'gnat': 17813, 'chirped': 17814, 'breasting': 17815, 'manfully': 17816, 'duck’s': 17817, 'finch': 17818, 'slough': 17819, 'forest’s': 17820, 'tench': 17821, 'bode': 17822, 'belated': 17823, 'pattering': 17824, 'laddered': 17825, 'orisons': 17826, 'confessors': 17827, 'surging': 17828, 'orion’s': 17829, 'sailors’': 17830, 'spume': 17831, 'luff': 17832, 'windward': 17833, 'adulterer': 17834, 'profaner': 17835, 'idolater': 17836, 'come’': 17837, 'churning': 17838, 'venged': 17839, 'gurgling': 17840, 'wrathful': 17841, 'symplegades': 17842, 'beached': 17843, 'araby': 17844, 'softest': 17845, 'neared': 17846, 'maned': 17847, 'or—else': 17848, 'circumvent': 17849, 'belled': 17850, '—within': 17851, 'enow': 17852, 'scimitars': 17853, 'margent': 17854, 'lustihead': 17855, 'nipping': 17856, 'antiphonal': 17857, 'bosky': 17858, 'insidious': 17859, 'fencèd': 17860, 'havoc': 17861, 'assault': 17862, 'froward': 17863, 'sacrilege': 17864, 'fisher’s': 17865, 'sphered': 17866, 'mullets': 17867, 'foundered': 17868, 'portaled': 17869, 'halcyons': 17870, 'cordage': 17871, 'pennon': 17872, '‘awake': 17873, 'dune': 17874, 'nightjar': 17875, 'repass': 17876, 'stoat': 17877, 'ravisher': 17878, 'poplar’s': 17879, 'naiads': 17880, 'ruddy': 17881, 'juniper': 17882, 'wasp': 17883, 'vintager': 17884, 'persistency': 17885, 'fleecy': 17886, 'curds': 17887, 'thrushes’': 17888, 'throbbed': 17889, 'stem’s': 17890, 'fawns': 17891, 'wren': 17892, 'trysting': 17893, 'paphian': 17894, 'recesses': 17895, 'ouzel’s': 17896, 'bee’s': 17897, 'pasturage': 17898, 'anchorage': 17899, '—be': 17900, 'panther': 17901, 'will’st': 17902, 'hyaline': 17903, 'neptune’s': 17904, 'xiphias': 17905, 'cornel': 17906, 'notch': 17907, '—awake': 17908, 'parchèd': 17909, 'nectarous': 17910, 'sleuth': 17911, 'barbèd': 17912, 'whizzing': 17913, 'unbidden': 17914, 'unenjoyed': 17915, 'hapt': 17916, 'cythere': 17917, 'oread’s': 17918, 'despairing': 17919, 'strews': 17920, 'wantonness': 17921, 'brede': 17922, 'ravages': 17923, 'plucks': 17924, 'moony': 17925, 'vein’s': 17926, 'ambiguous': 17927, 'thammuz': 17928, 'orbèd': 17929, 'hest': 17930, 'cressets': 17931, 'guerdon': 17932, 'charon’s': 17933, 'chequers': 17934, 'rifled': 17935, 'hair’s': 17936, 'icarus': 17937, 'castalian': 17938, 'lesbian': 17939, 'glean': 17940, 'unshod': 17941, 'withdraws': 17942, 'mitylene': 17943, 'simætha': 17944, 'polypheme': 17945, 'bemoans': 17946, 'challenges': 17947, 'lacon': 17948, 'marigold': 17949, 'spindle': 17950, 'ravel': 17951, 'launched': 17952, 'tamburlaine': 17953, 'zakynthos': 17954, 'creek': 17955, 'ithaca’s': 17956, 'lycaon’s': 17957, '—when': 17958, 'katakolo': 17959, 'revengeful': 17960, 'frenzied': 17961, 'recreant': 17962, 'sheath—': 17963, 'mirandola': 17964, 'pan’s': 17965, 'phæacian': 17966, 'bassanio': 17967, 'morocco’s': 17968, 'veronesé': 17969, 'lawyer’s': 17970, 'donned': 17971, 'antonio’s': 17972, 'accursèd': 17973, 'jew—': 17974, 'ensanguined': 17975, 'luring': 17976, 'indolent': 17977, 'actium': 17978, 'oracle': 17979, 'endeavour': 17980, 'others’': 17981, 'bruisèd': 17982, 'throbs': 17983, 'buttercups': 17984, 'mailèd': 17985, 'bursts': 17986, 'hound’s': 17987, '—better': 17988, 'comraded': 17989, '‘curse': 17990, 'day’—': 17991, 'prison’s': 17992, 'quenchless': 17993, 'pinion': 17994, 'furry': 17995, 'thistledown': 17996, 'voyaging': 17997, 'hearts’': 17998, 'fortune’s': 17999, 'slanderous': 18000, 'huddle': 18001, 'pilfers': 18002, 'saturn’s': 18003, 'wisps': 18004, 'thawed': 18005, 'hurdles': 18006, 'listlessness': 18007, 'frosted': 18008, 'bittern': 18009, 'flaps': 18010, 'limps': 18011, 'seamew': 18012, 'byre': 18013, 'sappy': 18014, 'billets': 18015, 'scare': 18016, 'blanchèd': 18017, 'warren': 18018, 'cones': 18019, 'blackbirds': 18020, 'greenery': 18021, 'sheathèd': 18022, 'sops': 18023, 'daffadillies': 18024, 'younker': 18025, 'scares': 18026, 'madrigals': 18027, 'bluebells’': 18028, 'carillons': 18029, 'breezy': 18030, 'eglantine': 18031, 'unload': 18032, 'haw': 18033, 'bellamour': 18034, 'traveller’s': 18035, 'bounteous': 18036, 'breath’d': 18037, 'nepenthe': 18038, 'yore': 18039, 'mandragore': 18040, 'bedew': 18041, '‘’tis': 18042, 'prostrations': 18043, 'brewed': 18044, 'unexultant': 18045, 'incompleted': 18046, 'χαιρε': 18047, 'inextinguishable': 18048, 'chiding': 18049, 'barren—ay': 18050, 'tenedos': 18051, 'hymned': 18052, 'unbowed': 18053, 'polymnia’s': 18054, 'mede': 18055, 'artemisium': 18056, 'amazèd': 18057, 'hardihood': 18058, 'pitched': 18059, 'unfrequented': 18060, 'staked': 18061, 'dial’s': 18062, 'helvellyn': 18063, 'crags': 18064, 'blamelessly': 18065, 'rydalian': 18066, 'uncrowned': 18067, 'wisdom’s': 18068, 'learning’s': 18069, 'changelings': 18070, 'rote': 18071, 'watchword': 18072, 'blunted': 18073, 'ichabod': 18074, 'unrisen': 18075, 'lour': 18076, 'sombrest': 18077, 'dynasties': 18078, 'triumvir': 18079, 'overtops': 18080, 'valdarno': 18081, 'brunelleschi—o': 18082, 'joy’s': 18083, 'emperies': 18084, 'coronals': 18085, 'vallombrosa': 18086, 'cycled': 18087, 'chanting': 18088, 'pavilioned': 18089, 'shears': 18090, 'everlasting': 18091, 'harlotries': 18092, 'munich': 18093, 'architrave': 18094, 'mirroring': 18095, 'trump': 18096, 'calabrian': 18097, 'genders': 18098, 'freedom’s': 18099, 'fraticide': 18100, 'stings': 18101, 'whirr': 18102, 'rife': 18103, 'destructful': 18104, 'vandals': 18105, 'lincoln’s': 18106, 'southwell’s': 18107, 'agnolo’s': 18108, 'titian’s': 18109, 'curbs': 18110, 'adulteries': 18111, 'enthroned': 18112, 'invincibly': 18113, 'impartiality': 18114, 'causality': 18115, 'governance': 18116, 'omnipresence': 18117, 'planetary': 18118, 'octave': 18119, 'exultant': 18120, 'dispossessed': 18121, 'undo': 18122, 'for—it': 18123, 'symphonies': 18124, 'sowers': 18125, 'pierces': 18126, 'betraying': 18127, 'eyeless': 18128, 'nails—we': 18129, 'wounds—we': 18130, 'hyssop': 18131, 'unclimbed': 18132, 'wildness': 18133, 'battled': 18134, 'bice': 18135, 'ambrosial': 18136, 'springtide': 18137, 'cankerworm': 18138, 'you—ah': 18139, 'cytheræan': 18140, 'αἴλινον': 18141, 'ne’er': 18142, '—hour': 18143, 'dale': 18144, 'din': 18145, 'fray': 18146, '‘treues': 18147, 'herz’': 18148, 'quadrille': 18149, 'clockwork': 18150, 'marionette': 18151, 'she—she': 18152, 'strut': 18153, 'brigands': 18154, 'bosk': 18155, 'cons': 18156, 'navies': 18157, 'band—': 18158, 'brawlers': 18159, 'gloat': 18160, 'fantaisies': 18161, 'balloons': 18162, 'e’er': 18163, 'moored': 18164, 'wood’s': 18165, 'meadow’s': 18166, 'skips': 18167, 'proem': 18168, 'waft': 18169, 'ivied': 18170, 'quaver': 18171, 'hair—did': 18172, 'riot—': 18173, 'face—': 18174, 'somnolent': 18175, 'hieroglyphs': 18176, 'temple’s': 18177, 'torpid': 18178, 'psalms': 18179, 'apis': 18180, 'ammon': 18181, 'thyme': 18182, 'mailed': 18183, 'paven': 18184, 'ammon’s': 18185, 'shawled': 18186, 'shrunken': 18187, 'divinities': 18188, 'shiver': 18189, 'stagnant': 18190, 'songless': 18191, 'leprosies': 18192, 'atys': 18193, 'murderers’': 18194, 'know—and': 18195, 'same—': 18196, 'humanity’s': 18197, 'leper’s': 18198, 'clime': 18199, 'horse’s': 18200, 'ravenna’s': 18201, 'stronghold': 18202, 'noisome': 18203, 'lurking': 18204, 'swelling': 18205, 'adria’s': 18206, 'palatine': 18207, 'lombardy': 18208, '—rest': 18209, 'tranquil': 18210, '112': 18211, '114': 18212, 'eros’': 18213, 'itys’': 18214, 'reciters': 18215, 'recitation': 18216, '1874': 18217, 'laments': 18218, 'hails': 18219, 'seniors': 18220, '69': 18221, '142': 18222, '2009': 18223, 'viscount': 18224, 'attaché': 18225, 'octagon': 18226, 'maud': 18227, 'hartlocks’': 18228, 'complexion': 18229, 'heliotrope': 18230, 'nervousness': 18231, 'attachés': 18232, 'plunge': 18233, 'saunters': 18234, 'basildon’s': 18235, 'you’d': 18236, 'misinformed': 18237, 'detains': 18238, 'speculator': 18239, 'hounded': 18240, 'penning': 18241, 'illumines': 18242, 'strolls': 18243, 'hours’': 18244, 'franchise': 18245, 'bachelors’': 18246, 'life—': 18247, 'allowances': 18248, 'tableaux': 18249, 'treasurer': 18250, 'reflecting': 18251, 'cameo': 18252, 'welsh': 18253, 'contortions': 18254, 'assembly': 18255, 'langton': 18256, 'politeness': 18257, 'bidder': 18258, 'you—memories': 18259, 'you—you': 18260, 'enthusiasts': 18261, 'gloved': 18262, 'fopperies': 18263, 'falsehoods': 18264, 'lordship’s': 18265, 'berkshires': 18266, 'sneeze': 18267, 'testily': 18268, 'rudder': 18269, 'defamed': 18270, 'kinder': 18271, 'forgiving': 18272, 'eavesdropper': 18273, 'chilterns’': 18274, 'mixing': 18275, 'paroxysm': 18276, 'shamefully': 18277, 'inspects': 18278, 'humph': 18279, 'canning': 18280, 'unblemished': 18281, 'relapse': 18282, 'downing': 18283, 'depresses': 18284, 'expressly': 18285, 'it—oh': 18286, 'grimly': 18287, 'revolve': 18288, 'overcome': 18289, 'gesso': 18290, 'vitellozzo': 18291, 'romanesque': 18292, 'errand': 18293, 'doffs': 18294, 'falcon': 18295, 'valiant': 18296, 'com’st': 18297, 'unkindly': 18298, 'parma’s': 18299, 'malatesta': 18300, 'chattel': 18301, 'cue': 18302, 'sprung': 18303, 'unavenged': 18304, 'spotless': 18305, 'reared': 18306, 'scrawls': 18307, 'churchman': 18308, 'jerome': 18309, 'comest': 18310, 'falcons': 18311, 'unknightly': 18312, 'kindliness': 18313, 'murder—': 18314, 'forswear': 18315, 'shouting': 18316, 'peaches': 18317, 'revenues': 18318, 'fevers': 18319, 'abraham’s': 18320, 'luther': 18321, 'this—': 18322, 'scratching': 18323, 'maybe': 18324, 'chattels': 18325, 'miserably': 18326, 'bended': 18327, 'falsehood': 18328, 'unwilling': 18329, 'cuckoo’s': 18330, 'package': 18331, 'love—': 18332, 'graveyard': 18333, 'dispatch': 18334, 'messengers': 18335, 'pinnacle': 18336, 'night—': 18337, 'hindered': 18338, 'doge': 18339, 'bastard': 18340, 'decrees': 18341, 'ascends': 18342, 'strangles': 18343, 'untarnished': 18344, 'meek': 18345, 'wresting': 18346, 'revel': 18347, 'brawl': 18348, 'reeling': 18349, 'lamentable': 18350, 'clerks': 18351, 'wands': 18352, '’scape': 18353, 'coincidences': 18354, 'avenged': 18355, 'willingly': 18356, 'statute': 18357, 'gags': 18358, 'parley': 18359, 'tribunal': 18360, 'statutes': 18361, 'handiwork': 18362, 'greybeards': 18363, 'paduan': 18364, 'manifold': 18365, 'breakers': 18366, 'law—': 18367, 'purged': 18368, 'prating': 18369, 'nightfall': 18370, 'boon': 18371, 'he’d': 18372, 'vizard': 18373, 'liquor': 18374, 'me—': 18375, 'trailing': 18376, 'thrusts': 18377, 'stalking': 18378, 'churlish': 18379, 'leech': 18380, 'antidote': 18381, 'maintain': 18382, 'devoured': 18383, 'condemnation': 18384, 'prohibits': 18385, 'punch': 18386, 'lugne': 18387, 'l’œuvre': 18388, 'matt': 18389, 'amateurish': 18390, 'contumely': 18391, 'leverson': 18392, 'laughingly': 18393, 'isabel': 18394, 'importuned': 18395, 'arragon': 18396, 'typewriting': 18397, 'typewritten': 18398, 'poachers': 18399, '1903': 18400, 'enthralling': 18401, 'nubia': 18402, 'hewer': 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'shipwrecked': 20424, 'recovering': 20425, 'dildoos': 20426, 'callousness': 20427, 'biscuit': 20428, 'softened': 20429, 'lumbering': 20430, 'citta': 20431, 'overworked': 20432, 'windflowers': 20433, 'claribel': 20434, 'fancifulness': 20435, 'boccaccio': 20436, 'wid': 20437, 'fiercer': 20438, 'chafed': 20439, 'seamews': 20440, 'godhead': 20441, 'deafens': 20442, 'clangours': 20443, 'acme': 20444, 'blaws': 20445, 'whin': 20446, 'durance': 20447, 'bonnier': 20448, 'tyneside': 20449, 'narrowing': 20450, 'inchbold': 20451, 'interpreters': 20452, "song's": 20453, 'prophesying': 20454, 'doubling': 20455, 'froze': 20456, 'riveted': 20457, 'leanness': 20458, 'keened': 20459, 'fattening': 20460, 'barnacle': 20461, 'hooves': 20462, 'kindling': 20463, 'surges': 20464, 'guardless': 20465, 'cairn': 20466, 'mattock': 20467, 'infelicitous': 20468, 'dusk': 20469, "gallienne's": 20470, 'theologian': 20471, 'progressed': 20472, 'crab': 20473, 'ratepayer': 20474, 'inaction': 20475, 'lao': 20476, 'scotus': 20477, 'erigena': 20478, 'jacob': 20479, 'quietist': 20480, 'tauler': 20481, 'purum': 20482, 'nihil': 20483, 'metaphysician': 20484, 'illuminist': 20485, 'competitive': 20486, 'meddled': 20487, 'neighbouring': 20488, 'interchanging': 20489, 'laudation': 20490, 'engender': 20491, 'framing': 20492, "'forced": 20493, 'chieh': 20494, 'tinkering': 20495, 'hyndman': 20496, 'cage': 20497, 'rotten': 20498, 'rogues': 20499, 'cleverer': 20500, 'hui': 20501, 'chicken': 20502, 'gadfly': 20503, 'pests': 20504, 'coerce': 20505, 'fussed': 20506, 'injures': 20507, 'inactivity': 20508, 'misgovernment': 20509, 'anthropologist': 20510, 'arboreal': 20511, 'confucius': 20512, 'discomfiture': 20513, 'whereupon': 20514, "tzu's": 20515, 'parables': 20516, 'endanger': 20517, 'discredit': 20518, 'evangelists': 20519, 'undue': 20520, 'glorification': 20521, 'studious': 20522, 'exuberant': 20523, 'irritatingly': 20524, "'being": 20525, 'physiognomy': 20526, 'negligent': 20527, 'surplusage': 20528, 'guenevere': 20529, 'religio': 20530, 'purpurei': 20531, 'panni': 20532, "botticelli's": 20533, 'stimulate': 20534, 'operations': 20535, 'injuries': 20536, 'resentments': 20537, 'nourisher': 20538, 'stimulant': 20539, 'reread': 20540, 'epilogue': 20541, 'binyon': 20542, 'phillips': 20543, 'cripps': 20544, "ghose's": 20545, 'vernal': 20546, 'orestes': 20547, 'hungers': 20548, 'refreshment': 20549, '‘odyssey’': 20550, '48': 20551, '101': 20552, '167': 20553, '‘poems': 20554, 'ostiensis': 20555, 'porta': 20556, 'snakelike': 20557, 'pharaohs': 20558, 'unshattered': 20559, 'impassiveness': 20560, 'cestius': 20561, 'overgrow': 20562, 'wombs': 20563, 'malachite': 20564, 'testaccio': 20565, 'aurelian': 20566, 'cypresses': 20567, 'heu': 20568, 'foully': 20569, '1848': 20570, 'hyacinthine': 20571, 'bosomer': 20572, 'vassal': 20573, 'subside': 20574, 'nativeness': 20575, 'feb': 20576, '1818': 20577, 'indicative': 20578, 'comma': 20579, 'emphasized': 20580, 'cowden': 20581, 'severn’s': 20582, 'paralleled': 20583, 'vastness': 20584, 'delmonico’s': 20585, 'barrett’s': 20586, 'princess’s': 20587, 'dullness': 20588, 'cicero’s': 20589, 'thomson’s': 20590, 'paley’s': 20591, 'principles’': 20592, 'eugène': 20593, 'toynbee’s': 20594, '‘le': 20595, 'j’ai': 20596, 'conqueror’s': 20597, 'procès': 20598, '‘whoever': 20599, '‘il': 20600, 'père': 20601, '‘over': 20602, '‘under': 20603, 'tolstoi’s': 20604, 'phædra': 20605, 'fêtes': 20606, '‘had': 20607, 'peasant’s': 20608, 'woods’s': 20609, '‘o': 20610, 'scott’s': 20611, 'mahaffy’s': 20612, '‘many': 20613, 'francesca': 20614, 'progrès': 20615, 'tragédie': 20616, 'tuned': 20617, 'refluent': 20618, 'tides': 20619, 'consecration': 20620, 'athos': 20621, 'lesbos': 20622, 'liberating': 20623, 'kindles': 20624, 'souled': 20625, 'byron’s': 20626, 'ruggedness': 20627, 'sandpaper': 20628, 'platonist': 20629, 'opportunist': 20630, 'exalted': 20631, 'skittles': 20632, 'broadcloth': 20633, 'meynell': 20634, '‘moment’s': 20635, 'blots': 20636, 'freeman': 20637, 'hawking': 20638, 'jewry': 20639, '‘noble': 20640, 'gloriana': 20641, 'cowley': 20642, 'inaugurated': 20643, 'centlivre': 20644, 'phillis': 20645, 'esther': 20646, 'vanhomrigh': 20647, 'vanessa': 20648, 'patroness': 20649, 'hemans': 20650, 'gifford': 20651, 'belles': 20652, 'nikè': 20653, 'caro’s': 20654, 'château': 20655, 'localized': 20656, 'saint’s': 20657, 'réseuil': 20658, 'one—of': 20659, 'sévigné': 20660, 'eliot’s': 20661, 'ross’s': 20662, 'd’esprit': 20663, 'staël': 20664, '“il': 20665, 'société': 20666, 'dîner': 20667, '‘vanity': 20668, '“': 20669, '“father': 20670, '‘st': 20671, '—we': 20672, 'gordon’s': 20673, '‘plain': 20674, 'thinking’': 20675, 'arous’d': 20676, 'littérateurs': 20677, 'gentlemen’s': 20678, '‘out': 20679, '‘got': 20680, '‘wudsworth': 20681, 'ter’ble': 20682, 't’': 20683, 'upo’': 20684, 'li’le': 20685, 'wudsworth’s': 20686, 'bride’s': 20687, 'song’s': 20688, 'böhme': 20689, '‘bring': 20690, 'tzŭ’s': 20691, 'recognizing': 20692, 'quelqu’un': 20693, 'him—a': 20694, 'meredith’s': 20695, 'dobson’s': 20696, 'harte’s': 20697, 'dénoûment': 20698, 'slab': 20699, 'medallion': 20700, 'libel': 20701, 'rajah': 20702, 'koolapoor': 20703, 'threading': 20704, 'thickly': 20705, 'irremediable': 20706, 'vibrate': 20707, 'cassia': 20708, 'unsealed': 20709, 'casuality': 20710, "trouble'": 20711, 'taints': 20712, 'perversity': 20713, 'surrendering': 20714, 'agnosticism': 20715, 'routine': 20716, 'indicted': 20717, 'perverse': 20718, 'wilfully': 20719, "'sorrow": 20720, 'explore': 20721, 'meted': 20722, 'emotionally': 20723, 'indivisible': 20724, 'sensitiveness': 20725, 'pictorially': 20726, 'cloy': 20727, "'month": 20728, "'heights": 20729, 'competent': 20730, 'garnish': 20731, "magdalen's": 20732, 'condemns': 20733, "art'": 20734, 'defines': 20735, 'flamelike': 20736, 'pauper': 20737, 'hedonists': 20738, 'seigneur': 20739, 'degout': 20740, 'nazareth': 20741, 'isaiah': 20742, 'prefigure': 20743, 'frescoes': 20744, "winter's": 20745, 'mal': 20746, 'lancelot': 20747, 'tannhauser': 20748, 'transmission': 20749, 'naivete': 20750, 'dignus': 20751, 'mint': 20752, "prisoners'": 20753, 'publican': 20754, 'gnomic': 20755, 'swine': 20756, 'squandering': 20757, 'conformitatum': 20758, 'imitatio': 20759, 'emmaus': 20760, 'beadle': 20761, 'reformations': 20762, 'looker': 20763, 'zanies': 20764, 'jeering': 20765, 'linnaeus': 20766, 'brooms': 20767, "'pour": 20768, 'existe': 20769, 'detention': 20770, 'unhappily': 20771, '0a': 20772, "chancellor's": 20773, 'wrongly': 20774, 'rubenstein': 20775, 'crumpled': 20776, 'reveries': 20777, 'abstracted': 20778, 'ronald': 20779, "girls'": 20780, 'connoisseurs': 20781, 'clustered': 20782, 'reins': 20783, 'accoutrements': 20784, "richmond's": 20785, 'electra': 20786, 'stanhope': 20787, 'enchantments': 20788, 'legros': 20789, 'strides': 20790, 'tissot': 20791, 'lateran': 20792, 'civic': 20793, 'cheeky': 20794, "saunders'": 20795, 'depended': 20796, 'spa': 20797, "'passably": 20798, 'diaper': 20799, 'crinolines': 20800, 'delaroche': 20801, 'coloristes': 20802, 'amsterdam': 20803, 'chiaroscuro': 20804, '74': 20805, 'athenaeum': 20806, 'monopolising': 20807, 'selwyn': 20808, 'audible': 20809, "'sweet": 20810, 'refreshments': 20811, "mantegna's": 20812, 'outlined': 20813, 'shading': 20814, 'commercialism': 20815, 'simonds': 20816, "simonds'": 20817, 'emery': 20818, "walker's": 20819, 'abbreviations': 20820, 'binders': 20821, 'paste': 20822, 'employer': 20823, 'capricious': 20824, 'tomorrow': 20825, "elizabeth's": 20826, 'defile': 20827, 'option': 20828, 'grundy': 20829, 'pecuniary': 20830, 'petronius': 20831, 'coerced': 20832, 'prurient': 20833, "gentleman'": 20834, "editor'": 20835, 'conscienceless': 20836, 'clericalis': 20837, 'disciplina': 20838, 'conceiving': 20839, "'lots": 20840, 'intending': 20841, 'offensively': 20842, 'vulgarly': 20843, 'alliterative': 20844, "'impudent": 20845, 'abusive': 20846, 'tediousness': 20847, "indian's": 20848, 'sixpenny': 20849, 'kiosks': 20850, 'capucines': 20851, 'mamilius': 20852, 'immaterial': 20853, 'actable': 20854, '170': 20855, '172': 20856, 'accusing': 20857, '188': 20858, '190': 20859, "plato's": 20860, '193a': 20861, '193b': 20862, '193c': 20863, "plutarch's": 20864, 'mythopoeic': 20865, '197a': 20866, '197b': 20867, '198a': 20868, 'aegis': 20869, '198b': 20870, '199': 20871, '200a': 20872, '200b': 20873, '203': 20874, '205': 20875, "historian's": 20876, "birds'": 20877, "'89": 20878, '253': 20879, "worker's": 20880, "goldsmiths'": 20881, '317': 20882, 'librairie': 20883, 'londres': 20884, '328a': 20885, 'chiswick': 20886, '328b': 20887, '80': 20888, 'graffiti': 20889, "d'italia": 20890, '682': 20891, '291': 20892, '331': 20893, 'monitor': 20894, '56': 20895, 'waifs': 20896, '332': 20897, 'xl': 20898, '264': 20899, '249': 20900, '151': 20901, '1645': 20902, '7385': 20903, "'give": 20904, '4056': 20905, "algernon's": 20906, 'luxuriously': 20907, 'pint': 20908, 'flirts': 20909, 'unromantic': 20910, 'aunts': 20911, 'scrapes': 20912, 'sententiously': 20913, 'harbury': 20914, 'astounded': 20915, 'investments': 20916, 'bloxham': 20917, 'locality': 20918, 'brighton': 20919, 'cheerily': 20920, 'trot': 20921, 'hertfordshire': 20922, 'commended': 20923, 'reclaim': 20924, "prism's": 20925, 'egeria': 20926, "jack's": 20927, 'emigrating': 20928, 'sprinkling': 20929, 'immersion': 20930, 'reconciliation': 20931, "ernest's": 20932, 'devotedly': 20933, 'meditatively': 20934, 'entrapped': 20935, 'entanglement': 20936, 'lumps': 20937, 'coughs': 20938, 'solicitors': 20939, 'funds': 20940, 'surfaces': 20941, 'detain': 20942, 'esteemed': 20943, 'deposited': 20944, 'autobiographers': 20945, 'frontiers': 20946, 'suppliant': 20947, "'humor'": 20948, 'kit': 20949, 'motherhood': 20950, 'damnable': 20951, "'de": 20952, "profundis'": 20953, 'carey': 20954, 'clarity': 20955, 'boasted': 20956, 'jackson': 20957, 'lancet': 20958, 'makings': 20959, 'grandiose': 20960, 'payn': 20961, 'adept': 20962, 'hunts': 20963, 'detective': 20964, 'phaeton': 20965, 'chromolithographic': 20966, 'prattles': 20967, 'immolated': 20968, 'shins': 20969, 'romanticist': 20970, 'bragelonne': 20971, 'resonant': 20972, 'andromeda': 20973, "crawley's": 20974, 'newcome': 20975, 'newcomer': 20976, 'orientalism': 20977, 'crusades': 20978, 'mahomedan': 20979, 'misinterpreting': 20980, 'commandment': 20981, 'blurring': 20982, 'bronchitis': 20983, 'blotches': 20984, 'daubignys': 20985, 'monets': 20986, 'pissaros': 20987, 'hokusai': 20988, 'hokkei': 20989, 'pediments': 20990, 'rouged': 20991, 'removal': 20992, 'horsemonger': 20993, 'circonstance': 20994, 'attenuante': 20995, 'hablot': 20996, 'familiarly': 20997, 'chances': 20998, 'inmates': 20999, '1844': 21000, 'tasmanian': 21001, 'eardley': 21002, 'paradis': 21003, 'artificiels': 21004, 'eaters': 21005, '1852': 21006, 'blessington': 21007, 'berlioz': 21008, 'relates': 21009, 'monica': 21010, 'littlemore': 21011, 'snapdragon': 21012, 'benign': 21013, 'pegasus': 21014, 'tettix': 21015, 'lippo': 21016, 'lippi': 21017, 'mildred': 21018, 'tresham': 21019, 'spawn': 21020, 'setebos': 21021, 'sebald': 21022, 'strafford': 21023, 'counterpoint': 21024, 'surfaced': 21025, 'danaoi': 21026, 'bobbing': 21027, 'rages': 21028, 'sunsetting': 21029, 'monna': 21030, 'cirque': 21031, 'webs': 21032, 'borgias': 21033, 'cowls': 21034, 'glutton': 21035, 'harpies': 21036, 'ghibelline': 21037, 'dropsy': 21038, 'adamo': 21039, 'coiner': 21040, 'gush': 21041, 'casentine': 21042, 'sinon': 21043, 'smites': 21044, 'turreted': 21045, 'nimrod': 21046, 'argenti': 21047, 'swims': 21048, 'cocytus': 21049, 'bocca': 21050, 'alberigo': 21051, 'repelled': 21052, 'droppings': 21053, 'bazaars': 21054, 'untried': 21055, 'imposing': 21056, 'eckermann': 21057, 'cosmopolitanism': 21058, 'infessura': 21059, '1485': 21060, 'appian': 21061, 'outworn': 21062, 'niccola': 21063, 'pomps': 21064, 'chanced': 21065, 'transfused': 21066, 'vitruvius': 21067, 'cosmography': 21068, 'colyns': 21069, 'weigel': 21070, 'amman': 21071, 'soiree': 21072, 'oui': 21073, "m'a": 21074, 'ferai': 21075, 'miroirs': 21076, 'soif': 21077, "qu'est": 21078, 'dire': 21079, 'blancs': 21080, 'myrtes': 21081, 'cypres': 21082, 'dores': 21083, 'quelquefois': 21084, "d'oiseaux": 21085, 'merveilleux': 21086, 'aucun': 21087, 'cinquante': 21088, "l'a": 21089, 'mis': 21090, 'terribles': 21091, 'mourrait': 21092, 'battement': 21093, "d'ailes": 21094, 'vus': 21095, 'calme': 21096, 'bijoux': 21097, 'perles': 21098, 'quatre': 21099, 'dirait': 21100, 'lunes': 21101, "d'or": 21102, "l'eau": 21103, 'opales': 21104, 'deviennent': 21105, 'elles': 21106, 'voir': 21107, 'hommes': 21108, 'doivent': 21109, 'tresors': 21110, 'coupes': 21111, "d'ambre": 21112, 'pommes': 21113, 'viennent': 21114, 'sauf': 21115, "n'as": 21116, "l'ai": 21117, 'regardes': 21118, 'etaient': 21119, 'fermes': 21120, 'remue': 21121, 'cette': 21122, 'vipere': 21123, 'etrange': 21124, 'mort': 21125, 'puis': 21126, 'chiens': 21127, "d'ivoire": 21128, 'vue': 21129, "m'avais": 21130, 'mystere': 21131, "l'amour": 21132, "bishop's": 21133, "cardinal's": 21134, 'expiation': 21135, 'expiated': 21136, "'thy": 21137, '1st': 21138, 'hornton': 21139, '10s': 21140, 'extras': 21141, 'chambre': 21142, 'coucher': 21143, 'chaque': 21144, 'architect': 21145, 'strata': 21146, '1900': 21147, 'grissell': 21148, 'thyself’': 21149, '‘exotic': 21150, '‘macbeth’': 21151, 'granville': 21152, 'carlton': 21153, 'lunching': 21154, 'inadmissible': 21155, 'saville': 21156, 'it—and': 21157, 'mineral': 21158, 'threats': 21159, 'infatuation': 21160, 'repents': 21161, 'royston': 21162, 'embarrassment': 21163, 'dishonours': 21164, 'mother—that': 21165, 'sullenly': 21166, 'yawns': 21167, 'grandmothers': 21168, 'ladyship’s': 21169, 'publicly': 21170, 'intruding': 21171, 'ignominy': 21172, 'nottinghamshire': 21173, 'bulwark': 21174, 'domitian': 21175, 'shamelessly': 21176, 'encyclopædias': 21177, '“born': 21178, 'humiliating': 21179, 'arnold’s': 21180, 'mansions': 21181, 'hackneyed': 21182, 'vulgarest': 21183, 'crawley’s': 21184, 'cuyp': 21185, 'rapt': 21186, 'sly': 21187, 'forger': 21188, '‘pen': 21189, 'burney': 21190, 'shrank': 21191, 'egomet': 21192, 'bonmot': 21193, 'affectations': 21194, 'prefiguring': 21195, '‘sweet': 21196, 'majolica': 21197, 'citron': 21198, 'cornelian': 21199, 'jupiter': 21200, 'stumps': 21201, 'congresses': 21202, 'learnedly': 21203, 'spectral': 21204, 'rumble': 21205, 'tremulously': 21206, 'exaggerations': 21207, '‘ode': 21208, 'strychnine': 21209, 'quicken': 21210, '£18': 21211, 'complacency': 21212, 'petticoat': 21213, 'remorseful': 21214, 'dreamily': 21215, 'irons': 21216, 'thetis': 21217, 'toilet': 21218, 'κάθαρσις': 21219, 'spiritualises': 21220, 'spiritualise': 21221, 'initiates': 21222, 'tannhäuser': 21223, 'poaching': 21224, 'synthetic': 21225, 'chambertin': 21226, 'rubinstein': 21227, 'melancholies': 21228, 'pulses': 21229, 'ezzelin': 21230, 'crinkled': 21231, 'manon': 21232, 'lescaut': 21233, 'brabantio': 21234, 'drunkenness': 21235, 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'he—knew': 22200, '—she': 22201, '—before': 22202, 'born—for': 22203, 'child—she': 22204, 'terribly—she': 22205, '—after': 22206, 'me—save': 22207, 'dared—': 22208, 'me—i’ll': 22209, 'romantic—at': 22210, 'surveying': 22211, 'world—as': 22212, 'at—under': 22213, 'sealing': 22214, 'you—start': 22215, 'revoir': 22216, 'travels—not': 22217, 'shawl—on': 22218, 'say—': 22219, 'repaired': 22220, 'gerald—': 22221, 'women—yes': 22222, 'taunts': 22223, 'love—and': 22224, 'mother—oh': 22225, '—than': 22226, 'you—the': 22227, 'body—that': 22228, 'palm’s': 22229, 'martyred': 22230, 'hard—he': 22231, 'sorrow—oh': 22232, 'her—oh': 22233, 'cudgels': 22234, 'prude': 22235, 'promptitude': 22236, 'legitimise': 22237, 'harborough': 22238, 'shamed': 22239, 'that—is': 22240, 'ready—yes': 22241, 'rachel—and': 22242, 'one’s—': 22243, '109': 22244, 'handicraftman': 22245, '197': 22246, '213': 22247, 'reprinting': 22248, 'borné': 22249, 'untrustworthy': 22250, '‘ten': 22251, 'o’clock’': 22252, 'ethically': 22253, 'retrieve': 22254, '‘miss': 22255, '‘carlyle': 22256, 'edgeways': 22257, 'overloaded': 22258, 'aimée': 22259, 'lowther': 22260, '‘historical': 22261, 'facet': 22262, 'soberness': 22263, 'unparalleled': 22264, 'protective': 22265, 'hindus': 22266, 'chronology': 22267, 'sandracottus': 22268, 'chandragupta': 22269, 'indo': 22270, 'germanic': 22271, 'offshoot': 22272, 'aryans': 22273, 'tibet': 22274, 'l’esprit': 22275, 'naît': 22276, 'meurt': 22277, 'fixe': 22278, 'intolerance': 22279, 'ascertaining': 22280, 'order—not': 22281, 'dialectics': 22282, 'progressing': 22283, 'imputed': 22284, 'nature—a': 22285, 'nessos': 22286, 'thales': 22287, 'outcries': 22288, 'xenophanes': 22289, 'heraclitos': 22290, 'pythagoras': 22291, '‘two': 22292, 'succumbed': 22293, 'darter’': 22294, 'inert': 22295, 'ruthlessness': 22296, 'ἄναξ': 22297, 'ἀδρῶν': 22298, 'refutation': 22299, 'predestines': 22300, 'covenant': 22301, '380': 22302, '388': 22303, '391': 22304, '‘whitewashing': 22305, 'catiline': 22306, 'clodius': 22307, 'eine': 22308, 'edle': 22309, 'gute': 22310, 'natur': 22311, 'aberrations': 22312, 'euhemeros': 22313, 'propound': 22314, 'panchaia': 22315, 'purported': 22316, 'detailing': 22317, 'rationalise': 22318, 'residuum': 22319, 'nephele': 22320, 'mystically': 22321, 'dragon’s': 22322, 'actæon': 22323, 'kennel': 22324, 'roncesvalles': 22325, 'hissarlik': 22326, 'kernel': 22327, 'plausibility': 22328, 'palaiphatos': 22329, 'strabo': 22330, 'inconceivable': 22331, 'ennius': 22332, 'hellenicism': 22333, 'minucius': 22334, 'formidable': 22335, 'assaults': 22336, 'disproved': 22337, 'purifying': 22338, 'comprising': 22339, 'unify': 22340, 'efficient': 22341, 'antecedent': 22342, 'φυσικὸν': 22343, 'κριτήριον': 22344, 'τέχνη': 22345, 'διδαχῇ': 22346, 'οὐκ': 22347, 'ἐνδέχομαι': 22348, 'ηὴν': 22349, 'ἀρχήν': 22350, 'wer': 22351, 'neuri': 22352, 'bitch': 22353, 'scythian': 22354, 'echidna': 22355, 'massagetæ': 22356, 'kimmerians': 22357, 'possessors': 22358, 'φρενοβλαβεῖς': 22359, 'helen’s': 22360, 'alcmæonidæ': 22361, 'haters': 22362, 'μισοτύραννοι': 22363, 'alcmæon': 22364, 'rhampsinitus': 22365, 'κατίσαι': 22366, 'ἐπ’': 22367, 'οἰκήματος': 22368, 'rhodopis': 22369, '134': 22370, 'μάχη': 22371, 'ξύλοισι': 22372, 'καρτερή': 22373, 'stadia': 22374, 'ἔτι': 22375, 'ἄνθρωπον': 22376, 'ἐόντα': 22377, 'rationalises': 22378, 'incantations': 22379, 'magians': 22380, 'melampos': 22381, 'prophecy’': 22382, 'æginetan': 22383, 'damia': 22384, 'auxesia': 22385, 'sacrilegious': 22386, 'nicolaos': 22387, 'aneristos': 22388, 'outraged': 22389, 'avenging': 22390, 'penalties': 22391, 'doers': 22392, 'retaliation': 22393, 'outrages': 22394, 'commissariat': 22395, 'eurystheus': 22396, 'minos': 22397, 'alcibiades': 22398, 'gylippus': 22399, 'prediction': 22400, 'ultra': 22401, 'intermingle': 22402, 'preternatural': 22403, 'geological': 22404, 'θεὸς': 22405, 'ἀπὸ': 22406, 'μηχανῆς': 22407, 'chieftain': 22408, 'τεθεραπευκότα': 22409, 'δῆμον': 22410, 'mycenean': 22411, 'pitanate': 22412, 'cohort': 22413, 'evincing': 22414, '‘uncritical': 22415, 'baselessness': 22416, 'liberators': 22417, 'hipparchos’': 22418, 'latter’s': 22419, 'rivet': 22420, 'tyrant’s': 22421, 'corroborates': 22422, 'first’': 22423, 'paraphernalia': 22424, 'sieges': 22425, 'inculcation': 22426, 'dispense': 22427, 'purge': 22428, 'undermine': 22429, 'bell’': 22430, 'età': 22431, 'dell’': 22432, 'auro': 22433, '‘without': 22434, 'discoverable': 22435, 'ἀφνειός': 22436, 'disunited': 22437, '‘o’er': 22438, 'partially': 22439, 'agamemnon’s': 22440, 'adjacent': 22441, 'ætolians': 22442, 'acarnanians': 22443, 'piracy': 22444, 'marauder': 22445, 'pirate': 22446, 'belts': 22447, 'gymnastic': 22448, 'contests': 22449, 'adducing': 22450, 'caution': 22451, 'magnitude': 22452, 'armament': 22453, 'mycenæ': 22454, 'lacedæmon': 22455, 'delian': 22456, 'sepulture': 22457, 'ἄστυ': 22458, 'sanctity': 22459, 'aggrandisement': 22460, 'ruin’': 22461, 'allurements': 22462, 'invader': 22463, 'immigration': 22464, 'attica': 22465, 'dryness': 22466, 'premised': 22467, 'agathyrsi': 22468, 'paternity': 22469, 'polyandry': 22470, 'umbilical': 22471, 'νεοττιὰ': 22472, 'ἴδια': 22473, 'investigators': 22474, 'eridanos': 22475, 'piromis': 22476, 'bacchæ': 22477, 'impious': 22478, 'pentheus—a': 22479, 'philistine—teiresias': 22480, 'müller': 22481, 'inclosed': 22482, 'zeus’': 22483, 'μηρός': 22484, 'ὅμηρος': 22485, 'however—for': 22486, 'philology—we': 22487, 'recreating': 22488, 'exogamy': 22489, 'beeves': 22490, 'coined': 22491, 'amathusian': 22492, 'instituted': 22493, 'ariadne’s': 22494, 'asparagus': 22495, 'perigune': 22496, 'agnation': 22497, '‘couvee’': 22498, 'zealand': 22499, 'totem': 22500, 'fetish': 22501, 'ascribes': 22502, 'rewrites': 22503, 'peloponnesus': 22504, '‘spiritual’': 22505, 'καλόν': 22506, '‘nature': 22507, 'maketh': 22508, 'vain’': 22509, 'asserts': 22510, 'φύσει': 22511, 'πολιτικός': 22512, '‘armed': 22513, 'wife’': 22514, 'ἰσότης': 22515, 'ἄρχειν': 22516, 'ἄρχεσθαι': 22517, 'conglomeration': 22518, 'patriarchal': 22519, '‘federal': 22520, 'consolidated': 22521, 'empire’': 22522, 'prohibiting': 22523, 'uterine': 22524, 'cecrops': 22525, 'mothers’': 22526, 'monandry': 22527, 'explorer': 22528, 'πολιτείων': 22529, '‘disk': 22530, 'iphitus': 22531, 'lycurgean': 22532, 'οὐδεῖς': 22533, 'μέγας': 22534, 'κακὸς': 22535, 'ἰχθῦς': 22536, 'ἰῶμεν': 22537, 'ἀθήνας': 22538, 'botticean': 22539, 'virgins': 22540, 'deluges': 22541, 'coalesce': 22542, 'approbation': 22543, 'lubbock': 22544, 'natura': 22545, 'rerum': 22546, 'causeless': 22547, '‘invariable': 22548, 'familiarised': 22549, 'rotation': 22550, 'strophe': 22551, 'antistrophe': 22552, 'corcyrean': 22553, 'sameness': 22554, 'imperious': 22555, 'taskmaster': 22556, 'même': 22557, 'καθαρὸς': 22558, 'πίναξ': 22559, 'decay—a': 22560, 'nominal': 22561, '‘city': 22562, 'sun’': 22563, 'method—a': 22564, '‘study': 22565, '‘differentiation': 22566, 'function’': 22567, '‘survival': 22568, 'fittest’': 22569, 'τέλος': 22570, 'conclusion—that': 22571, 'κατὰ': 22572, 'πολλῶν': 22573, 'παρὰ': 22574, 'πολλά': 22575, '‘viper': 22576, '‘race': 22577, 'climate—in': 22578, '‘cloud': 22579, 'city’': 22580, '‘constitution': 22581, 'city—': 22582, 'ἀγαθῶν': 22583, 'ἀμείνους': 22584, 'ὠφελιμῶν': 22585, 'ὠφελιμωτέρους': 22586, 'ἀεὶ': 22587, 'τοὺς': 22588, 'ἐκγόνους': 22589, 'γίγνεσθαι': 22590, '‘plague': 22591, 'τύραννος': 22592, 'προστατικῆς': 22593, 'ῥίζης': 22594, 'κτῆμα': 22595, 'ἀεί': 22596, 'ἀγώνισμα': 22597, 'παραχρῆμα': 22598, '‘idea’': 22599, 'office—how': 22600, 'show—of': 22601, 'historians—i': 22602, 'time—none': 22603, '‘visions': 22604, 'supernatural’': 22605, 'δεισιδαιμονίας': 22606, 'ἀγεννοῦς': 22607, 'τερατείας': 22608, 'γυναικώδους': 22609, '‘more': 22610, 'τύχη': 22611, 'scipio’s': 22612, '‘shows': 22613, 'world—even': 22614, 'improbable—which': 22615, 'empire—the': 22616, 'ἰδιότητι': 22617, 'πολιτείας': 22618, 'δεισιδαιμονίᾳ': 22619, 'vatican—strange': 22620, '—in': 22621, '‘sacred': 22622, 'thinker—yet': 22623, 'polybius’s': 22624, 'διὰ': 22625, 'τί': 22626, 'πως': 22627, 'τίνος': 22628, 'χάριν': 22629, 'ἀγώνισμα': 22630, 'μάθημα': 22631, '‘history': 22632, 'bœotia': 22633, 'οὐ': 22634, 'ἀλλ’': 22635, 'αἰτία': 22636, 'ἀρχὴ': 22637, 'πρόφασις': 22638, 'influence—particulars': 22639, 'd’alembert’s': 22640, 'μονοειδὲς': 22641, 'συντάξεως': 22642, 'method—i': 22643, 'παράδειγμα': 22644, '‘eye': 22645, 'taste—as': 22646, 'nabis’s': 22647, 'manœuvres': 22648, '‘written': 22649, 'parthenidæ': 22650, 'slaves’': 22651, 'lacedæmonians': 22652, 'scævola': 22653, 'it—how': 22654, '‘spectators': 22655, '‘like': 22656, 'attica’s': 22657, 'σχιστὴ': 22658, 'ὁδός': 22659, '‘mars': 22660, 'muses’': 22661, 'antæus': 22662, 'mommsen’s': 22663, 'ἅλδος': 22664, 'ὁ': 22665, 'μανούτιος': 22666, 'ῥωμαῖος': 22667, 'φιλέλλην': 22668, 'art’': 22669, 'beauty—any': 22670, 'century—still': 22671, '‘classical’': 22672, '‘romantic’': 22673, 'harmony—yet': 22674, '1789': 22675, 'centuries—and': 22676, 'came—a': 22677, 'this—michael': 22678, 'alone’': 22679, '‘blows': 22680, 'brotherhood—among': 22681, 'you—had': 22682, 'genius—doing': 22683, 'personnalité': 22684, 'nature—that': 22685, 'morris—the': 22686, 'working—what': 22687, 'inspiration—have': 22688, '‘emotion': 22689, 'tranquillity’': 22690, '‘able': 22691, 'fever’': 22692, 'teaching—‘everybody': 22693, 'creation—of': 22694, 'camelot—all': 22695, 'calliope’s': 22696, '‘mist': 22697, 'rome—do': 22698, 'century—the': 22699, 'art—found': 22700, 'goethe’s': 22701, 'only—the': 22702, '‘sensuous': 22703, 'art—what': 22704, 'uses—whether': 22705, 'glories—knowing': 22706, 'music—for': 22707, 'criticism—what': 22708, 'n’avoir': 22709, 'passion—the': 22710, 'that—but': 22711, 'it—nay': 22712, 'poesy’s': 22713, 'deep—messages': 22714, 'art—and': 22715, 'poem—poems': 22716, 'style—dante': 22717, 'shakespeare—are': 22718, 'leaguered': 22719, 'might—if': 22720, 'peace—at': 22721, 'nation’s': 22722, 'spirit—from': 22723, 'things’—i': 22724, 'foreshadowed—as': 22725, '—by': 22726, 'life—for': 22727, 'us—whether': 22728, 'him—as': 22729, 'chartres—where': 22730, 'life—on': 22731, 'moments’': 22732, 'worker’s': 22733, 'merely—that': 22734, 'enough—but': 22735, '‘design': 22736, 'touch’': 22737, 'men—although': 22738, 'daughters—a': 22739, 'saw—and': 22740, 'dandies—were': 22741, 'schools—not': 22742, '‘symphony': 22743, 'away—a': 22744, 'lesson—the': 22745, 'boys’': 22746, 'those’': 22747, 'modern’': 22748, '‘life': 22749, 'realm—colour': 22750, 'america—all': 22751, 'carpet—being': 22752, 'gradation': 22753, 'colours—the': 22754, 'space—the': 22755, 'used—he': 22756, 'florence—there': 22757, '‘dutch': 22758, '‘piece': 22759, 'dishonour—but': 22760, 'mark’s': 22761, '’—ruskin': 22762, 'ghiberti': 22763, 'us—its': 22764, 'overestimate—not': 22765, 'avoid—grotesque': 22766, '‘japanese': 22767, 'china—a': 22768, 'oxford—‘that': 22769, 'street—a': 22770, 'field—when': 22771, 'plank—a': 22772, 'abruptly—in': 22773, '‘diggers': 22774, 'out—leader': 22775, 'me—but': 22776, 'hands—the': 22777, 'beauty—for': 22778, 'it—on': 22779, 'velasquez—they': 22780, 'art—i': 22781, 'day—æschylus': 22782, 'pretentious—the': 22783, 'pisa—nino': 22784, 'light—the': 22785, 'saw—fairest': 22786, 'art—in': 22787, 'love—able': 22788, 'far—seen': 22789, '‘ready': 22790, 'art—facts': 22791, 'handicraftsmen—the': 22792, 'smith—on': 22793, 'facile—often': 22794, 'facile—subjects': 22795, '‘well—shakespearean': 22796, '‘landscape': 22797, 'perfect—at': 22798, 'banalités': 22799, '‘slaves': 22800, 'ring’': 22801, 'done—graceful': 22802, 'précieuses': 22803, 'école': 22804, 'frères': 22805, '‘us': 22806, 'neighbour’s': 22807, '‘evil': 22808, '‘seeing': 22809, '‘master': 22810, 'days’': 22811, '‘stretch': 22812, '‘before': 22813, 'æschylus’': 22814, '‘romance': 22815, 'coemptionem': 22816, 'αὔτη': 22817, 'πολιτειῶν': 22818, 'ἀνακύκλωσις': 22819, 'αὔτς': 22820, 'φύσεως': 22821, 'οἰκονομία': 22822, 'χωρὶς': 22823, 'ὀργῆς': 22824, 'ἢ': 22825, 'φθόνου': 22826, 'ποιούμεηος': 22827, 'τὴν': 22828, 'ἀπόφασιν': 22829, 'σύστασις': 22830, 'αὔξησις': 22831, 'ἀκμή': 22832, 'μεταβολὴ': 22833, 'ἐις': 22834, 'τοὔμπαλιν': 22835, 'παραδοξάτον': 22836, 'καθ’': 22837, 'ἡμᾶς': 22838, 'ἔργον': 22839, 'τύχη': 22840, 'συνετέλεσε': 22841, 'ἔστι': 22842, 'πάντα': 22843, 'τὰ': 22844, 'γνωριζόμενα': 22845, 'μέρη': 22846, 'οἰκουμένης': 22847, 'ὑπὸ': 22848, 'μίαν': 22849, 'ἀρχὴν': 22850, 'δυναστείαν': 22851, 'ἀγαγεῖν': 22852, 'ὂ': 22853, 'πρότερον': 22854, 'οὐχ': 22855, 'εὑρίσκεται': 22856, 'γεγονός': 22857, 'ἐπεὶ': 22858, 'ψιλῶς': 22859, 'λεγόμενον': 22860, 'αὐτὄ': 22861, 'γεγονὸς': 22862, 'ψυχαγωγεῖ': 22863, 'μέν': 22864, 'ὠφελεῖ': 22865, 'οὐδέν': 22866, '·': 22867, 'προστεθείσης': 22868, 'αἰτίας': 22869, 'ἔγκαρπος': 22870, 'ἱστορίας': 22871, 'γίγνεται': 22872, 'χρῆσις': 22873, 'peloponnesain': 22874, 'redmond': 22875, '57–59': 22876, 'carlos': 22877, 'blacker': 22878, '87': 22879, 'pinafores': 22880, 'courtship': 22881, 'relations”': 22882, 'coquette': 22883, 'curtseys': 22884, 'trifling': 22885, 'saw—ah': 22886, 'souci': 22887, '“last': 22888, 'agility': 22889, 'disrespect': 22890, '“thank': 22891, 'seamstresses': 22892, 'ghetto': 22893, 'thimble': 22894, 'better”': 22895, 'ornithology': 22896, 'steeple': 22897, 'chirruped': 22898, '“have': 22899, 'bulrushes': 22900, 'water’s': 22901, 'tumbler': 22902, 'grate': 22903, '“alas': 22904, 'jeweller': 22905, 'firewood': 22906, 'that”': 22907, '“heave': 22908, 'hoy': 22909, 'egypt”': 22910, 'baalbec': 22911, 'swooped': 22912, 'rosier': 22913, 'skated': 22914, 'baker’s': 22915, 'litttle': 22916, 'overseer': 22917, 'foundry': 22918, '“bring': 22919, 'holm': 22920, '“night': 22921, 'suffers—what': 22922, 'marketplace': 22923, 'her”': 22924, 'mermaiden': 22925, 'yellower': 22926, 'nipped': 22927, '“death': 22928, '“sing': 22929, 'grove—“that': 22930, 'ebbed': 22931, 'river—pale': 22932, 'rose’s': 22933, 'name”': 22934, 'reddest': 22935, '“ungrateful': 22936, 'buckles': 22937, 'has”': 22938, 'ogre': 22939, 'trespassers': 22940, '“spring': 22941, 'slates': 22942, '“climb': 22943, '“nay': 22944, 'rubber': 22945, 'canaries': 22946, '“nothing': 22947, 'alighting': 22948, 'gilly': 22949, 'shepherds’': 22950, 'crocuses': 22951, 'ladysmock': 22952, 'clove': 22953, 'nosegay': 22954, '“‘real': 22955, '“sometimes': 22956, 'milch': 22957, 'pears': 22958, '“‘there': 22959, '“‘you': 22960, 'storied': 22961, '“‘but': 22962, 'porridge': 22963, 'anybody’s': 22964, '“‘how': 22965, '“‘lots': 22966, 'also’': 22967, '“‘why': 22968, '“‘and': 22969, '“‘we': 22970, '“‘that': 22971, '‘friendship': 22972, '“‘they': 22973, 'burgomaster’s': 22974, '“‘buy': 22975, 'spokes': 22976, '“‘quite': 22977, 'sorrowfully': 22978, '“‘my': 22979, 'day’': 22980, 'nailing': 22981, '‘would': 22982, 'creepers': 22983, 'trudged': 22984, 'milestone': 22985, '“‘upon': 22986, 'harder': 22987, 'clapping': 22988, '“‘have': 22989, 'cheery': 22990, '“‘ah': 22991, 'errands': 22992, '‘besides': 22993, '“‘who': 22994, '“’what': 22995, '“‘the': 22996, '“‘all': 22997, 'trudging': 22998, 'goatherds': 22999, '“‘as': 23000, 'blacksmith': 23001, '’”': 23002, '“pooh”': 23003, 'whisk': 23004, 'paddling': 23005, 'overturned': 23006, 'barrow': 23007, 'rejoicings': 23008, 'princess’': 23009, '“your': 23010, 'picture”': 23011, '“white': 23012, 'rose”': 23013, 'cloudy': 23014, '“charming': 23015, 'firework': 23016, 'borealis': 23017, '“just': 23018, 'improves': 23019, 'prided': 23020, 'once—but': 23021, '“nonsense': 23022, 'cartridge': 23023, '“order': 23024, 'elections': 23025, '“quite': 23026, '“indeed': 23027, 'diameter': 23028, 'extraction': 23029, 'descent': 23030, '“pyrotechnic': 23031, 'canister': 23032, 'saying—what': 23033, 'corns': 23034, '“common': 23035, 'sustains': 23036, 'inferiority': 23037, '“very': 23038, 'choose”': 23039, 'beetles': 23040, 'about”': 23041, '“humbug': 23042, 'dignity”': 23043, '“bad': 23044, 'same”': 23045, 'recruit': 23046, '“really': 23047, 'breakfasting': 23048, '“conversation': 23049, '“somebody': 23050, '“arguments': 23051, 'bulrush': 23052, 'conversations': 23053, 'day”': 23054, 'webbed': 23055, 'waddle': 23056, '“otherwise': 23057, 'peaceable': 23058, 'condemning': 23059, 'humblest': 23060, 'feel”': 23061, '“come': 23062, 'mind”': 23063, 'here”': 23064, '“old': 23065, 'dignitaries': 23066, 'boil': 23067, 'boiled”': 23068, 'that—”': 23069, '“delightful': 23070, 'sticks”': 23071, 'ballantyne': 23072, 'tavistock': 23073, '2011': 23074, 'mongst': 23075, 'préfère': 23076, 'poètes': 23077, 'médecins': 23078, 'guérir': 23079, 'preëminently': 23080, 'oversweet': 23081, 'quireless': 23082, 'mastering': 23083, 'snowflakes': 23084, 'skepticism': 23085, 'arsène': 23086, 'ému': 23087, 'ianiculum': 23088, 'noiseless': 23089, 'furthest': 23090, 'downs': 23091, 'norseman': 23092, 'fiords': 23093, 'puny': 23094, 'victorious': 23095, 'waveless': 23096, 'shoreward': 23097, 'armoured': 23098, 'antlers': 23099, 'sheerest': 23100, 'swarm': 23101, 'billows': 23102, 'enclose': 23103, "norseman's": 23104, 'untied': 23105, "mirror's": 23106, 'waywardness': 23107, 'changelessness': 23108, 'roamed': 23109, 'uncurled': 23110, 'shrink': 23111, "moon's": 23112, "waves'": 23113, 'chequered': 23114, 'lybian': 23115, 'mumbled': 23116, "matins'": 23117, 'drawls': 23118, 'assent': 23119, 'mutter': 23120, 'uncased': 23121, 'festo': 23122, 'potius': 23123, 'neptuni': 23124, 'faciam': 23125, "neptune's": 23126, 'campagna': 23127, 'cnidos': 23128, 'shored': 23129, 'cyclades': 23130, 'surge': 23131, 'dirge': 23132, 'deface': 23133, 'flowerful': 23134, 'retouch': 23135, 'retrace': 23136, "cliff's": 23137, 'thirsted': 23138, "o'ergrown": 23139, "beggar's": 23140, 'screened': 23141, 'fondly': 23142, 'communing': 23143, 'spurring': 23144, 'headgear': 23145, "trumpet's": 23146, "hill's": 23147, 'darkling': 23148, 'uncloses': 23149, 'aspen': 23150, 'recked': 23151, 'stormless': 23152, 'summertide': 23153, "tide's": 23154, 'raves': 23155, 'twixt': 23156, 'inherit': 23157, 'wingless': 23158, "footsteps'": 23159, 'treetops': 23160, 'meseems': 23161, 'recalling': 23162, 'byes': 23163, 'wherry': 23164, 'prairies': 23165, 'unbefriended': 23166, 'cloudlets': 23167, 'caresses': 23168, 'cavernous': 23169, "waters'": 23170, "moonlight's": 23171, "ripple's": 23172, 'unwarned': 23173, 'unloving': 23174, "memory's": 23175, 'yestermorn': 23176, 'sanded': 23177, "organ's": 23178, "music's": 23179, 'clefted': 23180, 'hillocks': 23181, 'hulls': 23182, 'unburied': 23183, 'sorrowful': 23184, 'fetterless': 23185, 'unclouded': 23186, 'faunus': 23187, 'cyclamens': 23188, 'creak': 23189, 'untrod': 23190, 'gossamers': 23191, 'unspent': 23192, "boat's": 23193, 'bulwarks': 23194, 'dubbed': 23195, 'brodeurs': 23196, "'passionate": 23197, 'rarities': 23198, 'stedman': 23199, '467': 23200, 'interleaving': 23201, 'mdcccciiii': 23202, 'sq': 23203, 'bibelot': 23204, 'mdccccv': 23205, 'quarto': 23206, 'assignment': 23207, 'permits': 23208, 'dealer': 23209, 'megargee': 23210, 'rittenhouse': 23211, 'wissahickon': 23212, 'brentano': 23213, 'autograph': 23214, 'oddity': 23215, "altho'": 23216, 'confessedly': 23217, 'newsy': 23218, 'briefer': 23219, 'viz': 23220, 'precipitated': 23221, 'reissued': 23222, 'undiscerning': 23223, 'conjectured': 23224, 'discountenanced': 23225, 'displeasure': 23226, 'lucciole': 23227, 'maidenhair': 23228, 'attest': 23229, 'lessen': 23230, 'supervising': 23231, 'reservations': 23232, 'harping': 23233, 'supposedly': 23234, 'causerie': 23235, 'trove': 23236, 'locust': 23237, '1795': 23238, 'tchernavitch': 23239, '1800': 23240, 'warming': 23241, 'plaguey': 23242, "maraloffski's": 23243, 'featherhead': 23244, "dmitri's": 23245, 'fiddlers': 23246, 'snowstorm': 23247, 'autumns': 23248, 'prodigals': 23249, 'darken': 23250, 'customers': 23251, 'halt': 23252, 'raggedly': 23253, 'clods': 23254, 'picket': 23255, 'harvests': 23256, 'enslaved': 23257, 'rascal': 23258, 'serfs': 23259, 'nabat': 23260, 'kalit': 23261, 'galilæan': 23262, 'insides': 23263, 'patients': 23264, 'curing': 23265, "surgeon's": 23266, 'accuser': 23267, 'stealth': 23268, 'bated': 23269, 'tocsin': 23270, 'trespasses': 23271, 'unsteady': 23272, 'olgiati': 23273, 'dotards': 23274, 'overthrow': 23275, 'dynasty': 23276, 'expiate': 23277, 'cleverest': 23278, 'kiev': 23279, 'warsaw': 23280, 'ferryman': 23281, 'samara': 23282, 'rehearsing': 23283, "players'": 23284, 'morsel': 23285, 'coquetting': 23286, 'imprisons': 23287, 'haul': 23288, 'haughtily': 23289, 'councils': 23290, 'gringoire': 23291, 'mismanage': 23292, 'significantly': 23293, 'snuffbox': 23294, 'cotelettes': 23295, "l'impériale": 23296, 'bourbon': 23297, 'omelettes': 23298, 'orleanists': 23299, "needn't": 23300, 'maladie': 23301, 'experiencing': 23302, 'colossus': 23303, 'canaille': 23304, 'scowl': 23305, 'implicate': 23306, 'governors': 23307, "marquis's": 23308, "dog's": 23309, "coward's": 23310, 'surplus': 23311, 'ingenuous': 23312, 'ban': 23313, 'communist': 23314, 'baltic': 23315, "victory's": 23316, 'snatch': 23317, 'windswept': 23318, 'conquerors': 23319, 'hireling': 23320, 'heroics': 23321, 'proclaim': 23322, 'tramples': 23323, 'scourges': 23324, 'blackest': 23325, 'stifles': 23326, 'staggers': 23327, 'vérité': 23328, 'ami': 23329, 'risked': 23330, 'sardonically': 23331, 'subversive': 23332, 'communal': 23333, 'incumbrance': 23334, 'stroganoff': 23335, "vera's": 23336, 'camarade': 23337, "highness's": 23338, 'moles': 23339, 'rococo': 23340, 'banishing': 23341, 'plotting': 23342, 'loaf': 23343, 'perilling': 23344, 'disobeyed': 23345, 'enquire': 23346, 'perilled': 23347, 'gorged': 23348, 'lusting': 23349, 'pelf': 23350, 'pared': 23351, 'dupe': 23352, 'traitress': 23353, 'canker': 23354, 'passwords': 23355, "traitor's": 23356, 'siberie': 23357, 'nerved': 23358, 'fledged': 23359, 'calledst': 23360, 'antechamber': 23361, 'czars': 23362, 'cancelled': 23363, 'amnestied': 23364, 'monopoly': 23365, 'overhears': 23366, 'quelle': 23367, 'bétise': 23368, 'threatens': 23369, 'taxed': 23370, 'kopeck': 23371, 'kot': 23372, 'cobbler': 23373, 'bon': 23374, 'potency': 23375, 'outweighs': 23376, 'dogging': 23377, 'democrat': 23378, 'tarnish': 23379, 'loosens': 23380, "fowler's": 23381, 'lures': 23382, 'limed': 23383, 'votaress': 23384, 'intercepts': 23385, 'hyphenation': 23386, 'standardised': 23387, 'amendments': 23388, "isaac'": 23389, "petouchof'": 23390, 'speaker’s': 23391, 'levée': 23392, 'smartest': 23393, 'carlsrühe': 23394, 'tartar': 23395, 'peeresses': 23396, 'chatted': 23397, 'affably': 23398, 'sceptics': 23399, 'were—not': 23400, 'escapades': 23401, 'privileges': 23402, 'credits': 23403, '‘introduce': 23404, 'psychic': 23405, '‘thanks': 23406, 'unbuttoning': 23407, 'ainsi': 23408, 'rascette': 23409, 'ambition—very': 23410, 'heart—’': 23411, '‘now': 23412, 'like—’': 23413, '‘comfort': 23414, 'flora’s’': 23415, 'awkwardly': 23416, 'spatulate': 23417, '‘absolutely': 23418, 'macloskie': 23419, 'menagerie': 23420, 'yours’': 23421, 'shipwreck': 23422, 'aversion': 23423, '‘extraordinary': 23424, 'thomas’s': 23425, 'charmed’': 23426, 'eyelashes': 23427, 'koloff': 23428, 'fermor’s': 23429, 'jump': 23430, 'pensively': 23431, 'voyage—’': 23432, 'deprecating': 23433, 'boulanger': 23434, 'sure’': 23435, 'plymdale’s': 23436, '‘another': 23437, '‘ladies': 23438, 'podgers’s': 23439, 'is—': 23440, 'card’': 23441, 'pasteboard': 23442, '103': 23443, 'alleys': 23444, 'eld': 23445, 'roadway': 23446, 'billy': 23447, 'scar': 23448, 'dawn’s': 23449, 'plush': 23450, 'slabs': 23451, 'moonstone': 23452, 'noel’s': 23453, 'crêpe': 23454, 'chine': 23455, 'proportioned—a': 23456, 'postponed': 23457, 'repugnance': 23458, 'issue—of': 23459, 'life—before': 23460, 'corroded': 23461, 'rant': 23462, 'pique': 23463, 'solemnity': 23464, 'rugby’s': 23465, 'deriving': 23466, 'sheraton': 23467, '£105': 23468, 'enclosing': 23469, 'telephoned': 23470, 'florist’s': 23471, 'pheasants’': 23472, 'lionised': 23473, 'figuring': 23474, 'society—newspapers': 23475, 'pharmacopoeia': 23476, 'erskine’s': 23477, 'contretemps': 23478, 'swift—indeed': 23479, 'effect—perfectly': 23480, 'painless': 23481, 'gelatine': 23482, 'unpalatable': 23483, 'dose': 23484, 'humbey’s': 23485, 'incipient': 23486, 'rabies': 23487, 'prescription': 23488, 'hambey’s': 23489, 'sujet': 23490, 'chiffons': 23491, 'billing': 23492, 'folies': 23493, 'rheumatic': 23494, 'it’': 23495, 'homoeopathic': 23496, 'recede': 23497, 'entanglements': 23498, 'coward’s': 23499, 'months’': 23500, 'pinetum': 23501, 'danieli’s': 23502, 'moped': 23503, 'nor’': 23504, 'choppy': 23505, 'remonstrances': 23506, 'gondoliers': 23507, 'chalcote': 23508, 'mansfield': 23509, 'packages': 23510, 'timepieces': 23511, 'dean’s': 23512, 'tsar’s': 23513, 'swagger': 23514, 'initialled': 23515, '‘scotland': 23516, 'soho': 23517, 'bayle’s': 23518, 'sac': 23519, 'parlour': 23520, 'fork': 23521, '‘count': 23522, '‘charmed': 23523, 'pâté': 23524, 'marcobrünner': 23525, 'friendliest': 23526, '‘explosive': 23527, 'exportation': 23528, 'irregular': 23529, '‘purely': 23530, 'brightened': 23531, 'once—’': 23532, '‘friday': 23533, 'rouvaloff’s': 23534, '£4': 23535, '2s': 23536, 'declining': 23537, 'anarchists': 23538, 'tape': 23539, 'ticked': 23540, 'advisability': 23541, 'nitro': 23542, 'glycerine': 23543, 'bombs': 23544, 'explosives': 23545, 'adulterated': 23546, 'instanced': 23547, 'barometer': 23548, 'housemaid': 23549, 'unpunctual': 23550, '‘jane': 23551, 'cecil’s': 23552, 'futility': 23553, 'geneva': 23554, 'spangled': 23555, 'signals': 23556, 'flabby': 23557, 'pirouetting': 23558, 'eddy': 23559, 'hailing': 23560, 'alternated': 23561, 'cheiromantist’s': 23562, 'greenwich': 23563, 'cheiromantic': 23564, 'derangement': 23565, 'coroner’s': 23566, 'jury': 23567, 'handsomer': 23568, 'however—they': 23569, 'man—worship': 23570, 'priory': 23571, 'hostess’s': 23572, '‘lord': 23573, 'hylo': 23574, '‘since': 23575, '‘though': 23576, '‘blood': 23577, '‘pinkerton’s': 23578, '‘charge': 23579, 'that’': 23580, 'davenport': 23581, 'crockford’s': 23582, '‘red': 23583, 'ruben': 23584, '‘gaunt': 23585, 'him’—a': 23586, '‘upon': 23587, 'raker’s': 23588, 'dobell’s': 23589, 'pinkerton’s': 23590, '‘dumb': 23591, 'suicide’s': 23592, '‘martin': 23593, 'washington’s': 23594, 'olde': 23595, 'outwitted': 23596, '‘perdition': 23597, '‘black': 23598, '‘reckless': 23599, 'castleton': 23600, 'sexton’s': 23601, '‘jonas': 23602, '‘boo': 23603, '‘double': 23604, 'tattle’s': 23605, '‘starve': 23606, '‘stop': 23607, 'week’s': 23608, '‘beware': 23609, '‘quick': 23610, '‘or': 23611, '‘i’m': 23612, '‘cecil': 23613, '‘except': 23614, '‘papa': 23615, 'art—having': 23616, 'girl—that': 23617, '‘virginia': 23618, 'paix': 23619, 'stoutest': 23620, 'pentateuch': 23621, '‘women': 23622, 'colour—there': 23623, 'do’': 23624, 'answered—‘to': 23625, 'clairvoyante': 23626, 'plastic—and': 23627, 'innocently': 23628, 'dissertation': 23629, 'matrimonially': 23630, '“mrs': 23631, 'knox': 23632, 'whittaker’s': 23633, 'then—in': 23634, 'regent’s': 23635, '“lord': 23636, '”—“you': 23637, '”—“can’t': 23638, 'unopened': 23639, 'colville': 23640, 'congestion': 23641, '”—“is': 23642, '“that’s': 23643, '”—“the': 23644, 'lodger': 23645, '‘lady': 23646, 'cavalry': 23647, 'peninsular': 23648, 'pekoe': 23649, 'souchong': 23650, 'glum': 23651, 'bête': 23652, 'patched': 23653, 'cobbled': 23654, 'trouvaille': 23655, '‘pounds': 23656, 'framemaker': 23657, 'trevor’s': 23658, 'coppers': 23659, 'fortnight’': 23660, '‘finished': 23661, 'you—who': 23662, 'have—’': 23663, 'joking': 23664, 'wretch': 23665, 'home—do': 23666, '‘alan': 23667, 'métier': 23668, 'overdrawing': 23669, 'buys': 23670, 'fantaisie': 23671, 'millionnaire': 23672, '‘baron': 23673, 'dismay': 23674, '‘gave': 23675, 'l’argent': 23676, 'one—by': 23677, '‘monsieur': 23678, 'naudin': 23679, 'baron—’': 23680, 'commissioned': 23681, 'letter’': 23682, '‘millionaire': 23683, 'touch—so': 23684, 'italians—which': 23685, '‘pembroke': 23686, 'fitton': 23687, 'believe—well': 23688, 'me—rather': 23689, 'time—‘a': 23690, 'radical”': 23691, '‘however': 23692, 'tack': 23693, '25th': 23694, 'contrasting': 23695, 'princes’': 23696, 'frankly—': 23697, 'unlook’d': 23698, 'princes”': 23699, 'cxxiv': 23700, 'cxxv': 23701, '“suffers': 23702, '“builded': 23703, 'dispose': 23704, 'civ': 23705, '1580': 23706, '1594': 23707, '1595': 23708, '1601': 23709, 'publisher’s': 23710, 'sackville': 23711, 'demolished': 23712, 'did—': 23713, 'own—': 23714, 'commentators': 23715, 'all”': 23716, 'hall”': 23717, 'hathaway': 23718, '“wisheth': 23719, '—cyril': 23720, 'commentator': 23721, 'barnstorff': 23722, 'drayton': 23723, 'davies': 23724, 'hereford': 23725, 'logos': 23726, '‘having': 23727, 'evolved': 23728, 'demonstrable': 23729, 'pour’st': 23730, 'who’s': 23731, 'invocate': 23732, 'date—': 23733, 'surname': 23734, 'controwling': 23735, '“hews”': 23736, 'puns': 23737, '“use”': 23738, '“usury': 23739, 'hughes—': 23740, 'fill’d': 23741, 'lack’d': 23742, 'enfeebled': 23743, 'mine—': 23744, 'line”': 23745, 'referring': 23746, '79th': 23747, 'decay’d': 23748, '“under': 23749, '“by': 23750, 'registers': 23751, 'alleyn': 23752, 'chamberlain—everything': 23753, 'problematical': 23754, 'entreating': 23755, 'cavil': 23756, 'warwick': 23757, 'farmhouse': 23758, 'warwickshire': 23759, 'dedicatory': 23760, 'uncial': 23761, '“master': 23762, 'facsimiled': 23763, 'rawlings': 23764, 'printseller': 23765, 'wife—his': 23766, 'said—“oh': 23767, '“did': 23768, 'said—“i': 23769, 'arrived—his': 23770, 'once—the': 23771, 'invalidate': 23772, '‘erskine': 23773, '—don’t': 23774, 'world—the': 23775, '‘silly': 23776, 'swans': 23777, 'complimenting': 23778, 'lend—': 23779, '‘shadow’': 23780, 'imagination—an': 23781, 'infection': 23782, 'impiety': 23783, 'cx': 23784, 'cxi': 23785, '111th': 23786, 'renew’d—': 23787, 'jarring': 23788, 'happinesse': 23789, 'eternitie': 23790, 'wisheth': 23791, '‘begetter’': 23792, 'procurer': 23793, 'thorpe': 23794, 'inspirer': 23795, '82nd': 23796, 'defection': 23797, 'saying—': 23798, 'besiege': 23799, 'trenches': 23800, 'tatter’d': 23801, 'ask’d': 23802, 'thriftless': 23803, 'thee’': 23804, 'but—': 23805, '‘slight': 23806, 'owest': 23807, 'brag': 23808, 'wander’st': 23809, 'grow’st': 23810, '‘eternal': 23811, 'lines’': 23812, 'couplet': 23813, 'ci': 23814, 'forget’st': 23815, 'spend’st': 23816, '‘neglect': 23817, '‘t': 23818, '55th': 23819, '‘powerful': 23820, 'rhyme’': 23821, 'unswept': 23822, 'besmear’d': 23823, 'sluttish': 23824, 'wasteful': 23825, 'overturn': 23826, 'broils': 23827, '‘gainst': 23828, 'eyes—that': 23829, 'spectacular': 23830, 'vassalage': 23831, '—shame': 23832, '80th': 23833, 'verse’': 23834, 'affable': 23835, 'faustus': 23836, 'know’st': 23837, 'charter': 23838, 'releasing': 23839, 'determinate': 23840, 'granting': 23841, 'swerving': 23842, 'gayest': 23843, 'misprision': 23844, 'edward’s': 23845, 'many’s': 23846, '‘heaven': 23847, 'idolatry—': 23848, 'whate’er': 23849, '‘inconstant': 23850, 'mind’': 23851, '‘false': 23852, 'entombed': 23853, 'breathers': 23854, '‘gazers': 23855, 'cautels': 23856, 'swooning': 23857, 'either’s': 23858, 'aptness': 23859, 'subduing': 23860, 'replication': 23861, 'weeper': 23862, 'laugher': 23863, '“play': 23864, 'joyfully': 23865, 'waileth': 23866, 'unwearied': 23867, '‘music': 23868, '1576': 23869, 'essex’s': 23870, 'links—where': 23871, '1604': 23872, 'brunswick': 23873, 'elector': 23874, '1606–7': 23875, '1615': 23876, 'actor—friedrich': 23877, 'schroeder—who': 23878, 'so—and': 23879, 'it—it': 23880, 'comedians': 23881, 'mimæ': 23882, 'quidam': 23883, 'disguise—the': 23884, 'beginnings': 23885, 'lay—whether': 23886, 'city—no': 23887, 'rots': 23888, 'cerameicus': 23889, 'sonnets—the': 23890, 'intrigue': 23891, 'unimpassioned': 23892, 'presupposes': 23893, 'postmark': 23894, 'gist': 23895, 'l’angleterre': 23896, 'vestibule': 23897, '‘knew': 23898, 'suicide—’': 23899, '‘suicide': 23900, 'lung': 23901, 'clouet': 23902, 'oudry': 23903, 'xxvi': 23904, 'cxxvi': 23905, 'cix': 23906, 'xcv': 23907, '84': 23908, '148': 23909, '155': 23910, '159': 23911, '175': 23912, '176': 23913, '179': 23914, '181': 23915, '183': 23916, '184': 23917, '185': 23918, '1876–1893': 23919, '217': 23920, 'tristitiæ': 23921, '219': 23922, '225': 23923, '228': 23924, 'fantasisies': 23925, '230': 23926, '232': 23927, '233': 23928, '235': 23929, '236': 23930, '238': 23931, '239': 23932, '242': 23933, '243': 23934, '245': 23935, '269': 23936, '305': 23937, 'brother—': 23938, 'cannonades': 23939, 'unmoved—and': 23940, 'oppressor': 23941, 'piedmont': 23942, 'pontiff': 23943, 'astir': 23944, 'harebell': 23945, 'reveller': 23946, 'june’s': 23947, 'missel': 23948, 'frighted': 23949, 'spirèd': 23950, 'crocketed': 23951, 'bellringer': 23952, 'unfurl': 23953, '—bid': 23954, 'pander': 23955, 'juno’s': 23956, '—pluck': 23957, 'outflames': 23958, 'kirtle': 23959, 'tempestuous': 23960, 'oxlips': 23961, 'pied': 23962, 'forbears': 23963, 'hies': 23964, 'friezeless': 23965, 'toppled': 23966, 'cinctured': 23967, 'dogmatical': 23968, 'cephissos': 23969, 'conducts': 23970, 'adonais': 23971, 'actæons': 23972, 'chastest': 23973, 'assuage': 23974, 'progeny': 23975, 'hierarchy': 23976, 'hecate’s': 23977, 'endymions': 23978, 'chamberer': 23979, '’gins': 23980, 'pearlèd': 23981, 'o’ertops': 23982, 'flooding': 23983, 'freshens': 23984, 'southward': 23985, 'spoiler': 23986, '‘foxes': 23987, 'unvintageable': 23988, 'piped': 23989, 'drearily': 23990, 'garner': 23991, 'ceaselessly': 23992, 'nathless': 23993, 'underlip': 23994, 'o’ershadowed': 23995, 'emprise': 23996, 'aphrodite’s': 23997, 'calpé': 23998, 'sarpedôn': 23999, 'memnôn’s': 24000, 'thetis’': 24001, 'beleaguerment': 24002, 'unswathed': 24003, 'erycine': 24004, 'gladdening': 24005, 'gladsome': 24006, 'asps': 24007, 'illume': 24008, 'lycoris': 24009, 'illyrian': 24010, 'canopied': 24011, 'amaracine': 24012, 'reeded': 24013, 'fleeced': 24014, 'sing’st': 24015, 'contemn': 24016, 'coronal': 24017, 'cockles': 24018, 'syrinx': 24019, 'diadems': 24020, 'pasturing': 24021, 'evening’s': 24022, 'jove’s': 24023, 'mercury': 24024, 'pinions': 24025, 'arachne’s': 24026, 'diviner': 24027, 'heliconian': 24028, 'tempe': 24029, 'tangle': 24030, 'ariadne': 24031, 'naxos': 24032, 'pard': 24033, 'mæonia’s': 24034, 'trimming': 24035, 'helmet’s': 24036, 'imperishably': 24037, 'freightage': 24038, 'galleon': 24039, 'irised': 24040, 'pleadest': 24041, 'questing': 24042, 'stile': 24043, 'ravished': 24044, 'wonderment': 24045, 'garths': 24046, 'crofts': 24047, 'astride': 24048, 'whimpering': 24049, 'gummy': 24050, 'moonèd': 24051, 'owlet': 24052, 'pans': 24053, 'loosestrife': 24054, 'bristled': 24055, 'overweighs': 24056, 'harried': 24057, 'prayerless': 24058, 'untented': 24059, 'barricadoed': 24060, 'enfold': 24061, 'wreathèd': 24062, 'cloistered': 24063, 'plash': 24064, 'groping': 24065, 'cooed': 24066, 'dryope': 24067, 'snorting': 24068, 'voluptuous': 24069, 'eyelids’': 24070, 'tuniced': 24071, 'pricking': 24072, 'loveth': 24073, 'houses’': 24074, 'lamps’': 24075, 'egyptian’s': 24076, '—lo': 24077, 'hesperos': 24078, 'cankering': 24079, 'gloriously': 24080, 'passeth': 24081, 'melilote': 24082, 'rosemary': 24083, 'clambers': 24084, 'water—it': 24085, 'normande': 24086, 'forester’s': 24087, 'tapestrie': 24088, 'gramercy': 24089, 'chapelle': 24090, 'stoup': 24091, 'countrie': 24092, 'amiens': 24093, 'kith': 24094, 'assoil': 24095, '‘elle': 24096, 'breton': 24097, 'duggen': 24098, 'darksome': 24099, 'furrows': 24100, 'freighted': 24101, 'despoilèd': 24102, 'pampered': 24103, 'jades': 24104, 'demeter’s': 24105, 'wantoning': 24106, 'mary’s': 24107, 'yet—perchance': 24108, 'chewing': 24109, 'beatricé': 24110, '‘æschylos': 24111, 'chaliced': 24112, 'splinter': 24113, 'vest': 24114, 'overdrenched': 24115, 'scans': 24116, 'yearn': 24117, 'midmost': 24118, 'yet—methinks': 24119, '—come': 24120, 'passion—youth’s': 24121, 'enraptured': 24122, 'wreathes': 24123, 'swarming': 24124, 'toothed': 24125, 'oppress': 24126, 'repentance—o': 24127, 'pleasure’s': 24128, 'shallop': 24129, 'systole': 24130, 'diastole': 24131, 'nerveless': 24132, 'unsentient': 24133, 'hyacinth’s': 24134, 'stainèd': 24135, 'lush': 24136, 'elves': 24137, 'thrush’s': 24138, 'dædal': 24139, 'æons': 24140, 'kosmic': 24141, 'barter': 24142, 'hodden': 24143, 'will—love': 24144, 'well—': 24145, 'paramours': 24146, 'so—at': 24147, 'belovèd': 24148, 'gorgèd': 24149, 'eucharist': 24150, 'sorrow’s': 24151, 'thee—think': 24152, 'unkissed': 24153, 'gauzy': 24154, '’twixt': 24155, '—you': 24156, 'pleasure—you': 24157, 'furled': 24158, 'paled': 24159, 'mouth’s': 24160, 'viols': 24161, 'mesh': 24162, 'lackeyed': 24163, 'tristitæ': 24164, 'εἰπέ': 24165, 'εὖ': 24166, 'νικάτω': 24167, 'heeds': 24168, 'crashing': 24169, 'ladders': 24170, 'ἀναyκαίως': 24171, 'ἔχει': 24172, 'βίον': 24173, 'θερίζειν': 24174, 'ὥστε': 24175, 'κάρπιμον': 24176, 'στάχυν': 24177, 'yὲν': 24178, 'εἶναι': 24179, 'yή': 24180, 'seed—': 24181, 'port': 24182, 'hap': 24183, 'couching': 24184, 'leers': 24185, 'flutters': 24186, 'paws': 24187, 'basilisks': 24188, 'hippogriffs': 24189, 'proconsul': 24190, 'salted': 24191, 'catafalque': 24192, 'amenalk': 24193, 'heliopolis': 24194, 'thoth': 24195, 'io': 24196, 'adrian’s': 24197, 'twi': 24198, 'stalled': 24199, 'plinth': 24200, 'ibis': 24201, 'mandragores': 24202, 'tare': 24203, 'hippopotami': 24204, 'writhe': 24205, 'lycian': 24206, 'quests': 24207, 'sidonian': 24208, 'ethiop': 24209, 'jet': 24210, 'skiffs': 24211, 'nilotic': 24212, 'glyphs': 24213, 'lúpanar': 24214, 'swathèd': 24215, 'tragelaphos': 24216, 'plagued': 24217, 'pasht': 24218, 'assyrian': 24219, 'talc': 24220, 'oreichalch': 24221, 'nenuphar': 24222, 'trumpeted': 24223, 'steers': 24224, 'cubits’': 24225, 'garment’s': 24226, 'kurdistan': 24227, 'insapphirine': 24228, 'pedestalled': 24229, 'blackening': 24230, 'galiot': 24231, 'corybants': 24232, 'nubians': 24233, 'steatite': 24234, 'memphian': 24235, 'house—and': 24236, 'speckled': 24237, 'monolith': 24238, 'jackal': 24239, 'horus': 24240, 'splits': 24241, 'peristyle': 24242, 'halts': 24243, 'appalled': 24244, 'bedouin': 24245, 'burnous': 24246, 'thews': 24247, 'paladin': 24248, 'anubis': 24249, 'nilus': 24250, 'withering': 24251, 'cymbals': 24252, 'spoor': 24253, 'snarls': 24254, 'tarrying': 24255, 'shivers': 24256, 'dialled': 24257, 'blurs': 24258, 'wannish': 24259, 'tongueless': 24260, 'abana': 24261, 'pharphar': 24262, 'charon': 24263, 'sheldonian': 24264, 'fleming': 24265, 'novel’': 24266, '‘mirage’': 24267, 'violet’s': 24268, 'burgeons': 24269, 'greenwood': 24270, '—it': 24271, 'fabled': 24272, 'was—and': 24273, 'sedge': 24274, 'startles': 24275, '—here': 24276, 'lethe’s': 24277, 'fatherland': 24278, '—they': 24279, '—guard': 24280, 'foix': 24281, 'seamless': 24282, 'theodoric': 24283, 'conquering': 24284, '—wind': 24285, 'sculptor’s': 24286, 'exile’s': 24287, '—even': 24288, 'mightiest': 24289, 'rusting': 24290, 'years—a': 24291, '’neath': 24292, 'wiles': 24293, 'platæan': 24294, 'euboean': 24295, 'well—ay': 24296, 'slander’s': 24297, 'venomed': 24298, 'scutcheon': 24299, 'runner’s': 24300, 'saveth': 24301, 'beacon': 24302, 'sapphic': 24303, 'hotter': 24304, 'minstrelsy': 24305, 'leash': 24306, 'convent’s': 24307, 'vesper': 24308, 'whelmed': 24309, 'encroaching': 24310, 'britain’s': 24311, 'hun': 24312, 'sleepest': 24313, 'beaked': 24314, 'mournful': 24315, 'outlived': 24316, 'citadels': 24317, 'girdling': 24318, 'lissa’s': 24319, 'novara’s': 24320, 'shewn': 24321, 'flambeau': 24322, 'now—thy': 24323, 'mayst': 24324, '‘myriad': 24325, 'laughter’': 24326, '—poor': 24327, 'clarion’s': 24328, '102': 24329, 'theocritus—a': 24330, '106': 24331, 'sonnets—': 24332, '110': 24333, '122': 24334, 'declamation': 24335, 'obviate': 24336, 'officiously': 24337, 'prerogatives': 24338, 'poem—never': 24339, '‘oho': 24340, 'appendix': 24341, 'demyship': 24342, 'brune': 24343, '67': 24344, '126': 24345, '131': 24346, '141': 24347, 'loot': 24348, 'romance—': 24349, 'bart': 24350, 'morell': 24351, 'rd': 24352, 'hawtrey': 24353, 'cosmo': 24354, 'stanford': 24355, 'brookfield': 24356, 'deane': 24357, 'meyrick': 24358, 'goodhart': 24359, 'brough': 24360, 'featherston': 24361, 'forsyth': 24362, 'tapestry—representing': 24363, 'boucher—that': 24364, 'quartette': 24365, 'fragility': 24366, 'anglomania': 24367, 'barford': 24368, 'whig': 24369, 'reminiscent': 24370, 'idiots': 24371, 'lunatics': 24372, 'accentuates': 24373, 'maryborough': 24374, 'chère': 24375, 'queue': 24376, 'popular—few': 24377, 'john’s': 24378, 'dorsetshire': 24379, 'cheveleys': 24380, 'classify': 24381, 'optimist': 24382, 'london—or': 24383, 'arnheim—you': 24384, '—used': 24385, 'expressionless': 24386, 'vantage': 24387, 'idlest': 24388, 'boodle’s': 24389, 'escorting': 24390, 'rufford’s': 24391, 'arching': 24392, 'emphatically': 24393, 'unendurably': 24394, 'says—what': 24395, 'brightening': 24396, 'unobservant': 24397, 'faintness': 24398, 'comtesse': 24399, 'groomed': 24400, 'undertaking': 24401, 'route': 24402, 'subscribed': 24403, 'panama': 24404, 'friend—and': 24405, 'shares—a': 24406, 'propose—infamous': 24407, 'refuse—': 24408, 'virtues—and': 24409, 'ninepins—one': 24410, 'man—now': 24411, 'nasty': 24412, 'diplomatically': 24413, 'battalions': 24414, 'time—and': 24415, 'opportunity—you': 24416, 'week—three': 24417, 'amicable': 24418, 'softening': 24419, '—susceptible': 24420, 'règle': 24421, 'boasting': 24422, 'question—robert': 24423, 'fine—that': 24424, 'away—that': 24425, 'them—things': 24426, 'lives—men': 24427, 'shame—oh': 24428, 'underhand': 24429, 'yes—write': 24430, 'ideals—i': 24431, 'shatter': 24432, 'forty—that’s': 24433, 'woolcomb': 24434, 'to—well': 24435, 'not—there': 24436, '£110': 24437, 'trebled': 24438, 'botany': 24439, 'tenbys’': 24440, 'confoundedly': 24441, 'wiring': 24442, 'case—in': 24443, 'pasts': 24444, 'décolleté': 24445, 'goring—': 24446, 'mire—': 24447, 'that—that': 24448, 'compromising': 24449, 'ravishing': 24450, 'lambeth': 24451, 'conference': 24452, 'trio': 24453, 'bimetallist': 24454, 'confidential': 24455, 'attracts': 24456, 'scolded': 24457, 'deteriorated': 24458, 'jostle': 24459, 'populated': 24460, 'markby—a': 24461, 'hearthrug': 24462, 'honeycombed': 24463, 'minutes’': 24464, 'bonar’s': 24465, 'morning—no': 24466, 'interested—': 24467, 'speculation—': 24468, 'chasms': 24469, 'memories—memories': 24470, 'now—oh': 24471, 'us—else': 24472, 'me—yes': 24473, 'loved—have': 24474, 'impassivity': 24475, 'dominance': 24476, 'florist': 24477, 'england—they': 24478, 'inconsolable': 24479, 'damme': 24480, 'probity': 24481, 'two—thirty': 24482, 'sneezes': 24483, 'heartrending': 24484, 'apologetically': 24485, 'damn': 24486, 'puppy': 24487, 'instructions': 24488, 'phipps—into': 24489, 'lamia': 24490, 'ugh': 24491, 'bachelor’s': 24492, 'expostulating': 24493, 'shame—that': 24494, 'huckster': 24495, 'thunderingly': 24496, 'are—the': 24497, 'crumbled': 24498, 'folly—some': 24499, 'indiscretion—that': 24500, 'do—pitiless': 24501, 'perfection—cold': 24502, 'hideously': 24503, 'room—that': 24504, 'shameful—you': 24505, 'even—': 24506, 'tenby': 24507, 'demoralise': 24508, 'gertrude’s': 24509, 'like—but': 24510, 'unclasp': 24511, 'prosecute': 24512, 'awry': 24513, 'reverberations': 24514, 'caustically': 24515, 'denounced': 24516, 'narcotic': 24517, 'minster’s': 24518, 'rapturously': 24519, 'is—i': 24520, 'tommy’s': 24521, 'tuesdays': 24522, 'thursdays': 24523, 'nestling': 24524, 'him—to': 24525, 'distresses': 24526, 'in—in': 24527, 'letter—she': 24528, 'intercepted': 24529, 'table—he': 24530, 'envelope—and': 24531, 'detection': 24532, 'nowadays—high': 24533, 'fangled': 24534, 'conservatory—there': 24535, 'firmness': 24536, 'mabel’s': 24537, 'infamously': 24538, 'northumberland': 24539, 'andreas': 24540, 'pollajuolo': 24541, 'taddeo': 24542, 'bernardo': 24543, 'cavalcanti': 24544, 'awnings': 24545, 'flanked': 24546, 'conch': 24547, 'croce': 24548, 'philip’s': 24549, 'boxed': 24550, 'buoy': 24551, 'monk’s': 24552, 'lineament': 24553, 'semblances': 24554, 'kingliest': 24555, 'butcher’s': 24556, 'domains': 24557, 'tribute—': 24558, 'war—': 24559, 'malatesta—whom': 24560, 'bargained': 24561, 'bound—': 24562, 'fiefs': 24563, 'bread—': 24564, 'ripe—': 24565, 'undisciplined': 24566, 'needest': 24567, 'grave—': 24568, 'spike': 24569, 'then—god': 24570, 'reputed': 24571, 'husbandman': 24572, 'seized—': 24573, 'beleaguered': 24574, 'privily': 24575, 'gaolers': 24576, 'traitor’s': 24577, 'milord': 24578, 'yesterday—': 24579, 'mumbling': 24580, 'show’st': 24581, 'fox’s': 24582, 'fitteth': 24583, 'paltering': 24584, 'fleeing': 24585, 'gabble': 24586, 'befit': 24587, 'matters—': 24588, 'flagon': 24589, 'pasty': 24590, 'yeoman’s': 24591, 'versed': 24592, 'ascanio’s': 24593, 'counterparts': 24594, 'hoard': 24595, 'truant': 24596, 'jesses': 24597, 'covert': 24598, 'schoolboy’s': 24599, 'punishest': 24600, 'affection’s': 24601, 'beauty—': 24602, 'buffets': 24603, 'waxes': 24604, 'aqueduct': 24605, 'muddy': 24606, 'yesternight': 24607, 'tithes': 24608, 'tenements': 24609, 'tenants': 24610, 'stiffens': 24611, 'apportioned': 24612, 'anathema': 24613, 'maranatha': 24614, 'rebels—': 24615, 'chock': 24616, 'mechanic': 24617, 'elbows': 24618, 'stomachs': 24619, 'almoner': 24620, 'ducats': 24621, '’mongst': 24622, '’midst': 24623, 'gluttonous': 24624, 'right—': 24625, 'bartholomew': 24626, 'licks': 24627, 'mated': 24628, 'hover': 24629, 'proffer': 24630, 'nemean': 24631, 'christendom': 24632, 'arrogant': 24633, 'raze': 24634, 'mercuries': 24635, 'needst': 24636, 'disuséd': 24637, 'soiling': 24638, 'particle': 24639, 'unhewn': 24640, 'bruiséd': 24641, 'bolt': 24642, 'untended': 24643, 'wager': 24644, 'porter’s': 24645, 'clamours': 24646, 'fondle': 24647, 'unnerves': 24648, 'uproot': 24649, 'floodgates': 24650, 'avalanche': 24651, 'saltness': 24652, 'raft': 24653, 'castaways': 24654, 'dagger’s': 24655, 'agues': 24656, 'pollution': 24657, 'coffins': 24658, 'carrion': 24659, 'lioness': 24660, 'drape': 24661, 'mandrakes': 24662, 'tow': 24663, 'dashes': 24664, 'sittest': 24665, 'confusedly': 24666, 'o’ercharged': 24667, 'awakes': 24668, 'sufferest': 24669, 'pratest': 24670, 'vengeances': 24671, 'bearest': 24672, 'plaything': 24673, 'rheum': 24674, 'blisses': 24675, 'partings': 24676, 'chamberings': 24677, 'pollutions': 24678, 'purges': 24679, 'winnows': 24680, 'sneeringly': 24681, 'hinds': 24682, 'distressful': 24683, 'corporeal': 24684, 'wakes—': 24685, 'nothing—': 24686, 'soul—': 24687, 'bloodstained': 24688, 'reeking': 24689, 'submissive': 24690, 'hands—': 24691, 'humbled': 24692, 'tirewomen': 24693, 'artisan’s': 24694, 'fireless': 24695, 'careworn': 24696, 'glazéd': 24697, 'eves': 24698, 'drench': 24699, 'artillery': 24700, 'forked': 24701, 'soffits': 24702, 'tipstaffs': 24703, 'callest': 24704, 'distraught': 24705, 'paced': 24706, 'posset': 24707, 'aqua': 24708, 'health’s': 24709, 'godfathers': 24710, 'hand—the': 24711, 'villany': 24712, 'headman': 24713, 'sharper': 24714, 'ferranti—': 24715, 'bid’st': 24716, 'justice—': 24717, 'heinous': 24718, 'avowal': 24719, 'butchered': 24720, 'guilt’s': 24721, 'waiving': 24722, 'law’s': 24723, 'gaolwards': 24724, 'haled': 24725, 'ordonnance': 24726, 'batter': 24727, 'gates—': 24728, 'bastions': 24729, 'forts': 24730, 'unhand': 24731, 'alpine': 24732, 'unheard': 24733, 'tigress': 24734, 'soldan': 24735, 'mightest': 24736, 'unabsolved': 24737, 'unshrived': 24738, 'urge': 24739, 'church’s': 24740, 'confessional': 24741, 'reverend': 24742, 'companionless': 24743, 'sears': 24744, 'ordains': 24745, 'pondered': 24746, 'lips—': 24747, 'conspires': 24748, 'ipso': 24749, 'facto': 24750, 'pertain': 24751, 'slayer’s': 24752, 'righteous': 24753, 'treasons': 24754, 'there’d': 24755, 'adjourn': 24756, 'state’s': 24757, 'discourtesy': 24758, 'prick': 24759, 'standest': 24760, 'apace': 24761, 'halbert': 24762, 'meddles': 24763, 'call’st': 24764, 'stirs—i': 24765, 'wakens': 24766, 'signet': 24767, '’twill': 24768, 'headsman’s': 24769, 'o’erburdened': 24770, 'dancer’s': 24771, 'eclipsed': 24772, 'sin’s': 24773, 'teeming': 24774, 'miry': 24775, '—let': 24776, 'overhang': 24777, 'tartarus': 24778, 'sweetened': 24779, 'whipt': 24780, '—murder': 24781, 'gory': 24782, 'gaoler': 24783, 'shrivel': 24784, 'sockets': 24785, 'groomsmen': 24786, 'cordial': 24787, 'stanched': 24788, 'damnéd': 24789, 'merrier': 24790, 'now—i': 24791, 'bidden': 24792, 'pledged': 24793, 'pain—': 24794, 'think—': 24795, 'be—oh': 24796, '1998': 24797, '111': 24798, '127': 24799, '—“': 24800, 'augurs': 24801, '”’—richard': 24802, 'irritation': 24803, 'canvassed': 24804, 'alterations': 24805, 'forgetful': 24806, 'scriptural': 24807, 'censor’s': 24808, 'poë’s': 24809, 'excepting': 24810, 'yiddish': 24811, 'scripture': 24812, 'trustee': 24813, 'beardsley’s': 24814, 'hypnotised': 24815, 'farquharson’s': 24816, '‘dragged': 24817, 'receiver': 24818, 'receipts': 24819, 'withdrew': 24820, 'iterated': 24821, 'controvert': 24822, 'veracity': 24823, 'vaticination': 24824, 'exactness': 24825, 'décor': 24826, 'fag': 24827, 'agency': 24828, 'fescennine': 24829, 'corybantics': 24830, '‘name': 24831, 'notoriety’': 24832, 'adulation': 24833, 'ecclesiastic': 24834, 'succumbs': 24835, 'marriotte’s': 24836, 'composer’s': 24837, '1895—namely': 24838, 'willard': 24839, 'willard’s': 24840, 'stylistic': 24841, 'feat': 24842, 'absalom': 24843, 'centaur’s': 24844, 'dürer': 24845, 'præfect': 24846, 'cripplegate': 24847, 'institute': 24848, 'bianna': 24849, 'stools': 24850, 'sprig': 24851, 'chamberlayne': 24852, 'doffing': 24853, '‘woman': 24854, 'soured': 24855, 'lovely—': 24856, 'me—by': 24857, 'venge': 24858, 'taster': 24859, 'befools': 24860, 'toilsomely': 24861, 'daze': 24862, 'ells': 24863, 'prices': 24864, 'cheapen': 24865, 'prides': 24866, 'balked': 24867, 'specks': 24868, 'sure—and': 24869, 'maria’s': 24870, 'scolds': 24871, 'crone': 24872, 'crones': 24873, 'throngs': 24874, 'fin’st': 24875, 'decameron': 24876, 'instil': 24877, 'balmy': 24878, 'mercer’s': 24879, 'slammed': 24880, 'dung': 24881, 'twould': 24882, 'gallants': 24883, 'where’er': 24884, 'mutters': 24885, 'spider’s': 24886, 'ghoulish': 24887, 'dispersed': 24888, 'cowers': 24889, '—if': 24890, 'choke': 24891, 'guiltily': 24892, 'furred': 24893, 'widowed': 24894, 'courtly': 24895, 'deigns': 24896, 'hospitalities': 24897, 'chatterings': 24898, 'diana’s': 24899, 'slave’s': 24900, 'unmannerly': 24901, 'levies': 24902, 'prentices': 24903, 'customer': 24904, 'lord—': 24905, 'ell': 24906, 'madmen': 24907, 'worthier': 24908, 'wavers': 24909, 'chaffer': 24910, 'ransomed': 24911, 'highborn': 24912, 'fantastical': 24913, 'curbing': 24914, 'crowns—’tis': 24915, 'bardi’s': 24916, 'antonio': 24917, 'costa': 24918, 'debtor': 24919, 'whatsoe’er': 24920, 'duller': 24921, 'woollens': 24922, 'bidders': 24923, 'intestine': 24924, 'feuds': 24925, 'shrivels': 24926, 'handbreadth': 24927, 'stakes': 24928, 'bodes': 24929, 'blurts': 24930, 'brawler': 24931, 'beseems': 24932, 'unlooked': 24933, 'casements': 24934, 'ravish': 24935, 'bianca’s': 24936, 'motioning': 24937, 'hyblean': 24938, 'remembrances': 24939, 'duomo’s': 24940, 'tolled': 24941, 'saddens': 24942, 'footstep': 24943, 'nephews': 24944, 'folks’': 24945, 'naboth’s': 24946, 'pitfalls': 24947, 'rusted': 24948, 'filches': 24949, 'appetite—oh': 24950, 'fronting': 24951, 'scratch': 24952, 'bandage': 24953, 'disarms': 24954, 'overpowers': 24955, 'amen': 24956, '1995': 24957, '99th': 24958, 'raveled': 24959, 'savior': 24960, 'travelers': 24961, 'dishonored': 24962, "fools'": 24963, 'groped': 24964, '\ufeffproject': 24965, 'header': 24966, 'humans': 24967, '1971': 24968, 'contacting': 24969, '2061': 24970, 'wldsp11': 24971, 'wldsp10a': 24972, 'multiple': 24973, 'xxxxx10x': 24974, 'xxx': 24975, 'sizes': 24976, 'bug': 24977, 'scrambles': 24978, 'byte': 24979, 'analyzed': 24980, 'projected': 24981, '432': 24982, '1999': 24983, 'computerized': 24984, 'billion': 24985, 'currently': 24986, "hart's": 24987, 'assortment': 24988, 'sporadic': 24989, '2782': 24990, 'champaign': 24991, '61825': 24992, 'resend': 24993, 'download': 24994, 'newsletters': 24995, 'mac': 24996, 'typing': 24997, 'sunsite': 24998, 'unc': 24999, 'edu': 25000, 'pub': 25001, 'docs': 25002, 'etext90': 25003, 'etext99': 25004, 'dir': 25005, 'mget': 25006, 'bin': 25007, 'advisor': 25008, 'expends': 25009, 'exclusions': 25010, 'pro': 25011, 'cessing': 25012, 'tilde': 25013, 'underline': 25014, 'processors': 25015, 'honor': 25016, 'ocr': 25017, 'licenses': 25018, 'ver': 25019, '04': 25020, 'overeducated': 25021, 'harmonized': 25022, 'apotheosize': 25023, 'capes': 25024, 'materfamilias': 25025, "'eave": 25026, 'uncivilized': 25027, 'hitching': 25028, 'hub': 25029, 'cowboys': 25030, 'monopolizing': 25031, 'sanchent': 25032, 'replicate': 25033, 'oe': 25034, 'ligatures': 25035, 'italic': 25036, 'underscores': 25037, 'murdoch': 25038, "publishers'": 25039, 'woeful': 25040, 'unofficial': 25041, 'tendered': 25042, 'herein': 25043, 'dehumanizing': 25044, 'tinier': 25045, 'connect': 25046, 'romano': 25047, 'infliction': 25048, 'perverted': 25049, 'disciplinary': 25050, 'sternness': 25051, 'socks': 25052, 'magistrates': 25053, 'remit': 25054, 'detestation': 25055, 'stirabout': 25056, 'astringent': 25057, 'breakfasts': 25058, 'junior': 25059, 'dismissal': 25060, 'contaminated': 25061, 'dormitory': 25062, 'ventilated': 25063, 'gaols': 25064, 'disturbance': 25065, 'unskilfully': 25066, 'slaughtered': 25067, 'basement': 25068, 'hysteria': 25069, 'runnels': 25070, 'antic': 25071, 'birching': 25072, 'culminates': 25073, '27th': 25074, 'buscuits': 25075, 'stoneyard': 25076, 'contended': 25077, 'contending': 25078, 'annul': 25079, 'censured': 25080, 'exhumation': 25081, 'biassed': 25082, 'hostile': 25083, 'askance': 25084, 'thurifer': 25085, 'dovecots': 25086, 'prognostications': 25087, 'meteoric': 25088, 'copyrights': 25089, 'editorial': 25090, "'ask": 25091, 'risotto': 25092, "'square": 25093, "meal'": 25094, 'yosemite': 25095, "'wanderer'": 25096, "'wanderer": 25097, "playwright's": 25098, 'inappropriately': 25099, 'lodges': 25100, 'separates': 25101, 'restores': 25102, "holmes's": 25103, 'elsie': 25104, 'venner': 25105, 'rougon': 25106, 'macquart': 25107, 'misdeeds': 25108, 'blanca': 25109, 'assonances': 25110, "princess's": 25111, "cleopatra's": 25112, "nereid's": 25113, "beauty's": 25114, 'laburnums': 25115, "furlong's": 25116, 'hydrostatics': 25117, 'tristram': 25118, "mem'ry's": 25119, "mem'ry": 25120, 'encased': 25121, 'treasured': 25122, 'defacement': 25123, 'doorplate': 25124, "'proud": 25125, 'doormat': 25126, 'aesthesis': 25127, 'examiner': 25128, 'hothouse': 25129, 'greyness': 25130, 'memnonian': 25131, 'locksley': 25132, "'knockery'": 25133, 'unforgotten': 25134, 'vied': 25135, "venus'": 25136, 'aegean': 25137, 'tuer': 25138, 'etymology': 25139, 'fancifully': 25140, 'tuberosus': 25141, 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'worcester': 25193, "mortimer's": 25194, 'causa': 25195, 'illissus': 25196, 'loans': 25197, 'tyrtaeus': 25198, 'warlike': 25199, 'rhigas': 25200, 'valaorites': 25201, 'courtships': 25202, 'righting': 25203, 'crumb': 25204, 'kostes': 25205, 'palamas': 25206, 'pallikar': 25207, 'missolonghi': 25208, 'requested': 25209, 'womanliness': 25210, 'liddon': 25211, 'formule': 25212, 'scientifique': 25213, 'vivisect': 25214, 'libertine': 25215, 'pastor': 25216, 'reprove': 25217, 'powerlessness': 25218, 'duellist': 25219, "terriss's": 25220, 'peckham': 25221, "emery's": 25222, 'sophy': 25223, 'francais': 25224, 'orangery': 25225, 'maitre': 25226, 'dwarfing': 25227, 'holly': 25228, 'tenfold': 25229, 'alley': 25230, 'trench': 25231, 'commenced': 25232, 'foresters': 25233, 'sward': 25234, 'entrances': 25235, 'underwood': 25236, 'stagey': 25237, 'jaques': 25238, "elliott's": 25239, 'schletter': 25240, 'audrey': 25241, 'fulton': 25242, 'calhoun': 25243, 'lovesick': 25244, 'wrestler': 25245, "ponsonby's": 25246, "cordova's": 25247, 'corin': 25248, 'silvius': 25249, "touchstone's": 25250, "rosalind's": 25251, 'displeasing': 25252, "plowden's": 25253, 'pansy': 25254, 'batson': 25255, 'walsham': 25256, "hour's": 25257, "amusement'": 25258, "'marry": 25259, "often'": 25260, "'then": 25261, "all'": 25262, "thou'": 25263, "willin'": 25264, "sister'": 25265, 'systeme': 25266, 'hackwork': 25267, 'judicious': 25268, 'excerption': 25269, 'romany': 25270, "rye'": 25271, 'apparatus': 25272, 'overdose': 25273, 'whiggery': 25274, 'originals': 25275, 'pronouns': 25276, "'this'": 25277, 'clause': 25278, 'inserting': 25279, 'parenthesis': 25280, "'borrow's": 25281, "society'": 25282, 'muster': 25283, "hermit's": 25284, "'abstraction": 25285, 'lavengro': 25286, 'leon': 25287, "servant'": 25288, "'scott": 25289, "borrow's'": 25290, "saintsbury's": 25291, 'concoction': 25292, 'villainy': 25293, 'westshire': 25294, 'redhills': 25295, 'acquitted': 25296, 'chloral': 25297, 'underrated': 25298, 'asterisks': 25299, 'commas': 25300, 'splendide': 25301, 'mendax': 25302, 'nebraska': 25303, 'honeymoons': 25304, 'comer': 25305, 'enumerating': 25306, 'disadvantages': 25307, "vasari's": 25308, "grote's": 25309, "paley's": 25310, "voltaire's": 25311, "butler's": 25312, "hume's": 25313, 'constellations': 25314, 'festa': 25315, 'letchmere': 25316, 'toby': 25317, 'belch': 25318, 'fabian': 25319, "clark's": 25320, 'uneasiness': 25321, "viola's": 25322, "malvolio's": 25323, 'unnecessarily': 25324, 'sprightly': 25325, 'bewicke': 25326, 'illyria': 25327, 'higgins': 25328, 'adderley': 25329, 'harman': 25330, 'coningsby': 25331, 'migrating': 25332, 'unknowing': 25333, 'riper': 25334, "dudevant's": 25335, "'proper": 25336, "'people": 25337, "'such": 25338, "'preserve": 25339, 'edmond': 25340, 'scherer': 25341, "authors'": 25342, 'ugone': 25343, 'captivating': 25344, 'unvexed': 25345, 'rancours': 25346, 'amity': 25347, 'humbler': 25348, 'verdun': 25349, 'darragh': 25350, 'essayal': 25351, 'wisp': 25352, 'theudas': 25353, 'overland': 25354, 'hindostan': 25355, 'allahabad': 25356, 'pervigilium': 25357, 'veneris': 25358, 'khayyam': 25359, 'valentines': 25360, "jocellyn's": 25361, 'rescuer': 25362, 'recompenses': 25363, "orphan's": 25364, 'nunc': 25365, 'dimittis': 25366, 'opulence': 25367, 'inquirers': 25368, 'enigmas': 25369, "hopkins's": 25370, 'praiseworthy': 25371, 'madeira': 25372, 'dilemma': 25373, 'mildest': 25374, 'marivaudage': 25375, 'apostrophising': 25376, 'dally': 25377, 'futurity': 25378, "'maryland": 25379, 'maryland': 25380, "'received": 25381, 'earldom': 25382, 'aforesaid': 25383, 'bullet': 25384, "gallenga's": 25385, 'mortgagee': 25386, 'falsely': 25387, 'fickle': 25388, 'discerning': 25389, 'sentimentalisms': 25390, 'z': 25391, 'inanities': 25392, 'stiles': 25393, 'briefless': 25394, 'competence': 25395, 'omits': 25396, 'fowling': 25397, 'transmute': 25398, "'trivialities'": 25399, "'flies": 25400, 'affix': 25401, "oliver's'": 25402, 'winstanley': 25403, 'fonder': 25404, 'subcutaneous': 25405, 'injections': 25406, 'morphia': 25407, 'ineffectually': 25408, "adorned'": 25409, 'scalpel': 25410, 'stilus': 25411, "horace's": 25412, 'signor': 25413, 'licenza': 25414, "'breaks": 25415, 'fonte': 25416, "dell'": 25417, 'oratini': 25418, "'continui": 25419, 'montes': 25420, 'nisi': 25421, 'dissocientur': 25422, 'opaca': 25423, "valle'": 25424, 'vacuna': 25425, 'varia': 25426, 'vicovaro': 25427, 'defends': 25428, 'propitiated': 25429, 'maecenas': 25430, 'etruscan': 25431, 'corneto': 25432, "l'eneide": 25433, 'anciens': 25434, "'ont": 25435, 'fidelite': 25436, "n'imaginent": 25437, 'guere': 25438, 'paysages': 25439, "'desolate": 25440, 'drepanum': 25441, "'drepani": 25442, 'illaetabilis': 25443, "ora'": 25444, 'thriving': 25445, 'manufactories': 25446, 'stucco': 25447, 'villas': 25448, "'bird": 25449, "forest'": 25450, 'pilgrimages': 25451, "academician's": 25452, 'virgile': 25453, "'rapiers'": 25454, "'forefathers'": 25455, "albion'": 25456, "l'anglais": 25457, "france's": 25458, 'republique': 25459, "conqueror's": 25460, "immaculate'": 25461, "'un": 25462, "innocent'": 25463, "'marquise": 25464, "chamber'": 25465, "l'habit": 25466, 'cour': 25467, 'amoebaean': 25468, "sicily's": 25469, "o'neill": 25470, "beatrice's": 25471, "'aimed": 25472, 'anatomising': 25473, "vezin's": 25474, "outram's": 25475, 'wagon': 25476, 'eumenides': 25477, 'tesselated': 25478, 'dionysios': 25479, 'bassae': 25480, 'ramparts': 25481, 'filleted': 25482, 'kinnaird': 25483, 'kingly': 25484, "archer's": 25485, 'enunciation': 25486, 'mutae': 25487, 'sardou': 25488, "burnand's": 25489, 'farces': 25490, 'operas': 25491, 'approximation': 25492, 'buskin': 25493, 'inaugurating': 25494, 'parading': 25495, "'peace": 25496, 'impudence': 25497, "greybeard's": 25498, 'ire': 25499, 'reddenes': 25500, "'gnoffe": 25501, "'bowke": 25502, "'herborow": 25503, "'papelarde": 25504, "'couepe": 25505, "'rethes": 25506, "'pankers": 25507, "'agroted": 25508, 'lorrel': 25509, "'horrow": 25510, '1825': 25511, 'retiring': 25512, 'ruthven': 25513, 'raymond': 25514, 'fleurette': 25515, 'exceptionally': 25516, 'promoter': 25517, 'chromolithograph': 25518, "speight's": 25519, 'frigid': 25520, "'ii": 25521, 'cree': 25522, 'mirouet': 25523, 'claes': 25524, 'marsay': 25525, "'indigestible": 25526, 'poulet': 25527, 'malassis': 25528, "d'oeuvre": 25529, 'inconnu': 25530, "'bon": 25531, 'conseil': 25532, 'vaut': 25533, 'oeil': 25534, "main'": 25535, "'good": 25536, "'ecus": 25537, "rebelles'": 25538, "'rebellious": 25539, 'lucre': 25540, "'faire": 25541, 'barbe': 25542, "'attendre": 25543, 'vente': 25544, "'n'entendre": 25545, 'palir': 25546, 'mistranslated': 25547, "'des": 25548, 'quoi': 25549, "dent'": 25550, 'toothpicks': 25551, "toothpick'": 25552, 'horloge': 25553, 'enfermee': 25554, 'armoire': 25555, "oblongue'": 25556, "closet'": 25557, "'journal": 25558, "viager'": 25559, 'annuity': 25560, "'garce'": 25561, "'farce": 25562, "'dessins": 25563, "indes'": 25564, "'drawings": 25565, "'subir": 25566, "'perse'": 25567, "'chintz": 25568, "'persian": 25569, "chintz'": 25570, "'rendre": 25571, "benit'": 25572, "wafer'": 25573, "'riviere'": 25574, "'fillet": 25575, "diamonds'": 25576, 'calus': 25577, "l'endroit": 25578, "loyer'": 25579, 'callus': 25580, "lease'": 25581, 'logician': 25582, 'pyrrhonians': 25583, "movement'": 25584, "'imiter": 25585, 'logicien': 25586, 'marchait': 25587, 'pyrrhoniens': 25588, 'niaient': 25589, 'mouvement': 25590, 'terrifying': 25591, "'moving": 25592, 'elopement': 25593, 'abduction': 25594, 'bigamous': 25595, 'braddon': 25596, 'teigne': 25597, 'claire': 25598, "style'": 25599, 'deportment': 25600, 'brummel': 25601, 'promenade': 25602, 'autocrat': 25603, 'fop': 25604, 'harris': 25605, 'limelight': 25606, "'45": 25607, "'evanishing": 25608, "'solitary": 25609, 'loneness': 25610, "'entangling": 25611, 'retiari': 25612, "bassanio's": 25613, 'shylock': 25614, "shakspeare's": 25615, 'adversary': 25616, 'seneca': 25617, 'suffrages': 25618, 'scotchmen': 25619, 'johnstones': 25620, 'annandale': 25621, 'graphically': 25622, "'rare": 25623, "ben's'": 25624, "'each": 25625, 'auchinleck': 25626, 'encyclopaedic': 25627, "'rarely": 25628, "'masqueraders": 25629, "'jonson": 25630, "'dekker": 25631, 'formularised': 25632, 'inaccuracies': 25633, "'jonson's": 25634, 'successor': 25635, 'niggardly': 25636, "'master'": 25637, "quality'": 25638, 'gallicism': 25639, 'whitehall': 25640, "'massinger": 25641, 'sansovino': 25642, 'aisles': 25643, 'crypts': 25644, 'masoned': 25645, "tramp's": 25646, 'brochures': 25647, 'chromatic': 25648, 'annex': 25649, 'bodied': 25650, 'defensible': 25651, 'roosts': 25652, 'indefensible': 25653, 'facilis': 25654, 'descensus': 25655, 'averno': 25656, 'robbery': 25657, 'larceny': 25658, 'coarsely': 25659, "super's": 25660, 'hewlett': 25661, "lab'rers": 25662, 'trudge': 25663, 'blithely': 25664, 'teams': 25665, 'grots': 25666, "'scape": 25667, 'borean': 25668, "'rude": 25669, "boreas'": 25670, "'aurora": 25671, "'flora": 25672, "irwin's": 25673, 'cockneyism': 25674, 'colloquialism': 25675, 'wayside': 25676, "hours'": 25677, 'mequinez': 25678, 'hassen': 25679, 'rabat': 25680, 'feasted': 25681, 'sheikhs': 25682, 'mosques': 25683, 'mirages': 25684, 'sus': 25685, 'loo': 25686, "traveller's": 25687, 'coinage': 25688, 'donkey': 25689, 'grunting': 25690, 'sneezing': 25691, 'shereef': 25692, 'quaffs': 25693, 'fatalism': 25694, 'averroes': 25695, 'almaimon': 25696, 'al': 25697, 'husa': 25698, 'caravansary': 25699, "'morocco": 25700, "warren's": 25701, 'gibraltar': 25702, 'ceuta': 25703, 'mediterranean': 25704, "'general": 25705, "africa'": 25706, "'collective": 25707, 'sportsman': 25708, 'pig': 25709, 'sticking': 25710, 'importation': 25711, 'cayenne': 25712, "marvell's": 25713, 'salathiel': 25714, 'pavy': 25715, "waller's": 25716, 'seraphs': 25717, 'coveted': 25718, 'excludes': 25719, 'menella': 25720, 'smedley': 25721, 'penrhyn': 25722, "'dimpling'": 25723, "'drifting'": 25724, "piatt's": 25725, "'cupid": 25726, "wanton'": 25727, 'hubert': 25728, 'pleadings': 25729, 'mamillius': 25730, 'misunderstands': 25731, 'readings': 25732, 'forges': 25733, 'discharge': 25734, 'wins': 25735, 'notebook': 25736, 'collaborators': 25737, 'gurney': 25738, 'langdale': 25739, 'hobbledehoy': 25740, '1793': 25741, 'vaudes': 25742, 'danton': 25743, 'valjean': 25744, 'cosette': 25745, "safford's": 25746, '551': 25747, 'acontius': 25748, 'cydippe': 25749, "'phoreion": 25750, "'secos": 25751, "'oionistes": 25752, "'thyrides'": 25753, 'miletus': 25754, 'bramston': 25755, 'esme': 25756, 'gottsberger': 25757, "'quaint": 25758, 'redundancy': 25759, 'stricter': 25760, "calypso's": 25761, 'grotto': 25762, 'tongued': 25763, 'cormorants': 25764, 'briny': 25765, "violet's": 25766, 'noman': 25767, 'woody': 25768, "goddess'": 25769, 'oped': 25770, 'dregs': 25771, 'stye': 25772, "'hideous": 25773, "bruno's": 25774, "'fanatics": 25775, "railway'": 25776, "'dynamiters": 25777, "de'": 25778, 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'intelligencer': 27250, 'advertiser': 27251, 'bandit': 27252, "magician's": 27253, 'wand': 27254, "sprang'": 27255, 'vendetta': 27256, "ocean's": 27257, 'ghouls': 27258, "'frequently": 27259, 'enshrined': 27260, 'diffusion': 27261, "'happily": 27262, 'septuagenarian': 27263, 'octogenarian': 27264, 'leaveth': 27265, "culture'": 27266, "waddington's": 27267, "morine's": 27268, "manner'": 27269, 'wilton': 27270, 'musee': 27271, 'decoratifs': 27272, 'portieres': 27273, '1258': 27274, '1268': 27275, "counts'": 27276, 'aumonieres': 27277, 'sarra': 27278, 'sinoises': 27279, "'lions": 27280, "'thirteen": 27281, 'ferte': 27282, "'into": 27283, "embroiderers'": 27284, "'eight": 27285, "gold'": 27286, "'cutters": 27287, "illuminators'": 27288, "'worked": 27289, "vecellio's": 27290, "d'alencon": 27291, "d'argentan": 27292, "d'angleterre": 27293, 'alencon': 27294, "'should": 27295, "emotion'": 27296, 'magnificat': 27297, 'vies': 27298, 'manquees': 27299, 'lavish': 27300, 'enchantless': 27301, 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'bursten': 27356, 'summoning': 27357, "'is't": 27358, 'laird': 27359, 'avaunt': 27360, 'maun': 27361, 'rood': 27362, "'mune": 27363, "'saul'": 27364, 'deith': 27365, 'saut': 27366, 'blawing': 27367, 'snawing': 27368, "drown'd": 27369, "'weet": 27370, "'saut": 27371, "'blawing": 27372, "'drumly": 27373, 'proclaiming': 27374, 'drastic': 27375, 'antiphons': 27376, 'unveil': 27377, "durer's": 27378, 'melancolia': 27379, 'harvesting': 27380, 'frosts': 27381, "kirtle's": 27382, 'marseilles': 27383, 'tripoli': 27384, "gueldres's": 27385, "'there's": 27386, 'aumbry': 27387, "minstrel's": 27388, 'homesick': 27389, 'maur': 27390, 'foundations': 27391, "'blawing'": 27392, 'bourke': 27393, 'crimean': 27394, 'balaclava': 27395, 'metric': 27396, 'beggared': 27397, 'blackness': 27398, 'shimmer': 27399, 'slimes': 27400, 'slid': 27401, 'spouseless': 27402, 'pelions': 27403, 'ossas': 27404, 'hindoostanee': 27405, 'interlard': 27406, 'mahal': 27407, 'accompaniments': 27408, 'soever': 27409, 'frangestan': 27410, "'glittering": 27411, "french'": 27412, "sa'di's": 27413, "'mollahs": 27414, 'slug': 27415, 'fooling': 27416, 'interspersed': 27417, 'jahan': 27418, 'arjamand': 27419, 'soars': 27420, 'shrining': 27421, 'unveils': 27422, 'unspeakably': 27423, 'turkis': 27424, 'imaginings': 27425, 'painteth': 27426, 'uncurl': 27427, 'handless': 27428, 'strengthless': 27429, "not'": 27430, 'planned': 27431, 'implants': 27432, "'utterly": 27433, "'pigeon": 27434, 'charpoys': 27435, 'sitla': 27436, "tap'": 27437, 'ag': 27438, 'lejao': 27439, 'kallians': 27440, 'saheb': 27441, "'achcha": 27442, 'achcha': 27443, 'vina': 27444, "drum'": 27445, 'ekkas': 27446, 'byragis': 27447, 'hamals': 27448, 'tamboora': 27449, 'ghazals': 27450, 'shamash': 27451, 'afrin': 27452, 'chatkis': 27453, 'jasams': 27454, 'gote': 27455, 'har': 27456, 'bala': 27457, 'mala': 27458, 'discoloration': 27459, 'antipodean': 27460, 'merited': 27461, 'unrevised': 27462, 'valedictory': 27463, "exile's": 27464, 'holders': 27465, "spring's": 27466, "'breaths": 27467, "lands'": 27468, 'lulls': 27469, "rain'": 27470, "feet'": 27471, "'haughty": 27472, 'climates': 27473, 'conducive': 27474, 'colonial': 27475, 'parodies': 27476, 'austral': 27477, "landor's": 27478, 'aylmer': 27479, 'kerguelen': 27480, 'beamed': 27481, 'impearled': 27482, 'ranolf': 27483, 'amohia': 27484, 'substantiate': 27485, 'exasperating': 27486, "midsummer's": 27487, 'harpur': 27488, "veel's": 27489, 'sunnier': 27490, 'sheenier': 27491, 'lucubration': 27492, "'poems": 27493, "horne's": 27494, 'orion': 27495, 'defended': 27496, "'warden": 27497, "mountains'": 27498, 'infrequently': 27499, 'patchett': 27500, "'formerly": 27501, 'residing': 27502, 'ludicrously': 27503, 'boyle': 27504, "o'reilly": 27505, "'poet": 27506, 'essayist': 27507, "eliot's": 27508, 'diner': 27509, "n'etes": 27510, "'suits": 27511, "susan's": 27512, 'imprudent': 27513, "'weighted": 27514, 'ally': 27515, 'mutterlein': 27516, 'professorin': 27517, "d'orleans": 27518, "ranke's": 27519, "'bursts": 27520, "eloquence'": 27521, 'olli': 27522, 'batachor': 27523, "form'": 27524, "people'": 27525, "'young": 27526, 'gouter': 27527, "'marquis'": 27528, "'marcus": 27529, '11th': 27530, "savigny's": 27531, "'your": 27532, 'fairytales': 27533, 'gottingen': 27534, 'mahrchen': 27535, 'volksmahrchen': 27536, "'st": 27537, "'c'est": 27538, 'egal': 27539, "'habakkuk": 27540, "marsh's": 27541, 'versohnend': 27542, "gore's": 27543, "austen's": 27544, 'unaesthetic': 27545, "'shyed'": 27546, "'leader": 27547, "party'": 27548, "'me": 27549, "be'": 27550, "'pernicious'": 27551, "'demagogue": 27552, "hilaire's": 27553, "buckle's": 27554, "'aristotelian": 27555, "d'etat": 27556, 'ampere': 27557, "bentham's": 27558, "d'hote": 27559, "'braune": 27560, "augen'": 27561, 'ich': 27562, "hassan's": 27563, 'twopenny': 27564, "roc's": 27565, "pot's": 27566, "hilton's": 27567, "'wekeel'": 27568, "'sidi": 27569, "ibraheem'": 27570, "abraham's": 27571, "yoosuf's": 27572, 'lexamont': 27573, 'ffoulkes': 27574, 'spinster': 27575, 'baneful': 27576, 'circulating': 27577, 'punster': 27578, 'apropos': 27579, 'legende': 27580, "giberne's": 27581, 'marigolds': 27582, 'spiky': 27583, 'bannered': 27584, "chaucer's": 27585, 'douce': 27586, 'peonies': 27587, 'columbines': 27588, 'corncockles': 27589, 'sunflowers': 27590, 'hollyhocks': 27591, "sheridan's": 27592, "'imprisonment": 27593, "living'": 27594, "'high": 27595, "foeman's": 27596, "'behold": 27597, "would'st": 27598, "'liberty": 27599, "'sonnet's": 27600, "'leaves": 27601, "'barbaric": 27602, "yawp'": 27603, "world'": 27604, "island's": 27605, 'seashores': 27606, "absorb'd": 27607, "wonder'd": 27608, "work'd": 27609, "'technique'": 27610, "war's": 27611, 'afterward': 27612, 'partook': 27613, "risk'd": 27614, "'suggestiveness'": 27615, "'impetus": 27616, "word'": 27617, "'word": 27618, "signs'": 27619, 'generalising': 27620, 'animality': 27621, "'heroic": 27622, 'nudity': 27623, "consider'd": 27624, "polish'd": 27625, "few'": 27626, "travel'd": 27627, "'building": 27628, 'litterateurs': 27629, 'palgrave': 27630, 'scutari': 27631, "frith's": 27632, 'dating': 27633, 'israelites': 27634, 'bezaleel': 27635, "grocers'": 27636, 'humorised': 27637, "humorist's": 27638, "'forty": 27639, "'fallen": 27640, "lost'": 27641, "'near": 27642, "fairy's": 27643, "'own": 27644, "'puck": 27645, "'grown": 27646, "'descended": 27647, "'heard": 27648, "'taunted": 27649, 'tir': 27650, "o'kane": 27651, "'gyp": 27652, 'mariage': 27653, "fane's": 27654, 'angelina': 27655, "stanley's": 27656, "prelate's": 27657, 'fund': 27658, 'lavishly': 27659, 'tenuity': 27660, 'meagreness': 27661, 'contracts': 27662, 'clandestine': 27663, 'occult': 27664, 'occultism': 27665, 'hypnotism': 27666, 'indicates': 27667, 'awaking': 27668, 'forceful': 27669, 'methodical': 27670, 'consecutiveness': 27671, "lytton's": 27672, 'inactive': 27673, 'busily': 27674, 'engrossed': 27675, 'demanding': 27676, 'haschish': 27677, 'indulgences': 27678, 'inferences': 27679, "'second": 27680, 'magnetic': 27681, 'steepside': 27682, 'intrinsically': 27683, 'jamblichus': 27684, 'constraint': 27685, 'participant': 27686, 'communicated': 27687, 'predictions': 27688, 'ranges': 27689, 'accoutred': 27690, 'copious': 27691, 'swedenborg': 27692, 'andersen': 27693, "spinoza's": 27694, 'hastening': 27695, "'stop": 27696, 'perceived': 27697, 'maitland': 27698, 'edits': 27699, 'joint': 27700, 'optician': 27701, 'intuitional': 27702, 'mundane': 27703, "lee's": 27704, 'graciously': 27705, 'puritanic': 27706, 'rarefied': 27707, 'surrounds': 27708, 'divorcing': 27709, 'niebelunge': 27710, 'shahnameth': 27711, 'mahabharata': 27712, 'finns': 27713, 'palmskold': 27714, 'zacharias': 27715, 'sledges': 27716, 'canoes': 27717, 'runolainen': 27718, 'wuokinlem': 27719, 'wainomoinen': 27720, 'mariatta': 27721, "hidden'": 27722, 'ukks': 27723, "clouds'": 27724, 'sparkles': 27725, 'untar': 27726, 'ahto': 27727, 'wellamo': 27728, 'salmon': 27729, 'sampo': 27730, 'talisman': 27731, 'northland': 27732, 'pikku': 27733, 'mies': 27734, 'pygmy': 27735, 'felled': 27736, 'wirokannas': 27737, 'otso': 27738, "'honey": 27739, 'paw': 27740, "'fur": 27741, 'lemenkainen': 27742, 'balsams': 27743, 'spruces': 27744, 'belting': 27745, 'fretwork': 27746, 'outpouring': 27747, 'smiter': 27748, 'ilmarinen': 27749, 'forgeman': 27750, 'talons': 27751, "tuoni's": 27752, 'mana': 27753, "wainamoinen's": 27754, 'wainamoinen': 27755, 'posts': 27756, 'flooring': 27757, 'framework': 27758, 'siding': 27759, 'rowlocks': 27760, 'trims': 27761, "ship's": 27762, 'forecastle': 27763, 'erects': 27764, "crawford's": 27765, 'suomi': 27766, "'science": 27767, "lecturer'": 27768, 'bootmakers': 27769, 'fitter': 27770, 'dissimilar': 27771, "'purely": 27772, 'visionary': 27773, 'promising': 27774, 'warble': 27775, 'transpositions': 27776, "trafalgar's": 27777, 'bray': 27778, "sullivan's": 27779, 'mendelssohn': 27780, 'sankey': 27781, 'wacht': 27782, 'rhein': 27783, 'marseillaise': 27784, 'lillibulero': 27785, "beethoven's": 27786, 'anthem': 27787, 'doon': 27788, 'tigre': 27789, 'populaire': 27790, 'glees': 27791, 'fiddled': 27792, 'wellspring': 27793, 'criticized': 27794, 'favorably': 27795, 'decade': 27796, 'bluffing': 27797, 'suppressio': 27798, 'veri': 27799, 'ecarte': 27800, 'opponent': 27801, 'unduly': 27802, 'aces': 27803, 'dem': 27804, "einstein'": 27805, 'einstein': 27806, "'den": 27807, 'products': 27808, 'acclimatised': 27809, 'canadian': 27810, 'voyageurs': 27811, 'triomphe': 27812, "'boys": 27813, 'orleens': 27814, 'yucker': 27815, 'ace': 27816, 'unchristian': 27817, 'missouri': 27818, 'bystander': 27819, 'winner': 27820, 'loser': 27821, 'gruffly': 27822, 'dispel': 27823, 'folklorist': 27824, 'survivals': 27825, "walk'": 27826, "walpole's": 27827, 'poggio': 27828, 'inhabitant': 27829, "'vah": 27830, 'stulte': 27831, "'leave": 27832, "evart's": 27833, 'descendant': 27834, "foote's": 27835, "'sadly": 27836, 'plagiarists': 27837, 'likening': 27838, 'maurier': 27839, "locker's'": 27840, 'trifles': 27841, 'albums': 27842, "power'": 27843, 'undaunted': 27844, 'nelly': 27845, 'gwynne': 27846, "own'd": 27847, "'sportive": 27848, "brightsome'": 27849, "'playful": 27850, 'humor': 27851, "'two": 27852, "clearness'": 27853, "'incisive": 27854, "vigor'": 27855, "'write": 27856, "'writes": 27857, 'maintains': 27858, 'shuttlerace': 27859, "'man": 27860, 'unfurled': 27861, 'lightest': 27862, 'footprint': 27863, 'lichened': 27864, "pheasants'": 27865, "rabbits'": 27866, "beat's": 27867, 'numbs': 27868, "swallow's": 27869, 'cheep': 27870, "pigeon's": 27871, 'coo': 27872, 'entwined': 27873, 'dexterous': 27874, 'tilled': 27875, "'load": 27876, "'communist": 27877, "'atheist": 27878, 'seminary': 27879, 'undergoing': 27880, 'humiliations': 27881, 'kleptomaniac': 27882, 'styrian': 27883, 'cheviotdale': 27884, 'glenalmond': 27885, "'novel": 27886, 'propaganda': 27887, "'blackwood'": 27888, "'known": 27889, 'uncanonised': 27890, 'flaxen': 27891, "'mightily": 27892, 'addicted': 27893, 'norfolk': 27894, "'dissipated'": 27895, 'giddy': 27896, 'veriest': 27897, 'eventful': 27898, "scarlet'": 27899, 'savery': 27900, "'thees'": 27901, "'thous": 27902, 'drab': 27903, 'hayter': 27904, "quaker's": 27905, 'multitudes': 27906, "walford's": 27907, 'quire': 27908, 'contrition': 27909, 'amendment': 27910, "'garrick": 27911, 'chesterfield': 27912, 'saucily': 27913, 'outstaid': 27914, 'jocular': 27915, "'pepper": 27916, 'seasoner': 27917, 'feted': 27918, 'vaunted': 27919, "'boast": 27920, 'cits': 27921, "'aut": 27922, 'morus': 27923, 'aut': 27924, 'angelus': 27925, 'caelebs': 27926, "woman'": 27927, 'divert': 27928, 'quiescent': 27929, "hannah's": 27930, 'grandiloquent': 27931, 'lynne': 27932, "'dazzling'": 27933, 'unanimated': 27934, 'richardson': 27935, 'plump': 27936, '1713': 27937, "'rather": 27938, 'surprisingly': 27939, 'scraggy': 27940, 'leanest': 27941, 'surmounting': 27942, 'fineish': 27943, "rather'": 27944, 'braham': 27945, 'compound': 27946, "'short": 27947, 'loosely': 27948, 'charlemont': 27949, 'hume': 27950, "'turtle": 27951, "alderman'": 27952, 'mitford': 27953, 'naturedly': 27954, "'sancho": 27955, 'rogers': 27956, 'cadaverous': 27957, "'death": 27958, "'painted": 27959, "hardy's": 27960, 'grosart': 27961, 'grayish': 27962, 'monie': 27963, 'goldenly': 27964, 'nostril': 27965, 'presentment': 27966, "'blackwood": 27967, "'cante": 27968, 'harmonises': 27969, "river's": 27970, "mower's": 27971, 'stockrider': 27972, 'swinburnian': 27973, 'oppresses': 27974, 'wildernesses': 27975, "gather'd": 27976, "locust's": 27977, 'rowel': 27978, 'stirrup': 27979, 'chaunt': 27980, 'hushes': 27981, 'gushes': 27982, 'tempests': 27983, 'redden': 27984, "gnarl'd": 27985, 'eucalyptian': 27986, 'hieroglyph': 27987, "line's": 27988, "burnish'd": 27989, 'resistance': 27990, 'dreamiest': 27991, 'roundheads': 27992, 'britomarte': 27993, 'barons': 27994, 'ghent': 27995, 'lustres': 27996, 'fissures': 27997, 'yawn': 27998, 'dewfall': 27999, 'ember': 28000, 'despairingly': 28001, 'reposes': 28002, 'dolores': 28003, 'magian': 28004, 'unexplored': 28005, 'unsolved': 28006, 'unspoken': 28007, 'sphynx': 28008, "unravell'd": 28009, 'consuming': 28010, "toil'd": 28011, 'travailed': 28012, "'polyxena'": 28013, "'athena'": 28014, "'aphrodite'": 28015, 'leonidas': 28016, 'thermopylae': 28017, 'australians': 28018, "everybody's": 28019, 'forego': 28020, 'unsigned': 28021, 'colonials': 28022, "audrey's": 28023, 'babbler': 28024, 'babble': 28025, 'stunted': 28026, 'ovid': 28027, 'tomi': 28028, 'farming': 28029, 'unprofitable': 28030, 'ranch': 28031, 'funereal': 28032, "'seem": 28033, 'stifle': 28034, 'cockatoos': 28035, 'mopokes': 28036, 'aborigines': 28037, 'aver': 28038, 'bottomless': 28039, 'lagoon': 28040, 'explorers': 28041, 'scribblings': 28042, 'dweller': 28043, 'monstrosities': 28044, 'cramped': 28045, 'phantasmagoria': 28046, 'interprets': 28047, 'esau': 28048, 'bountiful': 28049, 'mullen': 28050, "judge's": 28051, 'tatius': 28052, 'assassinated': 28053, "romulus'": 28054, 'hatchets': 28055, "'heads": 28056, "deriv'd": 28057, "'senex'": 28058, "whate'er": 28059, 'patrician': 28060, 'plebeians': 28061, 'tullius': 28062, 'hostilius': 28063, 'numa': 28064, 'pompilia': 28065, 'danesmen': 28066, 'moodie': 28067, 'pringle': 28068, "deer's": 28069, "buffalo's": 28070, 'oribi': 28071, 'gnu': 28072, 'hartebeest': 28073, 'graze': 28074, 'kudu': 28075, 'eland': 28076, 'unhunted': 28077, "o'erhung": 28078, 'browses': 28079, 'unscared': 28080, 'wallows': 28081, 'fannin': 28082, 'incomprehensibility': 28083, 'snark': 28084, 'veld': 28085, "wagon's": 28086, "'voerslag'": 28087, "'ompanda'": 28088, "'umgazis'": 28089, "oxen's": 28090, "it'": 28091, 'oud': 28092, 'skellums': 28093, 'ot': 28094, 'vikmaan': 28095, 'trek': 28096, 'jy': 28097, "'aurora'": 28098, 'carollers': 28099, 'completes': 28100, 'pawns': 28101, "williamson's": 28102, 'heresies': 28103, "buchanan's": 28104, "'grandeur": 28105, "mullner's": 28106, 'dover': 28107, "'may": 28108, "somerset's": 28109, "'adieux'": 28110, 'autumnal': 28111, 'frosty': 28112, "'twould": 28113, "let's": 28114, "egypt's": 28115, 'colossal': 28116, 'minarets': 28117, "afric's": 28118, "erudition'": 28119, 'egyptologists': 28120, 'alabama': 28121, 'genesee': 28122, 'q': 28123, 'norgate': 28124, "'faded": 28125, "'matthews'": 28126, "'michaels'": 28127, "tradesmen's": 28128, 'faaced': 28129, "they've": 28130, "kep'": 28131, "groanin'": 28132, "mutterin'": 28133, "thunderin'": 28134, "standin'": 28135, 'naame': 28136, "hands'": 28137, "'nowt": 28138, "esthwaite's": 28139, "manhood's": 28140, 'sideway': 28141, "'na": 28142, "t'other": 28143, "hobby'": 28144, "'ay": 28145, "ya're": 28146, "'ud": 28147, "he'd": 28148, "edmonds's": 28149, 'grasped': 28150, 'parlee': 28151, 'ecrite': 28152, 'prototype': 28153, "'modern": 28154, "state'": 28155, 'treaty': 28156, 'promulgation': 28157, 'statecraft': 28158, 'fairyland': 28159, 'queenly': 28160, 'consecrated': 28161, "colbert's": 28162, 'centralising': 28163, 'bievrebache': 28164, 'sumptuously': 28165, 'organising': 28166, 'foreseen': 28167, 'eluding': 28168, 'animates': 28169, 'devoutest': 28170, 'charily': 28171, 'wooded': 28172, 'warbles': 28173, 'lowland': 28174, 'cleaves': 28175, "eagle's": 28176, 'beetling': 28177, 'unfailing': 28178, 'twinkling': 28179, 'adventuress': 28180, 'convenances': 28181, "judith's": 28182, 'candidate': 28183, 'borough': 28184, 'captivity': 28185, 'bluntness': 28186, 'implying': 28187, 'morty': 28188, 'cromwellian': 28189, "'englishman": 28190, 'kerry': 28191, 'illicit': 28192, 'rents': 28193, 'absentee': 28194, 'rigorously': 28195, "price'": 28196, 'scarecrow': 28197, 'popery': 28198, 'nantes': 28199, 'papists': 28200, 'disowned': 28201, 'tolerate': 28202, "'consulted": 28203, 'settlers': 28204, "'tried": 28205, 'replanted': 28206, 'flemings': 28207, 'tens': 28208, 'protestants': 28209, 'colonists': 28210, 'intruders': 28211, 'exasperated': 28212, 'teachings': 28213, 'degeneracy': 28214, 'settlements': 28215, "'patriotism": 28216, 'hibernian': 28217, "patriot's": 28218, 'reasserts': 28219, 'unpaid': 28220, 'heavier': 28221, 'pecca': 28222, 'fortiter': 28223, 'completing': 28224, 'peaked': 28225, 'interlinked': 28226, "desecration's": 28227, 'murano': 28228, "'lost": 28229, 'sullenness': 28230, 'solemnise': 28231, 'seaman': 28232, 'dalmatia': 28233, "fiends'": 28234, "friar's": 28235, "enna's": 28236, 'lisped': 28237, "godhead's": 28238, 'broider': 28239, 'crust': 28240, "besant's": 28241, "'inseparable": 28242, "spencer's": 28243, 'participation': 28244, 'educates': 28245, 'moralisation': 28246, 'unhealthier': 28247, 'compulsory': 28248, 'inexpedient': 28249, 'undergo': 28250, "ritchie's": 28251, 'deputed': 28252, 'prototypes': 28253, 'stoutly': 28254, 'asperse': 28255, 'systematic': 28256, 'intelligently': 28257, 'consensus': 28258, 'ordinarily': 28259, 'prompted': 28260, 'crochet': 28261, 'workrooms': 28262, 'sketched': 28263, 'accompanying': 28264, 'negotiations': 28265, 'redrawn': 28266, 'brennan': 28267, 'medals': 28268, 'crochets': 28269, 'annually': 28270, 'competed': 28271, 'discriminating': 28272, 'undertaken': 28273, 'commoner': 28274, 'londonderry': 28275, 'nevill': 28276, 'morrison': 28277, 'worthiness': 28278, 'godavari': 28279, 'bathe': 28280, 'ablution': 28281, 'ananta': 28282, 'shastri': 28283, 'brahman': 28284, 'pundit': 28285, 'advocating': 28286, '1866': 28287, 'zenanas': 28288, 'scholarships': 28289, 'indigent': 28290, "'mary": 28291, "scholarships'": 28292, 'pandita': 28293, 'romantics': 28294, 'figureheads': 28295, '11s': 28296, 'knut': 28297, 'tumbled': 28298, 'auburn': 28299, 'llanarth': 28300, 'recluse': 28301, 'tiring': 28302, 'soria': 28303, 'pitiable': 28304, 'wickedest': 28305, 'alienates': 28306, 'infuriates': 28307, 'damnably': 28308, 'sweeper': 28309, 'gal': 28310, 'blazes': 28311, 'viceroyalty': 28312, 'aristocrats': 28313, 'withstood': 28314, 'caucus': 28315, 'alum': 28316, 'bayonets': 28317, 'girders': 28318, 'supremely': 28319, 'tenacious': 28320, 'rusticity': 28321, 'monogamous': 28322, 'polygamous': 28323, 'polyandrous': 28324, 'slam': 28325, 'flattery': 28326, 'geese': 28327, 'revenges': 28328, 'overemphasis': 28329, 'smattering': 28330, 'quarterly': 28331, 'accosting': 28332, "'unknown'": 28333, 'revue': 28334, 'mondes': 28335, 'provokingly': 28336, 'commencement': 28337, 'mystification': 28338, 'unformed': 28339, 'defaced': 28340, 'plashing': 28341, 'flirtations': 28342, 'jeu': 28343, 'perpetrated': 28344, 'mondaine': 28345, 'phlegmatic': 28346, 'inamorata': 28347, 'solace': 28348, 'torment': 28349, 'griseldas': 28350, 'comprehensively': 28351, 'saws': 28352, 'truest': 28353, "'variety": 28354, 'comprenez': 28355, "recipient's": 28356, 'zero': 28357, 'uncertainties': 28358, 'pessimistic': 28359, 'unkindness': 28360, 'overwhelming': 28361, 'tormenting': 28362, 'bewilderment': 28363, 'blister': 28364, 'hopelessness': 28365, 'abstain': 28366, "sutherland's": 28367, 'stafford': 28368, 'coolly': 28369, 'perseverance': 28370, 'unbending': 28371, 'straightly': 28372, 'socially': 28373, 'brusque': 28374, 'tactless': 28375, 'snubbed': 28376, 'measuring': 28377, 'cubic': 28378, 'bientot': 28379, 'hombourg': 28380, 'gortschakoff': 28381, 'montalembert': 28382, 'unyielding': 28383, 'altitude': 28384, 'eskimo': 28385, 'floe': 28386, 'skirled': 28387, 'leal': 28388, 'behest': 28389, "'shrilled": 28390, 'woful': 28391, "'babes": 28392, 'babes': 28393, 'relent': 28394, 'forever': 28395, 'blear': 28396, 'marchen': 28397, 'mispronunciations': 28398, "cam'": 28399, "'tak'": 28400, 'mirk': 28401, 'twa': 28402, "'rax": 28403, 'ony': 28404, "mysel'": 28405, 'southland': 28406, 'hangit': 28407, 'hie': 28408, 'coaster': 28409, 'labyrinths': 28410, "perseus'": 28411, 'chemmian': 28412, 'osirian': 28413, "'inconnue": 28414, 'denoument': 28415, 'jealously': 28416, "cumberland's": 28417, "'brown": 28418, 'gibbering': 28419, 'suicidal': 28420, 'bracket': 28421, "'gas": 28422, "bracket'": 28423, 'polichinelle': 28424, 'deceptions': 28425, 'telescopic': 28426, 'raps': 28427, 'peroneus': 28428, 'longus': 28429, 'bedpost': 28430, 'bigamy': 28431, "'five": 28432, 'seance': 28433, 'micmacs': 28434, 'nuggets': 28435, 'blanket': 28436, 'embodiment': 28437, 'endeared': 28438, 'fenimore': 28439, 'entrusts': 28440, 'kronprinz': 28441, 'franzensbad': 28442, 'austria': 28443, 'papoose': 28444, 'micmac': 28445, 'sophistries': 28446, "wa's": 28447, 'mesmerising': 28448, "'bruised": 28449, "pots'": 28450, "'materialised": 28451, "'horrid": 28452, 'horsehair': 28453, "wa'": 28454, 'bartram': 28455, 'publics': 28456, '1863': 28457, 'pedestrian': 28458, 'unveiled': 28459, 'unattended': 28460, 'obsequiously': 28461, 'provoking': 28462, 'fetter': 28463, 'withal': 28464, 'flagging': 28465, 'exempted': 28466, "'coarse": 28467, "marriage'": 28468, 'washerwomen': 28469, 'inspiriting': 28470, 'lorded': 28471, 'enumerations': 28472, 'reticence': 28473, 'glisten': 28474, 'ledge': 28475, 'mantling': 28476, 'acorns': 28477, 'prolix': 28478, 'pippins': 28479, 'codlins': 28480, "'codlins": 28481, "manifold'": 28482, "linton's": 28483, 'engraver': 28484, '1865': 28485, 'besetting': 28486, "'vindicate": 28487, 'xantippe': 28488, "meditat'st": 28489, "wives'": 28490, "goat's": 28491, 'vernaccia': 28492, "tortur'st": 28493, 'mandates': 28494, 'mutterings': 28495, 'bewitched': 28496, 'deem': 28497, 'uninitiated': 28498, "'brogue'": 28499, "'mavourneen'": 28500, "'astore'": 28501, "graves's": 28502, 'tork': 28503, "'arrah": 28504, "'twill": 28505, 'tighten': 28506, 'overside': 28507, 'brighten': 28508, "'lighten": 28509, "brighten'": 28510, 'clough': 28511, 'hexameters': 28512, 'playhouse': 28513, 'stateliest': 28514, 'sour': 28515, 'nimmo': 28516, "sword's": 28517, "'fire'": 28518, "'sea'": 28519, "'mither'": 28520, "'mother'": 28521, "jacobite's": 28522, "reiver's": 28523, "sake'": 28524, "yeats's": 28525, "baby'": 28526, "glittering'": 28527, "oisin's": 28528, "'populace'": 28529, "'song": 28530, 'parlous': 28531, 'becalmed': 28532, 'sate': 28533, 'elate': 28534, 'blenched': 28535, 'upclimbing': 28536, 'unwithering': 28537, 'shakspeare': 28538, 'damosel': 28539, 'sextet': 28540, 'unbound': 28541, "idealist's": 28542, 'bohme': 28543, "'beating": 28544, "'virtuous": 28545, 'tzuu': 28546, "'tripped": 28547, "'just": 28548, "'bring": 28549, "'speculum": 28550, "'putting": 28551, "'strolling": 28552, "'mosquitoes": 28553, "carlyle's": 28554, "'i's": 28555, "century's": 28556, 'laurence': 28557, 'manmohan': 28558, 'heavenlier': 28559, 'nevermore': 28560, 'beginner': 28561, 'visitation': 28562, "'green": 28563, 'deeps': 28564, "call'd": 28565, "lighten'd": 28566, "go'st": 28567, "phillips's": 28568, "oxford's": 28569, "govern'd": 28570, "vanish'd": 28571, 'blackwell': 28572, 'reviewed': 28573, 'honore': 28574, 'mullner': 28575, "morton's": 28576, 'fosket': 28577, 'langridge': 28578, 'gianetta': 28579, 'andiatorochte': 28580, 'wanderer': 28581, '406': 28582, '370': 28583, '‘henry': 28584, 'fourth’': 28585, 'cenci’': 28586, '‘imaginary': 28587, 'portraits’': 28588, 'tragedy’': 28589, '70': 28590, '85': 28591, '105': 28592, '‘wanderings': 28593, 'oisin’': 28594, '160': 28595, '162': 28596, 'ballads’': 28597, '‘appreciations’': 28598, '187': 28599, '194': 28600, 'rome—tall': 28601, '‘intensest': 28602, '‘porphyry': 28603, '‘heart': 28604, 'waters—ocean': 28605, 'horwood’s': 28606, 'word’s': 28607, '‘its’': 28608, '‘his’': 28609, 'proctor’s': 28610, '‘blue’': 28611, 'risotto—a': 28612, '—all': 28613, '‘square': 28614, 'meal’': 28615, 'yosemité': 28616, '‘wanderer’': 28617, '‘wanderer': 28618, 'irving’s': 28619, 'stage—the': 28620, 'apologizes': 28621, 'scenery—the': 28622, 'nereid’s': 28623, 'plays—accounts': 28624, 'play’s': 28625, 'causâ': 28626, 'amusement’': 28627, '‘marry': 28628, 'often’': 28629, 'all’': 28630, 'thou’': 28631, 'willin’': 28632, 'sister’': 28633, 'vasari’s': 28634, 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'hopper—he’s': 30876, 'tins—most': 30877, 'palatable': 30878, 'believe—i': 30879, 'agatha’s': 30880, 'true—she': 30881, 'book—in': 30882, 'dranver': 30883, 'book—private—locked': 30884, '‘mrs': 30885, 'erlynne—£600—mrs': 30886, 'erlynne—£700—mrs': 30887, 'erlynne—£400': 30888, 'already—your': 30889, 'now—every': 30890, 'erlynne—or': 30891, 'me—that': 30892, 'ago—': 30893, 'this—mrs': 30894, 'position—she': 30895, 'everything—threw': 30896, 'endure—they': 30897, 'faults—ah': 30898, '—there': 30899, 'her—and—you': 30900, 'houses—not': 30901, 'woman—and': 30902, 'marry—that': 30903, 'true—but': 30904, 'ever—oh': 30905, '84a': 30906, 'here—i': 30907, 'not—i': 30908, 'cannot—she': 30909, '—they’re': 30910, 'safeguard': 30911, 'scratches': 30912, 'there’ll': 30913, 'chatterbox': 30914, 'escorts': 30915, 'rag': 30916, 'arabella’s': 30917, 'deuced': 30918, 'afraid—if': 30919, 'doria’s': 30920, 'allandale': 30921, 'frightfully': 30922, 'am—to': 30923, 'coming—against': 30924, 'entreaties—against': 30925, 'it—used': 30926, 'it—spoiled': 30927, 'courage—i': 30928, 'right—you': 30929, '—tell': 30930, 'life—my': 30931, 'you—love': 30932, 'adoringly': 30933, 'then—you': 30934, 'completely—or': 30935, 'day—yes': 30936, 'go—go': 30937, 'guest—your': 30938, 'met—our': 30939, 'nieces': 30940, 'mine—the': 30941, 'girls—they’re': 30942, 'definitely—': 30943, 'love—well': 30944, 'her—twenty': 30945, 'had—well': 30946, '—£2000': 30947, 'cousin—or': 30948, 'husband—or': 30949, '£2000': 30950, '£2500': 30951, 'marriage—not': 30952, 'madam—her': 30953, 'it’s—an': 30954, 'syphons': 30955, 'tantalus': 30956, 'cold—cold': 30957, 'entrammelled': 30958, 'woman—fascinated': 30959, 'her—dominated': 30960, 'back—no': 30961, 'power—arthur': 30962, 'darlington—oh': 30963, 'authoritatively': 30964, 'erlynne—if': 30965, 'wildest—rage': 30966, 'that—you': 30967, 'no—no—': 30968, 'back—but': 30969, 'messenger—oh': 30970, 'infamous—infamous': 30971, 'horribly—you': 30972, 'here—he': 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31026, 'flattering—i': 31027, 'know—that': 31028, 'living—a': 31029, 'preying': 31030, 'be—rather': 31031, 'sully': 31032, 'ball—yes': 31033, 'rooms—you': 31034, 'are—a': 31035, 'wife—': 31036, 'windermere—or': 31037, 'care—you': 31038, 'blunder': 31039, 'prays—it’s': 31040, 'terrible—they': 31041, 'suffer—they': 31042, 'horror—with': 31043, 'things—not': 31044, 'no—what': 31045, 'mistake—i': 31046, 'ones—that': 31047, 'pain—it': 31048, 'humiliate': 31049, 'her—i': 31050, 'even—you': 31051, 'it—as': 31052, 'house—if': 31053, 'room—he': 31054, 'surprised—it': 31055, 'gerard': 31056, 'father—my': 31057, 'jedburgh’s': 31058, 'hush—don’t': 31059, 'duty—at': 31060, 'child—i': 31061, '‘margaret’': 31062, 'thanks—it': 31063, 'late—it': 31064, 'us—': 31065, 'club—fact': 31066, 'suspense—and': 31067, 'on—followed—naturally': 31068, 'in—retired': 31069, 'room—i': 31070, 'windermere—': 31071, 'coop': 31072, 'poorest': 31073, 'browse': 31074, 'burdock': 31075, 'teaching—that': 31076, 'dullard': 31077, '‘whim': 31078, 'condescend': 31079, 'leontine': 31080, 'juries': 31081, 'acquittal': 31082, 'unmistakeably': 31083, 'briefed': 31084, 'wades': 31085, 'elect’': 31086, '—one': 31087, 'création': 31088, 'nationale': 31089, 'washerwoman': 31090, 'arts—arts': 31091, 'pinto': 31092, 'other—and': 31093, 'accuracy—’': 31094, '“points': 31095, 'view”': 31096, 'black’s': 31097, '“le': 31098, 'd’italie': 31099, 'masterpiece—a': 31100, '“genre': 31101, 'mordant': 31102, 'festering': 31103, 'pronunciamientos': 31104, '“l’homme': 31105, 'génie': 31106, 'n’a': 31107, 'germinal': 31108, 'nana': 31109, 'bouille': 31110, 'sweepings': 31111, 'pentonville': 31112, 'harrowed': 31113, 'daudet': 31114, 'delobelle': 31115, 'lutter': 31116, 'valmajour': 31117, '“mots': 31118, 'cruels': 31119, 'vingt': 31120, 'littéraire': 31121, 'psychologique': 31122, 'society—and': 31123, 'germain': 31124, '—is': 31125, 'costermongers': 31126, 'deemster': 31127, 'heth': 31128, 'colenso’s': 31129, 'exegesis': 31130, 'green’s': 31131, 'sugars': 31132, 'shakespeare—touchstone': 31133, 'think—talks': 31134, 'salammbô': 31135, 'arouse': 31136, 'cryptic': 31137, '‘laodamia': 31138, '‘martha': 31139, 'ray’': 31140, '‘peter': 31141, 'wilkinson’s': 31142, 'shakespeare—and': 31143, 'many—where': 31144, 'somewhere—': 31145, 'beschränkung': 31146, 'zeigt': 31147, 'fsich': 31148, 'erst': 31149, 'meister': 31150, 'palinodes': 31151, 'dissolution': 31152, 'aërial': 31153, 'unreliable': 31154, 'sciolists': 31155, 'lies”': 31156, 'pliny’s': 31157, 'hanno’s': 31158, 'periplus': 31159, 'froissart': 31160, 'malory': 31161, 'olaus': 31162, 'magnus': 31163, 'aldrovandus': 31164, 'conrad': 31165, 'lycosthenes': 31166, 'prodigiorum': 31167, 'ostentorum': 31168, 'chronicon': 31169, 'casanova': 31170, 'defoe’s': 31171, 'boswell’s': 31172, 'napoleon’s': 31173, 'materialising': 31174, 'cavemen': 31175, 'megatherium': 31176, 'incorporated': 31177, 'burnand’s': 31178, '‘nor': 31179, 'life—poor': 31180, 'life—tired': 31181, 'raleigh': 31182, 'reefs': 31183, 'shakespeare—they': 31184, 'do—and': 31185, 'bystanders': 31186, '“forms': 31187, 'seem—and': 31188, '‘laus': 31189, '‘merlin’s': 31190, 'sheppard': 31191, 'turpin': 31192, 'shops': 31193, 'unloaded': 31194, 'revolvers': 31195, 'burglar': 31196, 'tourgénieff': 31197, 'robespierre': 31198, 'débris': 31199, 'luciens': 31200, 'rastignacs': 31201, 'marsays': 31202, '‘adsum’': 31203, 'stevenson’s': 31204, '‘jekyll': 31205, 'horsey': 31206, 'excitements': 31207, 'casually': 31208, 'bellini': 31209, 'gondolas': 31210, 'life—the': 31211, 'it—is': 31212, 'rolla': 31213, 'arundel': 31214, 'renés': 31215, 'vautrin': 31216, 'dissatisfaction': 31217, 'antonines': 31218, 'dowdeswell’s': 31219, 'thing—nothing': 31220, 'myers’s': 31221, 'transactions': 31222, 'passman': 31223, 'noah’s': 31224, 'balaam’s': 31225, 'jonah': 31226, 'whale': 31227, 'lunches': 31228, 'cretan': 31229, 'instance—lying': 31230, 'called—though': 31231, 'devising': 31232, 'horace’s': 31233, 'sanchez': 31234, 'casuist': 31235, 'chimère': 31236, 'pooped': 31237, 'maps': 31238, 'toad’s': 31239, 'champing': 31240, 'hippogriff': 31241, 'revives': 31242, 'corollary': 31243, '‘droops': 31244, '‘washes': 31245, 'councillor': 31246, 'essayists': 31247, '1794': 31248, 'gray’s': 31249, 'hatton': 31250, 'wedgwood': 31251, '‘amiable': 31252, '1803': 31253, 'turnham': 31254, 'burney’s': 31255, 'hammersmith': 31256, 'dissipated': 31257, 'calming': 31258, 'mutations': 31259, '‘broken': 31260, 'prostrated': 31261, 'inflicting': 31262, 'maims': 31263, 'melancholia': 31264, 'young—only': 31265, 'age—and': 31266, 'woodvil': 31267, 'relishes': 31268, 'allayings': 31269, 'vinkvooms': 31270, 'levity': 31271, 'incredibly': 31272, '‘kind': 31273, '‘capital': 31274, 'maginn': 31275, 'clare': 31276, 'julien': 31277, 'sorel': 31278, '‘amongst': 31279, 'speculates': 31280, 'interest’': 31281, 'pronouncing': 31282, 'hypnerotomachia': 31283, 'margined': 31284, 'laxity': 31285, 'monster’': 31286, 'fictile': 31287, '‘delphic': 31288, 'sibyl’': 31289, '‘pastoral’': 31290, '‘cased': 31291, 'brilliants': 31292, '‘squats': 31293, 'lar': 31294, 'crucifixi': 31295, 'tassie’s': 31296, 'petitot': 31297, '‘brown': 31298, 'teapots': 31299, 'filagree': 31300, '‘pomona': 31301, 'green’': 31302, 'connoisseur': 31303, 'turner’s': 31304, '‘liber': 31305, 'studiorum': 31306, 'magnifier': 31307, 'cameos': 31308, 'altissimo': 31309, 'relievo': 31310, 'ægiochus': 31311, '‘taste': 31312, 'crome’s': 31313, '‘heath': 31314, 'norwich’': 31315, '‘simply': 31316, 'shrubs': 31317, 'topography': 31318, 'rainbows': 31319, 'rifted': 31320, 'starlight': 31321, 'wilkie': 31322, 'david’s': 31323, 'crabbe’s': 31324, 'landseer': 31325, 'stothard': 31326, 'etty': 31327, 'ariosto': 31328, '“print': 31329, '“settles': 31330, 'toning': 31331, 'lancret': 31332, 'corregio': 31333, 'copier': 31334, '‘plans': 31335, 'tintoret’s': 31336, 'sabra': 31337, 'prussian': 31338, 'bluish': 31339, 'schiavone': 31340, 'morbidezza': 31341, 'moroni': 31342, '‘pulpy': 31343, 'lancret’s': 31344, 'repas': 31345, 'italien': 31346, '“amorous': 31347, 'style—': 31348, 'darkness—sooty': 31349, 'darkness—shrouds': 31350, 'deluge—‘sleety': 31351, 'discoloured': 31352, 'water’—streams': 31353, 'amain': 31354, 'pants': 31355, 'dropt—the': 31356, 'stagnant—a': 31357, 'growls': 31358, 'snuff': 31359, 'fainting': 31360, 'narrower': 31361, '‘swings': 31362, 'carmel': 31363, 'prodigies': 31364, 'temple—the': 31365, 'unpierceable': 31366, 'veil—is': 31367, 'branched': 31368, 'candelabrum—is': 31369, 'indistinctness': 31370, 'doubting': 31371, 'betwixt': 31372, 'romano’s': 31373, '‘cephalus': 31374, 'procris’': 31375, 'moschus’s': 31376, 'bion': 31377, 'exhale': 31378, 'craggy': 31379, 'tearful': 31380, 'inaccessible': 31381, 'uprightest': 31382, 'thymy': 31383, 'knelling': 31384, 'aurora’s': 31385, 'stocked': 31386, 'penetrable': 31387, 'stunned': 31388, 'thessalian': 31389, 'foot—now': 31390, 'neighboured': 31391, 'cries—': 31392, 'twists': 31393, 'laelaps': 31394, '‘vans': 31395, 'dejected’': 31396, 'rams': 31397, 'ridge': 31398, 'ephidryad': 31399, 'unshorn': 31400, 'extinguisher': 31401, 'furiously': 31402, '‘whatever': 31403, 'well’': 31404, 'shelley—‘the': 31405, '‘songs': 31406, 'experience’': 31407, 'alain': 31408, 'chartier': 31409, 'ronsard': 31410, '‘seem': 31411, 'advancement': 31412, 'proportionate': 31413, 'other’': 31414, 'cunningham': 31415, 'elton': 31416, 'wittily': 31417, 'seasonably': 31418, 'elizabethans': 31419, '‘bosom': 31420, 'cronie’': 31421, 'dallied': 31422, 'heyday': 31423, 'pets': 31424, 'misapprehensive': 31425, 'things—the': 31426, 'especial': 31427, 'publicist': 31428, 'illegalities': 31429, 'eminence': 31430, 'collins’s': 31431, 'smothering': 31432, 'dews’': 31433, '‘pass': 31434, 'polyanthus': 31435, 'oaken': 31436, 'marguerites—‘such': 31437, 'town’—thick': 31438, 'caw': 31439, 'mellowed': 31440, 'scaring': 31441, 'darkest': 31442, 'ultramarine': 31443, 'æther': 31444, 'horizon’s': 31445, 'vapour': 31446, '‘lines': 31447, 'poisoners': 31448, 'reticent': 31449, 'nux': 31450, 'vomica': 31451, '‘nearly': 31452, 'tasteless': 31453, 'dilution': 31454, 'murders': 31455, 'judicially': 31456, '1829': 31457, 'insured': 31458, 'locock': 31459, 'accomplices': 31460, 'suspecting': 31461, 'disagreement': 31462, 'companies’': 31463, 'abinger': 31464, 'erle': 31465, 'follet': 31466, 'pollock': 31467, 'plaintiff': 31468, 'serenading': 31469, 'pelican': 31470, '£3000': 31471, 'formalities': 31472, 'brittany': 31473, 'omer': 31474, '‘skulking': 31475, 'prudently': 31476, 'trustees': 31477, 'imperilling': 31478, 'forrester': 31479, 'vaughan': 31480, 'mustachios': 31481, 'forging': 31482, '£2259': 31483, 'arraigned': 31484, 'serjeant': 31485, 'arabin': 31486, 'recorder': 31487, 'transportation': 31488, '‘lying': 31489, 'death’': 31490, '‘horrified': 31491, 'hulks': 31492, 'susan': 31493, 'diemen’s': 31494, 'artists’': 31495, '‘country': 31496, 'bumpkins': 31497, 'psychologically': 31498, '‘tormented': 31499, 'wainewright’s': 31500, '‘capital’': 31501, 'balliol': 31502, 'unprejudiced': 31503, 'disapproval': 31504, 'dickens’s': 31505, 'varney': 31506, 'bulwer’s': 31507, 'represented—if': 31508, 'intellect—may': 31509, 'days—a': 31510, 'pepys': 31511, 'bustles': 31512, '‘shaggy': 31513, 'lace’': 31514, 'hog’s': 31515, 'hars': 31516, '‘pleasant': 31517, 'fricassee': 31518, 'veal’': 31519, '‘gadding': 31520, 'pest': 31521, 'mutes': 31522, 'snatchers': 31523, 'bernstein': 31524, '‘waiting': 31525, 'muse’s': 31526, 'praxed’s': 31527, 'ottima’s': 31528, 'hewed': 31529, 'waxers': 31530, 'gilders': 31531, 'cooled': 31532, 'frescoed': 31533, 'δια': 31534, 'λαμπροτάτου': 31535, 'βαίνοντες': 31536, 'αβρως': 31537, 'αιθέρος': 31538, 'phædrus': 31539, 'wind—whispering': 31540, 'planes': 31541, 'agnus': 31542, 'castus': 31543, 'unaccustomed': 31544, 'sandyx': 31545, 'polyxena': 31546, 'pebbly': 31547, 'trews': 31548, 'salaminian': 31549, 'terracotta': 31550, 'armlet': 31551, 'nereids': 31552, 'foliated': 31553, 'visors': 31554, 'etch': 31555, 'hovering': 31556, 'them—an': 31557, 'donatello’s': 31558, 'αλκιβιαδης': 31559, 'χαρμιδης': 31560, 'browsing': 31561, 'mænads': 31562, 'higginbotham': 31563, 'dock': 31564, 'cuban': 31565, 'comus': 31566, 'samson': 31567, 'agonistes': 31568, 'regained': 31569, 'reverberant': 31570, 'tribrachic': 31571, 'augustan': 31572, 'hegesias': 31573, 'pæons': 31574, 'plotinus': 31575, 'kosmos': 31576, 'physiologist': 31577, 'psychologist': 31578, '‘perilous': 31579, 'salaries': 31580, 'longinus': 31581, 'quinctilian': 31582, 'fronto': 31583, 'μονόχρονος': 31584, 'ηδονή': 31585, '‘wiser': 31586, 'hieratic': 31587, 'expired': 31588, 'oration': 31589, 'innovate': 31590, 'incompetence': 31591, 'applauding': 31592, 'brother—that': 31593, 'critics—i': 31594, 'papers—are': 31595, 'volumed': 31596, 'reviewers': 31597, 'misanthropes': 31598, 'graduates': 31599, 'womanthropes': 31600, 'wade': 31601, 'enough—more': 31602, 'fellow—excuse': 31603, 'other—by': 31604, 'tasks': 31605, 'awakenings': 31606, 'notched': 31607, 'hurl': 31608, 'aulis': 31609, '‘hector': 31610, 'menippus': 31611, 'bleaching': 31612, 'swanlike': 31613, 'combing': 31614, 'buckling': 31615, 'andromache': 31616, 'myrmidons': 31617, 'brimstone': 31618, 'cools': 31619, 'panthous’': 31620, 'euphorbus': 31621, 'priamid': 31622, 'patroklus': 31623, 'οινοψ': 31624, 'πόντος': 31625, 'heroisms': 31626, 'soothing': 31627, 'amours': 31628, 'squalid': 31629, 'yonville': 31630, 'l’abbaye': 31631, 'rouen': 31632, 'ohnet’s': 31633, 'bestia': 31634, 'trionfans': 31635, 'shackles': 31636, 'verisimilitude': 31637, 'revere': 31638, 'criticism’s': 31639, '‘set': 31640, 'desire’': 31641, '‘hers': 31642, 'player’s': 31643, 'itself—let': 31644, 'moment—to': 31645, 'overture': 31646, 'των': 31647, 'αδυνατων': 31648, 'amour': 31649, 'l’impossible': 31650, 'stumble': 31651, 'equivalents': 31652, 'dotard': 31653, 'insufferably': 31654, 'subordinates': 31655, 'interpretations': 31656, 'peacock’s': 31657, '‘terribly': 31658, 'zion': 31659, 'riddling': 31660, 'appassionata': 31661, 'absolutely—beethoven': 31662, 'fallacy—for': 31663, 'fallacy—is': 31664, 'definiteness': 31665, 'things—are': 31666, 'maremma': 31667, 'pia': 31668, 'ismene': 31669, 'wormwood': 31670, 'nella': 31671, 'buonconte': 31672, 'disdainful': 31673, 'lombard': 31674, 'mantua’s': 31675, 'rudolph': 31676, 'mantled': 31677, 'melts': 31678, 'lethe': 31679, 'eunoe': 31680, 'piccarda': 31681, 'donati': 31682, 'cunizza': 31683, 'folco': 31684, 'azalais': 31685, 'canaanitish': 31686, 'redeemed': 31687, 'joachim': 31688, 'aquinas': 31689, 'recounts': 31690, 'bonaventure': 31691, 'dominic': 31692, 'cacciaguida': 31693, 'saturn': 31694, 'fixes': 31695, 'beatific': 31696, 'nenuphars': 31697, 'baudelaire’s': 31698, 'madrigal': 31699, 'm’importe': 31700, 'triste': 31701, 'fevered': 31702, 'meleager': 31703, 'heliodore': 31704, 'ringed': 31705, 'cup’s': 31706, 'transference': 31707, 'fantine': 31708, 'awaken': 31709, 'excites': 31710, 'fruitio': 31711, 'existence’': 31712, 'swedenborg’s': 31713, 'kant': 31714, 'freeing': 31715, 'sepulchres': 31716, 'wolfskin': 31717, 'vidal': 31718, 'abelard': 31719, 'villon': 31720, 'racial': 31721, 'lives—it': 31722, 'so—with': 31723, 'tragicomedy': 31724, 'detaching': 31725, 'βιος': 31726, 'θεωρητικος': 31727, 'baser': 31728, 'plentiful': 31729, 'improvident': 31730, 'provident': 31731, 'incentive': 31732, 'fabianists': 31733, 'doles': 31734, 'grasping': 31735, 'himself—a': 31736, 'with—you': 31737, 'sanctified': 31738, 'creature’s': 31739, 'armaments': 31740, 'unfortified': 31741, 'coasts': 31742, 'elevates': 31743, 'tsu': 31744, 'producing—and': 31745, 'be—is': 31746, 'unexpressed': 31747, 'bares': 31748, 'frisson': 31749, 'luministe': 31750, 'symboliste': 31751, 'discourse': 31752, 'portraits—is': 31753, '—presents': 31754, 'enlightening': 31755, 'antagonist': 31756, 'impartially': 31757, 'prurience': 31758, 'stultifies': 31759, 'tartuffe’s': 31760, 'chadband’s': 31761, 'avidity': 31762, 'conscientiousness': 31763, 'vehicles': 31764, 'import—who': 31765, '‘writ': 31766, 'critic—a': 31767, 'value—a': 31768, 'starves': 31769, 'instinctive': 31770, 'why’': 31771, 'illuminate': 31772, 'waynfleete’s': 31773, 'tower’s': 31774, 'vanes': 31775, 'ceiling’s': 31776, 'laud’s': 31777, 'swifter': 31778, 'schooled': 31779, 'clearing': 31780, 'symphonie': 31781, 'majeur': 31782, 'gritty': 31783, 'selves': 31784, 'tires': 31785, 'archaicistes': 31786, 'unallied': 31787, 'prepares': 31788, 'historically': 31789, 'perfecting': 31790, 'form—a': 31791, 'widens': 31792, 'music—his': 31793, 'painting—that': 31794, 'admit—': 31795, 'plodding': 31796, 'discernment': 31797, 'undeveloped': 31798, 'distils': 31799, 'stammers': 31800, 'origins': 31801, 'deposits': 31802, 'tradesman’s': 31803, 'unarmed': 31804, 'arbitration': 31805, 'arbitrators': 31806, 'welfare': 31807, 'decisions': 31808, 'goethe—you': 31809, 'say—was': 31810, 'country—no': 31811, 'shibboleths': 31812, 'sect': 31813, 'reasonableness’': 31814, 'fanatic': 31815, 'susceptibility': 31816, 'dangerous—all': 31817, 'flickers': 31818, 'landor': 31819, 'amaranth': 31820, 'tacitly': 31821, 'prunella': 31822, 'stupidest': 31823, 'pedantries': 31824, 'relies': 31825, 'elaborateness': 31826, 'officials': 31827, 'insignia': 31828, 'all’s': 31829, 'gloster': 31830, 'idiot’s': 31831, 'man’': 31832, 'pisanio': 31833, 'fidele': 31834, 'jessica': 31835, 'knots': 31836, 'dons': 31837, 'poins': 31838, 'footpads': 31839, 'buckram': 31840, 'aprons': 31841, 'waiters': 31842, 'herne': 31843, 'timon': 31844, 'flatters': 31845, 'marches': 31846, 'enchanter’s': 31847, 'romeo’s': 31848, 'domo’s': 31849, 'availed': 31850, 'parolles': 31851, 'exchanging': 31852, 'squabbling': 31853, 'tinker': 31854, 'pie': 31855, 'shylock’s': 31856, 'gaberdine': 31857, 'stigma': 31858, 'hubert—': 31859, 'ache': 31860, 'uncle’s': 31861, 'chimène': 31862, 'cid': 31863, 'antony’s': 31864, 'overcame': 31865, 'nervii': 31866, 'cassius’': 31867, 'casca': 31868, 'cloten': 31869, 'thérèse': 31870, 'raquin': 31871, 'constance’s': 31872, 'elizabeth—': 31873, 'kent’s': 31874, 'cordelia’s': 31875, 'incorrect': 31876, 'salvini’s': 31877, 'staves': 31878, 'heavy—': 31879, 'wear’st': 31880, 'terry’s': 31881, 'fencing': 31882, '‘racine': 31883, 'abhorre': 31884, 'auguste': 31885, 'vacquerie': 31886, 'daigne': 31887, 's’occuper': 31888, 'l’on': 31889, 's’en': 31890, 'rapportait': 31891, 'indications': 31892, 'serait': 31893, 'vêtu': 31894, 'achille': 31895, 'd’une': 31896, 'épée': 31897, 'petruchio': 31898, 'green—a': 31899, 'were—and': 31900, 'vizors': 31901, 'kimbolton': 31902, 'homespun': 31903, 'launce': 31904, 'dauphin’s': 31905, 'pucelle’s': 31906, 'bardolph’s': 31907, 'phoebe': 31908, 'aguecheek’s': 31909, 'blacken': 31910, 'grizzled': 31911, 'benedick': 31912, 'shave': 31913, 'hint': 31914, 'russians': 31915, 'ass’s': 31916, 'quell': 31917, 'hits': 31918, 'milan’s': 31919, 'edgar—a': 31920, 'sartor': 31921, 'resartus': 31922, 'blackstone': 31923, 'paxton': 31924, 'juliet’s': 31925, 'ducis': 31926, 'translating': 31927, 'soften': 31928, 'grossness': 31929, 'reiterate': 31930, 'philosophique': 31931, 'mouchoir': 31932, 'français': 31933, 'talma’s': 31934, 'periwig—one': 31935, 'métallique': 31936, 'theatre—an': 31937, 'management—has': 31938, 'friars': 31939, 'longshanks': 31940, 'surplices': 31941, 'taffeta': 31942, 'pierrot': 31943, 'goo': 31944, 'invisibell': 31945, '£3': 31946, 'fardingales—all': 31947, 'entries': 31948, 'janissaries': 31949, 'donnée': 31950, 'moulder': 31951, 'curator': 31952, '‘julia': 31953, 'embalmer’s': 31954, 'judæa’s': 31955, '‘triumph': 31956, 'arts—the': 31957, 'movement—but': 31958, 'græco': 31959, 'published—a': 31960, 'casaque': 31961, 'mahoitres': 31962, 'voulgiers': 31963, 'gallimard': 31964, 'taché': 31965, 'd’encre': 31966, 'craaquiniers': 31967, 'obliging': 31968, 'recourse': 31969, 'encyclopædia': 31970, 'theodosius': 31971, 'hampton': 31972, 'claudian’s': 31973, 'lemprière’s': 31974, 'müller’s': 31975, 'piranesi’s': 31976, 'urn’': 31977, 'munster’s': 31978, 'garrick’s': 31979, 'nondescript': 31980, 'country’s': 31981, 'iachimo': 31982, 'equator': 31983, 'hector’s': 31984, 'blemishes': 31985, 'anachronistic': 31986, 'personæ': 31987, 'cobham': 31988, 'virgilia': 31989, '‘domi': 31990, 'mansit': 31991, 'lanam': 31992, 'fecit': 31993, 'divorçons': 31994, 'right—indeed': 31995, 'holinshed': 31996, 'besieged': 31997, 'ports': 31998, 'embarkation': 31999, 'commanders': 32000, 'creditable': 32001, 'pleasurably': 32002, '‘fairy': 32003, 'adjunct': 32004, '‘imp': 32005, 'dinted': 32006, 'tabards': 32007, 'tabard': 32008, 'chapels': 32009, 'brandon’s': 32010, 'firearms': 32011, 'crests': 32012, 'place—a': 32013, 'thunderbolt': 32014, 'sicilius': 32015, 'leonatus—‘an': 32016, 'matron’—is': 32017, '‘athenian': 32018, 'dress’': 32019, 'canvass': 32020, 'electors': 32021, '‘woolvish': 32022, 'assigning': 32023, '‘les': 32024, 'petits': 32025, 'détails': 32026, 'd’histoire': 32027, 'domestique': 32028, 'scrupuleusement': 32029, 'étudiés': 32030, 'reproduits': 32031, 'uniquement': 32032, 'moyens': 32033, 'd’accroître': 32034, 'l’ensemble': 32035, 'pénétrer': 32036, 'jusque': 32037, 'obscurs': 32038, 'générale': 32039, 'puissante': 32040, 'laquelle': 32041, 'personnages': 32042, 'vrais': 32043, 'conséqueut': 32044, 'poignantes': 32045, 'subordonné': 32046, 'l’homme': 32047, 'premier': 32048, 'reste': 32049, 'pedantry—for': 32050, 'ruy': 32051, 'priego': 32052, '‘sujet': 32053, 'roi’': 32054, 'malipieri': 32055, 'rouge’': 32056, 'gueules': 32057, '‘j’en': 32058, 'offre': 32059, 'spectateurs': 32060, 'intelligents': 32061, '‘espérons': 32062, 'qu’un': 32063, 'vénitien': 32064, 'bonnement': 32065, 'péril': 32066, 'blason': 32067, 'caviare': 32068, 'undergone': 32069, 'misapprehension': 32070, 'fondness': 32071, 'gaunt’s': 32072, 'deposition': 32073, 'york’s': 32074, 'perceives': 32075, 'badge—the': 32076, 'versa': 32077, 'extravaganza': 32078, 'bancroft’s': 32079, 'irying’s': 32080, 'dramatist’s': 32081, 'polonius': 32082, 'expressiveness': 32083, 'conversation—a': 32084, 'hare’s': 32085, 'wingfield’s': 32086, 'sumptuary': 32087, 'ordinances': 32088, 'campbell’s': 32089, 'gauntlets': 32090, 'appropriateness': 32091, 'independently': 32092, 'gaslight': 32093, 'effectively': 32094, '‘nous': 32095, 'célébrons': 32096, 'quelque': 32097, 'enterrement': 32098, 'georges': 32099, 'directing': 32100, 'specialism': 32101, 'hernani': 32102, 'toque': 32103, 'vogue': 32104, 'boulevards': 32105, 'air—a': 32106, 'burleigh': 32107, 'difficile': 32108, 'tâche': 32109, 'n’en': 32110, 'glorieuse': 32111, 'oppose': 32112, 'hegel’s': 32113, 'booke': 32114, 'shoppe': 32115, 'châteaudun': 32116, "stationers'": 32117, 'saddlebags': 32118, 'tussore': 32119, 'shouldering': 32120, 'bourdon': 32121, 'conjectures': 32122, 'imprison': 32123, 'brainless': 32124, 'disquiet': 32125, 'ensconced': 32126, "brandon's": 32127, 'halfway': 32128, 'quit': 32129, 'garters': 32130, 'ladles': 32131, 'lionise': 32132, 'précis': 32133, 'truculent': 32134, "'charming": 32135, 'tilting': 32136, 'skeins': 32137, 'detesting': 32138, 'southwark': 32139, 'proletariat': 32140, 'tapped': 32141, 'probabilities': 32142, 'venetians': 32143, 'antinoüs': 32144, 'agnew': 32145, 'goodbody': 32146, 'lank': 32147, "schumann's": 32148, 'duets': 32149, "youth's": 32150, 'sulks': 32151, 'refusals': 32152, 'defeats': 32153, 'gravel': 32154, 'stellated': 32155, 'wizen': 32156, 'deepened': 32157, 'tubes': 32158, 'varnished': 32159, 'saucers': 32160, 'mannered': 32161, 'unthought': 32162, 'collieries': 32163, 'excusing': 32164, 'decency': 32165, 'wry': 32166, 'subaltern': 32167, 'rascally': 32168, 'belgian': 32169, 'spitted': 32170, 'assented': 32171, 'cabmen': 32172, 'fares': 32173, 'jarvies': 32174, 'packers': 32175, 'fads': 32176, 'approvingly': 32177, 'crudely': 32178, 'risking': 32179, 'candleshades': 32180, 'buonarotti': 32181, 'harley': 32182, 'liberals': 32183, 'faudel': 32184, 'ministerial': 32185, 'accentuating': 32186, 'verb': 32187, 'quail': 32188, 'exhaust': 32189, "humour's": 32190, 'plaintively': 32191, 'vexed': 32192, 'expenditure': 32193, 'responsibilities': 32194, 'caveman': 32195, "thomas's": 32196, 'recaptured': 32197, "vat's": 32198, 'improvisation': 32199, 'liveried': 32200, 'disengaged': 32201, 'expound': 32202, 'brickdust': 32203, 'clodion': 32204, 'valois': 32205, 'clovis': 32206, 'apricot': 32207, 'bookcases': 32208, 'wardour': 32209, "thornbury's": 32210, 'frangipanni': 32211, 'puffs': 32212, 'abstruse': 32213, 'terrify': 32214, 'unsympathetic': 32215, 'lounged': 32216, 'grassless': 32217, 'ringlets': 32218, 'surveyed': 32219, 'cornucopias': 32220, 'ginger': 32221, 'palmy': 32222, 'grandpères': 32223, "'romeo": 32224, 'corked': 32225, 'husky': 32226, 'hautbois': 32227, 'sucking': 32228, 'munificent': 32229, 'bankruptcies': 32230, 'capulet': 32231, "jew's": 32232, 'topped': 32233, 'intrusive': 32234, 'bismuth': 32235, 'pouted': 32236, 'querulously': 32237, 'grotesqueness': 32238, 'remake': 32239, 'espial': 32240, 'wordy': 32241, 'daubed': 32242, 'grumble': 32243, 'hugged': 32244, 'ned': 32245, 'pattered': 32246, 'attacking': 32247, 'faring': 32248, "solicitor's": 32249, 'drummed': 32250, 'shirts': 32251, 'prattled': 32252, 'hump': 32253, 'morose': 32254, 'twitch': 32255, 'enthrall': 32256, 'surpass': 32257, "'genius'": 32258, 'loafers': 32259, 'enslave': 32260, 'orris': 32261, 'parasols': 32262, "berwick's": 32263, 'tittered': 32264, 'doggedly': 32265, 'cabs': 32266, 'devouring': 32267, 'pained': 32268, 'drudge': 32269, 'bitters': 32270, 'messalina': 32271, 'sorrier': 32272, 'gartered': 32273, "hawk's": 32274, 'figurine': 32275, 'overcharged': 32276, 'dahlia': 32277, 'waistcoats': 32278, 'popping': 32279, 'occupants': 32280, "capulet's": 32281, 'mannerly': 32282, "pilgrims'": 32283, "palmers'": 32284, 'staginess': 32285, 'bepaint': 32286, 'declaimed': 32287, 'schoolgirl': 32288, 'unadvised': 32289, 'lightens': 32290, 'hisses': 32291, 'fiasco': 32292, 'freed': 32293, 'hollowness': 32294, 'profanation': 32295, 'choked': 32296, 'archways': 32297, 'doorsteps': 32298, 'rumbled': 32299, 'crates': 32300, 'draggled': 32301, 'necked': 32302, 'shuttered': 32303, "doge's": 32304, 'disused': 32305, 'tiptoe': 32306, 'sèvres': 32307, 'programmes': 32308, 'quinze': 32309, 'worded': 32310, 'communiations': 32311, 'jermyn': 32312, 'lenders': 32313, 'cushioned': 32314, 'opiates': 32315, 'divinest': 32316, 'swallowed': 32317, 'latten': 32318, 'matchbox': 32319, 'enthralls': 32320, "hampshire's": 32321, 'raking': 32322, 'whitewashes': 32323, 'tourneur': 32324, 'tier': 32325, 'mimicked': 32326, 'childlike': 32327, 'winsome': 32328, 'desecration': 32329, 'fateful': 32330, 'inorganic': 32331, 'weaken': 32332, 'heartbroken': 32333, 'redressed': 32334, 'chancing': 32335, 'marlow': 32336, 'thunderstruck': 32337, 'sèze': 32338, "huntsman's": 32339, "adrian's": 32340, 'flake': 32341, 'reticences': 32342, "victor's": 32343, 'cobwebs': 32344, 'garrulous': 32345, 'winckelmann': 32346, 'viler': 32347, 'impecuniosity': 32348, 'fonthill': 32349, 'unhook': 32350, 'obsequious': 32351, "tradesman's": 32352, 'mouldings': 32353, 'schoolbooks': 32354, 'hawkers': 32355, 'unpictured': 32356, 'flaccid': 32357, "crow's": 32358, 'gasping': 32359, 'wormed': 32360, 'hoxton': 32361, 'danby': 32362, 'coroner': 32363, 'birrell': 32364, 'mortem': 32365, 'unwisely': 32366, 'rebellions': 32367, 'paraphrases': 32368, 'symbolistes': 32369, 'ecstasies': 32370, 'lateness': 32371, "novel's": 32372, 'conjecture': 32373, 'ageing': 32374, 'sharpness': 32375, 'wrinkling': 32376, 'neronian': 32377, 'elegantiarum': 32378, 'knotting': 32379, 'surrendered': 32380, 'rejections': 32381, 'anchorite': 32382, 'remaking': 32383, 'flameless': 32384, 'refashioned': 32385, 'vestment': 32386, 'panis': 32387, 'cælestis': 32388, 'smiting': 32389, 'fuming': 32390, 'confessionals': 32391, 'grating': 32392, 'arresting': 32393, 'antinomianism': 32394, 'darwinismus': 32395, 'distilling': 32396, 'champak': 32397, 'pollen': 32398, 'balms': 32399, 'hovenia': 32400, 'latticed': 32401, 'tunisians': 32402, 'mats': 32403, "schubert's": 32404, 'juruparis': 32405, 'rio': 32406, 'scourging': 32407, 'peruvians': 32408, 'alfonso': 32409, 'ovalle': 32410, 'chili': 32411, 'jaspers': 32412, 'cuzco': 32413, 'gourds': 32414, 'clarin': 32415, 'mexicans': 32416, 'performer': 32417, 'inhales': 32418, 'ture': 32419, 'teponaztli': 32420, 'elastic': 32421, 'yotl': 32422, 'aztecs': 32423, 'cylindrical': 32424, 'bernal': 32425, 'diaz': 32426, 'cortes': 32427, 'mexican': 32428, 'doleful': 32429, 'admiral': 32430, 'chrysoberyl': 32431, 'cymophane': 32432, 'pistachio': 32433, 'peridot': 32434, 'spinels': 32435, 'layers': 32436, 'sunstone': 32437, "moonstone's": 32438, 'vieille': 32439, 'roche': 32440, "alphonso's": 32441, 'emathia': 32442, 'jordan': 32443, 'philostratus': 32444, 'boniface': 32445, 'provoked': 32446, 'garnet': 32447, 'hydropicus': 32448, 'selenite': 32449, 'meloceus': 32450, 'kids': 32451, 'leonardus': 32452, 'camillus': 32453, 'bezoar': 32454, 'aspilates': 32455, 'democritus': 32456, 'ceilan': 32457, 'sardius': 32458, 'gable': 32459, "lodge's": 32460, 'margarite': 32461, 'inchased': 32462, 'mirrours': 32463, 'greene': 32464, 'emeraults': 32465, 'zipangu': 32466, 'perozes': 32467, 'huns': 32468, 'procopius': 32469, 'anastasius': 32470, 'malabar': 32471, 'valentinois': 32472, 'brantôme': 32473, 'rubles': 32474, 'stirrups': 32475, 'balas': 32476, 'bauderike': 32477, 'balasses': 32478, 'piers': 32479, 'jacinths': 32480, 'parsemé': 32481, 'orients': 32482, 'saddened': 32483, 'jonquils': 32484, 'reined': 32485, 'médicis': 32486, 'dacca': 32487, 'transparency': 32488, 'satins': 32489, 'foukousas': 32490, 'golds': 32491, 'macerated': 32492, 'stemmed': 32493, 'morse': 32494, "seraph's": 32495, 'chasubles': 32496, 'dalmatics': 32497, 'frontals': 32498, 'corporals': 32499, 'sudaria': 32500, 'trouville': 32501, 'tampered': 32502, 'blackballed': 32503, 'consorted': 32504, 'coiners': 32505, 'insolences': 32506, 'slights': 32507, 'braved': 32508, 'entrées': 32509, 'surcoat': 32510, 'sherard': 32511, 'giovanna': 32512, 'stomacher': 32513, 'slashed': 32514, 'mandolin': 32515, 'willoughby': 32516, 'saturnine': 32517, 'ferrars': 32518, 'beckenham': 32519, 'fitzherbert': 32520, 'orgies': 32521, 'glittered': 32522, 'capri': 32523, 'elephantis': 32524, 'dwarfs': 32525, 'swinger': 32526, 'caligula': 32527, 'caroused': 32528, 'jockeys': 32529, 'supped': 32530, 'manger': 32531, 'frontleted': 32532, 'elagabalus': 32533, 'plied': 32534, 'filippo': 32535, 'barbi': 32536, 'formosus': 32537, 'florins': 32538, 'gian': 32539, 'visconti': 32540, 'fratricide': 32541, 'perotto': 32542, 'riario': 32543, 'giambattista': 32544, 'cibo': 32545, 'infused': 32546, 'sigismondo': 32547, 'isotta': 32548, 'effigy': 32549, 'polyssena': 32550, 'ginevra': 32551, "d'este": 32552, 'soothed': 32553, 'grifonetto': 32554, 'baglioni': 32555, 'astorre': 32556, 'simonetto': 32557, 'pomander': 32558, 'foggy': 32559, 'siphons': 32560, "radley's": 32561, 'anglomanie': 32562, 'profligacies': 32563, 'wag': 32564, 'slinking': 32565, 'foulest': 32566, 'mentone': 32567, 'implicated': 32568, 'blasphemy': 32569, 'straightened': 32570, 'cores': 32571, 'scuffling': 32572, 'thinning': 32573, 'rotting': 32574, 'sputtering': 32575, "'lead": 32576, "snow'": 32577, 'uncontrollable': 32578, 'fingered': 32579, 'trickle': 32580, 'humped': 32581, "bull's": 32582, 'shambled': 32583, 'sip': 32584, 'distinctness': 32585, 'émaux': 32586, 'camées': 32587, "charpentier's": 32588, 'jacquemart': 32589, 'lacenaire': 32590, 'supplice': 32591, 'lavée': 32592, 'doigts': 32593, 'faune': 32594, 'gamme': 32595, 'chromatique': 32596, 'sein': 32597, 'ruisselant': 32598, 'vénus': 32599, "l'adriatique": 32600, 'dômes': 32601, "l'azur": 32602, 'ondes': 32603, 'suivant': 32604, "s'enflent": 32605, 'rondes': 32606, 'soulève': 32607, 'soupir': 32608, "d'amour": 32609, "l'esquif": 32610, 'aborde': 32611, 'dépose': 32612, 'jetant': 32613, 'amarre': 32614, 'pilier': 32615, 'pushes': 32616, 'campanile': 32617, 'hadjis': 32618, 'obelisk': 32619, 'concorde': 32620, 'beryl': 32621, 'monstre': 32622, 'charmant': 32623, 'tripos': 32624, 'prescriptions': 32625, "berkshire's": 32626, 'biology': 32627, 'battened': 32628, 'nimbly': 32629, 'astrakhan': 32630, 'vestige': 32631, 'hospitals': 32632, 'dissecting': 32633, 'gutters': 32634, 'benefiting': 32635, 'prolonging': 32636, 'tightened': 32637, 'asbestos': 32638, 'noisily': 32639, 'enrage': 32640, 'thousandth': 32641, 'mahogany': 32642, 'chemicals': 32643, 'coil': 32644, 'platinum': 32645, 'clamps': 32646, 'authoritative': 32647, 'averted': 32648, 'nitric': 32649, 'ushered': 32650, 'mausoleum': 32651, 'harrowden': 32652, 'compromised': 32653, 'disappoint': 32654, 'untasted': 32655, 'adolphe': 32656, 'menu': 32657, 'chaud': 32658, 'surprises': 32659, 'assures': 32660, 'navarre': 32661, 'zèle': 32662, "d'audace": 32663, 'tonic': 32664, 'prescribes': 32665, 'pardons': 32666, 'guffawed': 32667, 'adversaries': 32668, 'reappeared': 32669, 'prefix': 32670, 'pinnacles': 32671, 'jovially': 32672, 'hardens': 32673, 'willoughbys': 32674, 'rugby': 32675, 'grotrian': 32676, 'corroborative': 32677, 'irritable': 32678, 'singeing': 32679, 'algerian': 32680, 'gnawed': 32681, 'waxy': 32682, 'brawled': 32683, 'plodded': 32684, 'thickened': 32685, 'kilns': 32686, 'barked': 32687, 'rut': 32688, 'reshaped': 32689, 'disordered': 32690, 'jerk': 32691, 'stacks': 32692, 'huskily': 32693, 'merchantman': 32694, 'coaling': 32695, 'wedged': 32696, 'unhooked': 32697, 'flattened': 32698, 'reflectors': 32699, 'malays': 32700, 'tawdrily': 32701, 'whimper': 32702, 'postures': 32703, 'mattresses': 32704, 'hells': 32705, 'malay': 32706, 'crease': 32707, 'raked': 32708, 'enviously': 32709, 'hiccoughed': 32710, 'drizzling': 32711, 'tightening': 32712, "daly's": 32713, 'whined': 32714, 'brazilian': 32715, 'rechristening': 32716, 'robinsoniana': 32717, 'tilt': 32718, "hilstone's": 32719, 'reputations': 32720, 'disgracefully': 32721, 'trojans': 32722, 'riposte': 32723, 'sphynxes': 32724, 'parthian': 32725, 'overtired': 32726, 'xviii': 32727, 'footmarks': 32728, "duchess's": 32729, 'jerking': 32730, 'cartridges': 32731, 'undergrowth': 32732, 'snaps': 32733, 'tussock': 32734, 'bolted': 32735, 'alders': 32736, "animal's": 32737, 'bounded': 32738, 'firing': 32739, 'affirmative': 32740, 'buzz': 32741, 'tabooed': 32742, 'harvey': 32743, 'presentiment': 32744, 'chequebook': 32745, 'gamekeeper': 32746, 'tattooed': 32747, 'shooter': 32748, 'grooms': 32749, 'sputtered': 32750, 'doorpost': 32751, 'spoon': 32752, 'snowed': 32753, "hetty's": 32754, 'ploughman': 32755, 'vinaigrette': 32756, 'yawned': 32757, 'waterbury': 32758, 'conductor': 32759, 'balancing': 32760, 'scurf': 32761, 'entitles': 32762, 'advertise': 32763, "'hamlet": 32764, "lose'": 32765, "soul'": 32766, 'jarred': 32767, 'yelling': 32768, '1820': 32769, 'stocks': 32770, 'majorca': 32771, 'lilas': 32772, 'poole': 32773, "bournemouth's": 32774, 'revivalist': 32775, 'branksome': 32776, 'lilacs': 32777, 'irretrievable': 32778, 'idolatrous': 32779, 'rewrite': 32780, 'unripe': 32781, 'unbarred': 32782, 'persisted': 32783, "curiosity's": 32784, "ashton's": 32785, "servants'": 32786, 'domestics': 32787, 'bolts': 32788, 'spellings': 32789, '153': 32790, 'montmartre': 32791, 'belgium': 32792, '334': 32793, '327': 32794, 'cr': 32795, '362': 32796, 'fullpaged': 32797, 'thirlat': 32798, 'dété': 32799, 'brendon': 32800, 'plymouth': 32801, '352': 32802, 'imprimatur': 32803, "carrington's": 32804, 'jurisdiction': 32805, 'infringing': 32806, 'berne': 32807, 'incurring': 32808, 'disagreements': 32809, "simpkin's": 32810, 'bookshelf': 32811, 'opaque': 32812, 'lambskin': 32813, 'levant': 32814, 'mammals': 32815, 'reptiles': 32816, 'amphibians': 32817, 'supplement': 32818, 'spikelets': 32819, 'florets': 32820, 'genus': 32821, 'nicotine': 32822, 'smoker': 32823, 'pouch': 32824, 'imitating': 32825, 'postage': 32826, '3d': 32827, 'caxton': 32828, 'foolscap': 32829, 'undine': 32830, "aslauga's": 32831, 'motte': 32832, 'fouqué': 32833, 'nelson': 32834, 'bunyan': 32835, 'rosalynde': 32836, 'lodge': 32837, 'hesperides': 32838}
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1, 'oasis': 2, 'prodigy': 2, 'excuses': 5, 'soulless': 5, 'furies': 3, 'shapeless': 2, 'panchaia': 1, 'moisture': 3, 'xenophanes': 1, 'müller': 1, 'philistines': 8, 'γίγνεσθαι': 1, 'sieges': 1, 'insensibly': 3, 'école': 1, 'plate': 13, 'brotherhood': 7, 'resistless': 2, 'familiarity': 4, 'modifiable': 2, 'characterised': 4, 'hinksey': 2, 'explicitly': 2, 'music—for': 1, 'cradled': 4, 'perfect—at': 1, 'ἐπ’': 1, 'werther': 4, 'secondly': 5, 'employing': 2, 'excused': 4, 'mantinea': 2, 'philadelphia': 5, 'unusual': 5, 'bull’s': 2, 'glade': 6, 'exceptional': 2, 'empire’': 1, 'οὐ': 1, 'aids': 3, 'corinth': 2, 'soap': 3, 'epigrams': 6, 'latin': 6, 'deeper': 11, 'pitcher': 3, 'patriarchal': 1, 'indo': 1, 'regardless': 3, 'adornment': 3, 'sneering': 2, 'unloading': 4, 'cecrops': 1, 'τέχνη': 1, 'subsistence': 2, '‘only': 2, 'avenging': 1, 'deep—messages': 1, 'exploit': 2, 'assisi': 5, '‘invariable': 1, 'ὁ': 1, 'truthful': 6, 'guiding': 4, 'voilà': 3, '213': 1, 'legions': 4, 'monarque': 3, 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2, 'ἀνακύκλωσις': 1, 'vapid': 2, 'incomprehensible': 5, 'historian’s': 1, 'ægean': 3, 'divina': 4, 'ῥίζης': 1, 'hortensius': 2, 'quickness': 3, 'anne': 7, 'mothers’': 1, 'react': 2, 'treads': 5, 'chaos': 9, 'edle': 1, 'piromis': 1, 'hallows': 2, 'omnibuses': 3, 'desecrating': 2, 'euhemeros': 1, 'sway': 7, 'mycenæ': 1, 'naît': 1, 'counting': 6, 'hierarchical': 2, 'manœuvres': 1, 'islanders': 2, 'marathon': 6, 'steadfast': 5, 'landed': 3, 'blackfriars': 5, 'julian': 3, 'thoughtfullest': 2, 'genoa': 10, 'mathematical': 4, 'clique': 4, 'imagining': 6, 'harming': 2, 'definitely': 8, 'muse': 7, 'professorship': 4, 'priam': 4, 'succumbed': 1, 'πως': 1, 'absorption': 5, 'cyrus': 2, 'æginetan': 1, 'rationalism': 2, 'vicinity': 5, 'gothic': 10, '63c': 1, 'statistics': 5, 'dyer’s': 5, 'lasso': 2, 'legion': 3, 'καὶ': 2, 'contend': 6, 'appreciates': 3, 'stream': 11, 'aryan': 3, 'fenced': 3, '‘wherefore': 1, 'inclination': 4, 'reappear': 4, 'pervading': 4, 'logically': 3, 'recognising': 5, 'eats': 8, 'astronomy': 3, 'tangible': 3, 'unsightly': 4, 'τὸν': 2, 'pediment': 2, 'auro': 1, 'acrobat': 2, 'angelo': 7, 'gautier': 10, 'pamphleteer': 3, 'marius': 3, 'newness': 2, 'trodden': 6, 'flawless': 13, '‘differentiation': 1, 'regulations': 7, 'street—a': 1, 'immortalised': 2, 'workmen': 7, 'adopts': 4, 'predestines': 1, 'fields': 14, 'desecrate': 5, 'intervention': 4, 'quays': 2, 'foremost': 7, 'dread': 14, 'maintenon': 2, 'ephorus': 2, 'ἐκ': 1, 'echidna': 1, 'prefigures': 2, 'unlikely': 3, 'qui': 8, 'leopards': 5, 'squalor': 2, '134': 1, 'substratum': 3, 'transferred': 4, '68': 2, 'collect': 4, 'exemplified': 5, 'garnished': 2, 'trenchant': 2, 'eternally': 6, '380': 1, 'vendor': 2, 'sophocles': 6, 'euripides': 6, 'cato': 2, 'rearranging': 2, 'oar': 4, 'palladium': 2, 'uninspired': 2, '‘must': 2, 'lucrece': 3, 'theban': 3, 'rationalist': 3, 'particulars': 4, 'πολιτείων': 1, 'illumination': 6, 'paraphernalia': 1, 'handicraftsman': 4, 'bungling': 3, 'chandeliers': 2, 'questioning': 7, 'locrian': 2, 'celtic': 5, 'chronology': 1, 'φύσει': 1, 'viewless': 2, 'alludes': 4, 'revising': 4, 'peneus': 2, 'standpoints': 2, 'needless': 4, 'springs': 9, 'cards': 8, 'philistus': 2, 'edgar': 5, 'minyan': 2, 'prelude': 7, 'diverted': 2, '1879': 5, 'geography': 6, 'precision': 5, 'συνετέλεσε': 1, 'helen’s': 1, 'mystics': 2, 'suck': 4, 'outraged': 1, 'lifeless': 4, 'nymph': 9, 'τὸ': 2, 'cumberland': 4, '‘city': 1, 'madonna': 6, 'comparison': 8, 'adducing': 1, 'aroused': 6, 'catchwords': 3, 'playground': 5, 'art—in': 1, 'forerunner': 2, 'facial': 4, 'arimathea': 2, 'awarded': 3, 'predicting': 2, 'smear': 4, 'reformation': 8, 'china—a': 1, '‘oh': 2, 'unimpeachableness': 2, 'flows': 5, 'concord': 2, 'meed': 4, 'abound': 2, 'cloister': 5, 'lampon': 2, 'conclude': 2, 'censure': 9, 'poe’s': 2, 'prejudicial': 3, 'proofs': 10, 'consolations': 3, 'induction': 3, 'epics': 3, 'compose': 4, 'panegyric': 5, 'handicraftman': 1, 'lacedæmon': 1, '‘sacred': 1, 'subsumed': 2, 'sciences': 3, 'theorists': 2, 'isolation': 6, 'unbalanced': 2, 'handicraftsmen': 3, 'philistine—teiresias': 1, 'rectitude': 3, 'vileness': 4, 'quantities': 4, 'trinity': 8, 'subscription': 2, 'muses’': 1, 'bishops': 6, 'σύστασις': 1, 'shopman': 4, 'dialectic': 3, 'chartres—where': 1, 'veteran': 2, 'strongest': 5, 'athena': 8, 'meurt': 1, 'cheer': 5, 'gorgonian': 4, 'patiently': 4, 'wordsworth’s': 3, 'dismally': 2, 'accusation': 4, 'elizabeth’s': 3, 'lyrist': 4, 'botticean': 1, 'pentelicus': 2, 'iridescent': 7, 'disparu': 2, 'ἄστυ': 1, 'lineaments': 4, 'disregarding': 2, 'parsley': 4, 'chroniclers': 3, 'alcibiades': 1, 'τοὺς': 1, '‘nothing': 4, 'inductive': 2, 'done—graceful': 1, 'paradoxical': 5, 'parthenidæ': 1, 'extended': 8, 'angle': 2, 'grime': 2, 'gute': 1, 'afforded': 3, 'assign': 2, 'positiveness': 2, 'victorian': 2, 'divergence': 3, 'blames': 2, 'dialectics': 1, 'muscles': 5, 'dividing': 4, 'contest': 2, 'incorporate': 2, 'naïve': 2, 'city—': 1, 'premises': 2, 'annihilated': 7, '‘mars': 1, 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'sovereign': 8, 'manly': 4, '197': 1, 'evolutions': 2, 'subdue': 4, 'crisis': 6, '391': 1, 'rossetti': 6, 'monkish': 3, 'nurturing': 2, '‘disk': 1, 'lubbock': 1, 'pantheon': 2, 'breeding': 2, 'asiatic': 5, 'bassarid': 4, 'scorching': 7, 'unanimous': 2, '173': 2, 'unrolls': 4, 'cincinnatus': 2, 'serving': 6, 'swinburne': 6, 'impress': 7, 'heritage': 5, 'immigration': 1, 'expounder': 2, 'herding': 3, 'bone': 9, 'painter’s': 3, 'chieftain': 1, 'revered': 3, 'alcmæonidæ': 1, 'whitman’s': 2, 'detail': 9, 'οἰκονομία': 1, 'publicity': 3, 'petrarch': 6, 'idols': 3, 'stuffed': 2, 'magians': 1, 'aristocratic': 4, 'pas': 8, 'unequal': 6, 'excavations': 2, 'foresee': 2, 'asserts': 1, 'aberrations': 1, 'unifying': 2, 'borrowing': 5, 'incantations': 1, 'dolphin': 2, 'tenor': 2, 'horridness': 2, 'earn': 3, 'conforms': 4, 'argued': 5, 'parks': 2, 'proprietors': 2, 'whereon': 6, 'improbable—which': 1, 'utility': 4, 'fanaticism': 2, 'miniato': 4, 'englishman': 9, 'euripidean': 2, 'agnation': 1, 'exeter': 4, 'ἀθήνας': 1, '227': 3, 'disappearing': 4, 'verification': 2, 'seriousness': 8, 'agitating': 3, 'styled': 2, 'retrieve': 1, 'παραδοξάτον': 1, 'handicraftsmen—the': 1, 'style—dante': 1, 'passion—the': 1, 'sleet': 2, 'woolly': 4, 'deferred': 5, 'instability': 2, 'leonardo': 3, 'physique': 4, 'towns': 8, 'xvi': 5, 'jewellery': 3, 'attainments': 3, 'alexandrines': 2, 'refutation': 1, 'democracies': 3, 'anthropologists': 2, 'beeves': 1, 'overpowering': 2, 'seaport': 2, 'circles': 7, 'groundwork': 2, 'spontaneity': 3, 'lain': 10, 'barrenness': 7, 'flamed': 4, 'simplified': 2, 'politicians': 5, 'inventive': 4, 'attainable': 2, 'unattainable': 4, 'j': 7, 'overshadow': 2, 'antistrophe': 1, 'this—michael': 1, 'impotent': 8, 'positive': 5, 'denying': 5, 'scott': 5, 'portions': 2, 'adrastus': 2, 'ἀδρῶν': 1, 'designers': 4, 'sacrifices': 5, 'intolerance': 1, 'hauling': 3, 'humoured': 5, 'eccentric': 6, 'pardoned': 2, 'comets': 2, 'analytical': 2, '1885': 4, 'inestimable': 2, 'coined': 1, 'categories': 4, 'bewildering': 2, 'unrecognisable': 2, 'alabasters': 2, '‘not': 4, 'chemical': 3, 'empirical': 2, '‘miss': 1, 'displaced': 4, 'nobler': 10, 'ῥωμαῖος': 1, 'offender': 3, 'assume': 5, 'purified': 6, 'discerns': 3, 'commonwealth': 5, 'discern': 6, 'emile': 3, 'lineal': 2, 'stability': 5, 'anticipating': 3, 'pontifices': 2, 'elucidation': 3, 'traditional': 2, '‘carlyle': 1, '‘master': 1, 'art—the': 1, 'archæologists': 3, '‘classical’': 1, 'puteoli': 2, 'natura': 1, 'leopardi': 3, 'flutes': 11, 'uplands': 2, 'unproductive': 2, 'classified': 2, '‘japanese': 1, 'γυναικώδους': 1, 'suffice': 5, 'balzac': 6, 'sixtus': 3, 'revenge': 6, 'proportions': 6, 'persuade': 4, 'investigate': 6, 'phoenicia': 2, 'plants': 7, 'memmius': 2, 'sitters': 4, 'day—æschylus': 1, 'accounted': 3, 'pots': 5, 'rome’s': 4, 'used—he': 1, 'windlass': 2, 'hapless': 5, 'eine': 1, 'suggest': 8, 'backstairs': 3, 'thigh': 3, 'buffalo': 5, 'unscientific': 4, 'castor': 2, 'needing': 2, 'inscriptions': 4, 'researches': 2, 'wittiest': 3, 'training': 5, 'savonarola': 2, 'obstructions': 2, 'professors': 3, 'comparative': 6, 'hues': 3, 'mall': 7, 'bravely': 6, 'drapery': 5, 'geological': 1, 'crusade': 3, 'melody': 12, 'piquant': 3, 'ἀμείνους': 1, 'ram': 2, 'confuse': 6, '‘federal': 1, 'climate—in': 1, 'evincing': 1, 'tendencies': 6, 'minucius': 1, 'adding': 7, 'pillage': 7, 'misrepresented': 2, 'modern’': 1, 'beethoven': 4, 'days’': 1, 'show—of': 1, 'preserving': 3, 'tabulated': 4, 'keen': 12, 'bat': 4, 'stationary': 1, 'closset': 2, 'inviolable': 2, 'iphitus': 1, 'tibet': 1, 'wellington': 3, 'goth': 4, 'que': 8, 'maestro': 2, 'me—but': 1, 'rightful': 4, 'innovation': 3, 'hilled': 2, 'presides': 3, 'equipped': 5, 'pious': 5, 'inventions': 4, 'τύχη': 1, '37': 3, 'ὀργῆς': 1, 'eurystheus': 1, 'dieth': 3, 'baptism': 4, 'thorax': 2, 'improvements': 4, 'them—': 2, 'antisthenes': 2, 'outset': 4, 'impressionist': 6, 'cane': 4, 'shakespearean': 3, 'excellence': 4, 'debates': 3, 'paltry': 3, 'supernatural’': 1, 'familiar': 11, 'dreadfuls': 2, 'barely': 5, 'unexhausted': 2, '‘without': 1, 'conflict': 4, 'reporters': 3, 'perverting': 2, 'primarily': 8, 'economists': 2, 'chord': 8, 'unlike': 11, 'clue': 2, 'sustaining': 3, 'baths': 3, 'unmasking': 2, 'whistler’s': 2, 'wedding': 10, 'vat': 6, 'hero': 8, 'overlooking': 4, 'striven': 3, 'serpentine': 2, '‘well—shakespearean': 1, 'beneficent': 2, 'cosmical': 2, 'kennel': 1, 'externally': 2, 'edgeways': 1, 'orthodox': 3, 'facile—often': 1, 'lyre': 10, '‘piece': 1, 'prosecuted': 2, 'unimportant': 5, '‘plague': 1, 'lesson—the': 1, 'capture': 5, 'persistence': 2, '‘spiritual’': 1, 'art—found': 1, 'rationalistic': 3, 'ceres': 2, 'lightened': 3, 'apennine': 2, 'ubiquitous': 2, 'workman’s': 2, 'approbation': 1, 'albans': 2, 'carve': 6, 'might—if': 1, 'rust': 6, 'heredity': 6, 'tacitus': 3, 'extensive': 3, 'portico': 6, 'mazzini': 6, 'verifying': 2, 'scotch': 8, 'μισοτύραννοι': 1, 'excelled': 4, 'pursued': 3, 'melodies': 6, 'dedicated': 7, 'ascribe': 2, 'minerva': 4, 'reconcile': 3, 'pater': 7, 'frères': 1, 'defying': 2, 'cithæron': 2, 'terrapins': 2, 'atmospherical': 2, 'buds': 8, 'stadia': 1, 'upland': 8, 'bondage': 3, 'taskmaster': 1, 'che': 4, 'unification': 2, 'conclusive': 5, 'διδαχῇ': 1, 'bailey': 5, 'fourteenth': 5, 'neglects': 2, 'aufklärung': 4, 'zemganno': 2, 'spangles': 4, 'montesquieu': 2, 'myths': 4, '‘symphony': 1, 'rosa': 4, 'nature—a': 1, 'adorn': 5, 'qualification': 5, 'theological': 6, 'fetish': 1, 'resultant': 2, 'centaur': 5, 'generates': 3, 'depending': 5, '‘idea’': 1, '‘historical': 1, 'caution': 1, '‘never': 2, 'dandies—were': 1, 'forcible': 3, 'titans': 5, 'relieves': 2, 'thirsting': 2, 'category': 4, 'eagles': 8, 'gracious': 15, 'dado': 5, 'spirit—from': 1, 'carpet—being': 1, 'widening': 5, 'nurse': 8, 'columbus': 3, 'workshop': 6, 'sideboard': 2, 'relationship': 5, 'hegemony': 3, 'masquerading': 4, 'thucydidean': 2, 'genealogies': 3, 'awfulness': 2, 'lordly': 8, 'product': 4, 'palaces': 6, 'divisions': 3, 'traced': 7, 'pindar': 2, 'pantheistic': 4, 'improbability': 2, 'actæon': 1, 'moonlit': 7, '‘worth': 2, 'andre': 4, 'range': 8, 'decorating': 4, 'facet': 1, 'ultra': 1, 'botanist': 4, 'ionian': 5, 'abyss': 7, 'handling': 6, 'affords': 3, 'tylor': 2, 'informing': 6, 'castaly': 4, 'φιλέλλην': 1, 'humanism': 5, 'intrusion': 2, 'o’clock’': 1, 'nation’s': 1, 'mosaic': 6, 'allegorical': 2, 'allegorising': 1, 'phalaris': 2, 'convention': 8, 'abiding': 5, 'movements': 13, 'stepping': 6, 'realm—colour': 1, 'portended': 2, 'corrected': 9, 'τί': 1, 'μεταβολὴ': 1, 'uttermost': 5, 'uglier': 2, 'mercenary': 3, '·': 1, 'love—able': 1, 'scientifically': 3, 'τοῦτο': 1, 'ξύλοισι': 1, 'berkeley': 5, 'flint': 5, 'unmanly': 2, 'utensils': 2, 'milton': 8, 'streams': 7, 'shibboleth': 2, 'proximity': 2, 'creation—of': 1, 'universally': 5, 'materialise': 2, 'avowedly': 4, '‘whitewashing': 1, 'giraffe': 2, 'healing': 4, 'haunting': 5, 'things’—i': 1, 'attica': 1, 'gibbon': 4, 'μέγας': 1, '1789': 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Vectorize the text¶
Before training, we need to map strings to a numerical representation. Create two lookup tables: one mapping words to numbers, and another for numbers to words.
In [0]:
word_idx = tokenizer.word_index
idx_word = tokenizer.index_word
Get the word count for every word and also get the total number of words.
In [0]:
word_counts = tokenizer.word_counts
num_words = len(word_idx) + 1
Convert text to sequence of numbers
In [0]:
sequences = tokenizer.texts_to_sequences(content)
In [0]:
len(sequences)
Out[0]:
31
In [0]:
sequences[0:10]
Out[0]:
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11, 19, 62, 1, 595, 359, 210, 531, 5, 1931, 327, 2, 31, 91, 382, 38, 18, 3314, 14, 1, 447, 3479, 595, 359, 90, 1093, 2, 3314, 14, 242, 210, 1401, 93, 634, 45, 7, 65, 30, 6, 1, 106, 38, 7, 121, 595, 210, 3407, 5, 3642, 70, 15, 12, 6644, 25, 1, 306, 1167, 7435, 555, 226, 62, 46, 2181, 210, 82, 1, 2393, 361, 15, 32, 182, 75, 2, 1, 2634, 6, 50, 615, 1129, 6006, 3, 50, 3976, 189, 22880, 5480, 54, 11, 100, 210, 82, 1, 9499, 703, 3613, 22, 90, 325, 30, 210, 9509, 24, 33, 22, 6, 79, 1093, 210, 373, 1, 361, 3, 1, 9499, 703, 3768, 3, 319, 68, 2626, 14, 12, 135, 16, 4851, 2, 361, 3814, 30, 143, 45, 1891, 117, 1, 352, 5, 91, 1562, 17, 710, 37, 751, 154, 4, 2618, 1072, 2262, 133, 24, 12, 37, 3332, 504, 14, 12, 18, 6, 96, 13, 1, 87, 149, 1948, 12, 37, 706, 31, 673, 6, 1, 876, 15, 12, 18, 3582, 129, 1, 1164, 148, 5, 1521, 512, 9510, 3, 37, 73, 41, 6945, 26, 31, 12095, 3114, 8, 12, 37, 1867, 4, 379, 4, 31, 17141, 9, 96, 11, 210, 82, 1, 1562, 38, 3211, 4, 125, 4, 1, 346, 25, 169, 3, 1, 1948, 108, 35, 5, 670, 1999, 41, 12, 1891, 232, 3, 232, 31, 3554, 1, 509, 13, 17, 771, 3, 559, 362, 7437, 27, 18, 17, 22881, 3, 10, 7879, 29, 102, 1, 1334, 4562, 7, 5, 1804, 14056, 210, 16317, 1, 85, 5648, 6946, 42, 36, 521, 3, 207, 114, 130, 22882, 3, 165, 1, 1164, 18, 121, 158, 2, 2272, 113, 56, 1, 2081, 182, 32, 29, 1891, 154, 148, 32, 37, 751, 12, 532, 1609, 3, 576, 4, 6277, 2, 17, 84, 96, 6946, 42, 36, 1247, 210, 12, 82, 3646, 9, 93, 401, 8, 48, 7, 5, 22883, 14, 48, 7, 97, 14057, 13, 1, 545, 210, 3, 284, 1446, 1, 545, 4108, 1, 1948, 108, 1, 87, 1326, 22884, 1401, 1135, 8, 48, 7, 3681, 210, 12, 2746, 3855, 9, 96, 4373, 3, 40, 457, 1515, 77, 96, 4373, 190, 210, 9086, 11, 125, 154, 13, 39, 210, 12, 82, 1331, 4, 31, 24, 1, 1948, 1682, 31, 289, 48, 18, 41, 2300, 4, 31, 498, 3613, 22, 73, 22885, 13, 39, 210, 12, 340, 1401, 93, 377, 4, 1, 11864, 105, 1855, 210, 3, 12, 1891, 154, 29, 122, 163, 12, 1891, 3, 25, 143, 118, 12, 2474, 25, 1, 352, 13590, 150, 9, 391, 94, 210, 12, 82, 1401, 376, 1, 700, 42, 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7, 14, 1, 162, 2, 624, 1079, 25, 36, 1058, 3, 13, 317, 36, 1732, 1145, 11, 72, 273, 10, 142, 10, 154, 21, 1080, 162, 10, 184, 1, 172, 2, 1, 52, 47, 239, 1027, 13, 27, 365, 21, 906, 25, 413, 47, 994, 1081, 280, 1414, 3, 2208, 1414, 607, 4962, 3918, 2490, 863, 1808, 3704, 23074, 365, 12137, 628, 213, 471, 200, 3931, 4853, 570, 938, 2, 27, 52, 47, 365, 280, 1414, 3, 2208, 1414, 660, 26, 12138, 1922, 7615, 10055, 25, 835, 413, 10056, 355, 28, 3539, 6646, 108, 1534, 26, 1, 6647, 288, 280, 1414, 3, 2208, 1414, 26, 4962, 3918, 13, 46, 2074, 26, 656, 474, 933, 14, 1866, 837, 14100, 3, 781, 26, 35, 25, 5404, 4293, 594, 12139, 9377, 17218, 3759, 6956, 26, 656, 474, 280, 1414, 3, 2208, 1414, 28, 1, 1345, 2, 3378, 6, 1, 12140, 1, 326, 2908, 661, 5, 953, 1225, 26, 1, 1940, 326, 6, 5, 1173, 25, 12141, 53, 51, 30, 480, 1078, 3614, 17219, 14101, 2406, 4170, 17220, 17221, 17222, 1329, 10657, 6, 17223, 17224, 5170, 10657, 5923, 23, 1, 4963, 1075, 1548, 163, 148, 123, 1, 10658, 450, 129, 4, 1, 326, 5, 503, 2, 2081, 17225, 17226, 7979, 1, 5403, 56, 9, 93, 265, 148, 4627, 116, 238, 20, 163, 7980, 5, 796, 874, 148, 4627, 148, 4627, 3209, 12142, 9529, 6, 9530, 2634, 17227, 17228, 25, 10659, 793, 12143, 501, 6956, 23075, 1, 130, 132, 119, 6, 314, 38, 20, 1997, 1132, 13, 39, 4, 5338, 3, 4, 296, 1, 213, 1005, 10660, 12144, 2403, 9395, 12145, 15, 3812, 64, 22, 302, 59, 45, 7, 538, 168, 96, 2, 67, 7, 69, 2769, 3, 3809, 168, 256, 335, 2, 155, 7, 69, 889, 3, 69, 681, 538, 165, 38, 7, 8692, 4, 422, 78, 1, 132, 399, 168, 1606, 9, 22, 393, 13, 39, 4, 963, 1606, 158, 2, 334, 4193, 3, 138, 158, 2, 374, 14, 1, 87, 2976, 399, 7, 16, 12, 38, 9250, 1, 3039, 6091, 2, 27, 106, 13, 1, 1512, 2865, 2, 1119, 24, 12, 38, 275, 17, 657, 87, 1789, 27, 165, 139, 1, 877, 2, 374, 6, 67, 8, 6520, 1110, 2, 256, 918, 34, 6, 286, 14, 678, 410, 28, 43, 913, 302, 1, 3013, 57, 2, 593, 1, 1110, 2, 503, 6, 1, 1499, 108, 41, 4579, 4, 59, 26, 8, 486, 2, 3400, 34, 271, 42, 49, 1348, 6, 409, 1789, 3049, 3, 6, 644, 7, 4, 19, 873, 14, 28, 1, 308, 90, 24, 28, 1, 2380, 674, 92, 1, 1261, 3, 5394, 2, 1, 378, 1, 2890, 155, 2, 1, 797, 41, 8, 1, 2704, 364, 2, 79, 256, 967, 6, 644, 42, 73, 16, 6, 1, 862, 4925, 2, 1, 3139, 5384, 14, 29, 50, 2885, 2, 245, 2713, 3, 50, 978, 2, 998, 503, 24, 6, 1, 55, 2, 89, 119, 15, 1785, 3, 5891, 4964, 38, 22, 2362, 797, 3, 378, 4, 1, 590, 2529, 2, 286, 3, 267, 14, 1, 1026, 2, 50, 573, 644, 410, 28, 1, 409, 8632, 3, 1784, 5642, 2, 4965, 3, 378, 28, 5, 310, 161, 3, 1426, 2, 149, 2835, 34, 5134, 29, 192, 6168, 3, 29, 3056, 517, 7, 6, 312, 370, 2890, 4, 1, 2261, 335, 7, 15, 1, 1049, 64, 126, 46, 425, 6, 312, 1, 496, 2, 50, 55, 139, 62, 1, 496, 294, 4, 59, 26, 267, 14, 267, 7, 1, 67, 6, 34, 161, 3, 341, 20, 97, 30, 1, 67, 168, 308, 159, 19, 4603, 28, 1, 388, 2, 49, 364, 1, 67, 34, 87, 1103, 3352, 14, 59, 1, 256, 590, 3, 7, 1, 1565, 4, 34, 29, 1, 85, 610, 20, 2770, 10556, 104, 27, 2447, 335, 2, 1, 392, 2890, 403, 2, 149, 2835, 27, 2079, 2, 1, 2519, 696, 2, 1, 3013, 1110, 6, 67, 27, 96, 2, 67, 14, 5101, 845, 7, 1, 346, 6, 34, 33, 2, 1, 2075, 495, 22, 108, 5, 4365, 28, 1, 3192, 2, 66, 2347, 5, 4365, 1915, 3, 464, 3, 10661, 703, 165, 2, 1, 642, 2, 29, 416, 605, 3, 2, 1, 1109, 2, 29, 862, 112, 44, 12, 19, 4, 59, 173, 1240, 8, 10, 18, 12, 38, 26, 1, 3031, 2, 17, 1230, 3, 1, 267, 2, 17, 300, 1303, 59, 25, 1067, 8, 1729, 14, 155, 34, 7, 1, 354, 2, 5597, 3, 8, 544, 14, 857, 34, 7, 1, 354, 2, 57, 3, 898, 65, 2, 59, 25, 431, 13, 1, 1760, 3, 1263, 2485, 4, 147, 309, 88, 207, 3, 476, 2702, 13, 65, 1878, 14, 1, 2129, 3, 65, 742, 14, 1, 106, 3, 138, 6, 17, 67, 405, 17, 2328, 2, 1, 2976, 1110, 2, 67, 17, 197, 388, 2, 4486, 67, 33, 20, 36, 912, 13, 35, 14, 1, 7138, 4, 17, 2261, 1169, 7, 2022, 97, 12, 64, 1728, 2, 5, 336, 26, 1, 1941, 2, 416, 802, 1092, 10, 2544, 24, 4, 59, 1, 5638, 26, 34, 29, 416, 55, 6, 644, 71, 760, 3, 152, 760, 1, 178, 20, 16, 116, 2, 2053, 2, 57, 21, 3056, 2053, 4, 35, 627, 2, 2835, 229, 24, 1, 2651, 2, 1834, 3, 4783, 2, 2657, 7981, 1, 1115, 2, 46, 1014, 114, 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Generate Features and Labels¶
In [0]:
features = []
labels = []
training_length = 50
# Iterate through the sequences of tokens
for seq in sequences:
# Create multiple training examples from each sequence
for i in range(training_length, training_length+300):
# Extract the features and label
extract = seq[i - training_length: i - training_length + 20]
# Set the features and label
features.append(extract[:-1])
labels.append(extract[-1])
In [0]:
features[0]
Out[0]:
[3244, 52, 47, 365, 14, 96, 2, 1, 372, 26, 656, 474, 27, 365, 7, 14, 1, 162, 2]
In [0]:
labels[0]
Out[0]:
624
The prediction task¶
Given a word, or a sequence of words, what is the most probable next word? This is the task we're training the model to perform. The input to the model will be a sequence of words, and we train the model to predict the output—the following word at each time step.
Since RNNs maintain an internal state that depends on the previously seen elements, given all the words computed until this moment, what is the next word?
Generate training and testing data¶
In [0]:
from sklearn.utils import shuffle
import numpy as np
features, labels = shuffle(features, labels, random_state=1)
# 80% training data
train_end = int(0.8 * len(labels))
train_features = np.array(features[:train_end])
valid_features = np.array(features[train_end:])
train_labels = labels[:train_end]
valid_labels = labels[train_end:]
# Convert to arrays
X_train, X_valid = np.array(train_features), np.array(valid_features)
# Using int8 for memory savings
y_train = np.zeros((len(train_labels), num_words), dtype=np.int8)
y_valid = np.zeros((len(valid_labels), num_words), dtype=np.int8)
# One hot encoding of labels
for example_index, word_index in enumerate(train_labels):
y_train[example_index, word_index] = 1
for example_index, word_index in enumerate(valid_labels):
y_valid[example_index, word_index] = 1
This is just to check the features and labels
In [0]:
for i, sequence in enumerate(X_train[:5]):
text = []
for idx in sequence:
text.append(idx_word[idx])
print('Features: ' + ' '.join(text)+'\n')
print('Label: ' + idx_word[np.argmax(y_train[i])] + '\n')
Features: room in algernon's flat in half moon street the room is luxuriously and artistically furnished the sound of a Label: piano Features: a woman of no importance a play author oscar wilde release date september 16 2014 ebook 854 this file Label: was Features: with it martin was dismissed it happened in may last year he is still out of employment and in Label: poor Features: out of a mane of tawny clouds the muffled steersman at the wheel is but a shadow in the Label: gloom Features: encoding utf 8 start of the project gutenberg ebook oscar wilde miscellaneous transcribed from the 1917 methuen and co Label: edition
Build The Model¶
Use keras.Sequential to define the model. For this simple example three layers are used to define our model:
keras.layers.Embedding: The input layer. A trainable lookup table that will map the numbers of each character to a vector withembedding_dimdimensions;keras.layers.LSTM: A type of RNN with sizeunits=rnn_units(You can also use a GRU layer here.)keras.layers.Dense: The output layer, withnum_wordsoutputs.
In [0]:
model = Sequential()
model.add(
Embedding(
input_dim=len(word_idx) + 1,
output_dim=200,
weights=None,
trainable=True))
model.add(
LSTM(
64, return_sequences=False, dropout=0.15,
recurrent_dropout=0.15))
# Fully connected layer
model.add(Dense(64, activation='relu'))
# Dropout for regularization
model.add(Dropout(0.5))
# Output layer
model.add(Dense(num_words, activation='softmax'))
# Compile the model
model.compile(
optimizer='adam', loss='categorical_crossentropy', metrics=['accuracy'])
model.summary()
WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:66: The name tf.get_default_graph is deprecated. Please use tf.compat.v1.get_default_graph instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:541: The name tf.placeholder is deprecated. Please use tf.compat.v1.placeholder instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:4432: The name tf.random_uniform is deprecated. Please use tf.random.uniform instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:148: The name tf.placeholder_with_default is deprecated. Please use tf.compat.v1.placeholder_with_default instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:3733: calling dropout (from tensorflow.python.ops.nn_ops) with keep_prob is deprecated and will be removed in a future version. Instructions for updating: Please use `rate` instead of `keep_prob`. Rate should be set to `rate = 1 - keep_prob`. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/optimizers.py:793: The name tf.train.Optimizer is deprecated. Please use tf.compat.v1.train.Optimizer instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/keras/backend/tensorflow_backend.py:3576: The name tf.log is deprecated. Please use tf.math.log instead. Model: "sequential_1" _________________________________________________________________ Layer (type) Output Shape Param # ================================================================= embedding_1 (Embedding) (None, None, 200) 6567800 _________________________________________________________________ lstm_1 (LSTM) (None, 64) 67840 _________________________________________________________________ dense_1 (Dense) (None, 64) 4160 _________________________________________________________________ dropout_1 (Dropout) (None, 64) 0 _________________________________________________________________ dense_2 (Dense) (None, 32839) 2134535 ================================================================= Total params: 8,774,335 Trainable params: 8,774,335 Non-trainable params: 0 _________________________________________________________________
For each word the model looks up the embedding, runs the LSTM one timestep with the embedding as input, and applies the dense layer to generate logits predicting the log-liklihood of the next word.
Train the model¶
In [0]:
h = model.fit(X_train, y_train, epochs = 500, batch_size = 64,
verbose = 1)
Epoch 1/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.7947 - acc: 0.6147 Epoch 2/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.7684 - acc: 0.6175 Epoch 3/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.7588 - acc: 0.6199 Epoch 4/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.7781 - acc: 0.6134 Epoch 5/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.7325 - acc: 0.6227 Epoch 6/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.7630 - acc: 0.6147 Epoch 7/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 716us/step - loss: 1.7834 - acc: 0.6190 Epoch 8/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.7680 - acc: 0.6183 Epoch 9/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 685us/step - loss: 1.7710 - acc: 0.6230 Epoch 10/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.7661 - acc: 0.6181 Epoch 11/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.7824 - acc: 0.6222 Epoch 12/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.7774 - acc: 0.6152 Epoch 13/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 719us/step - loss: 1.7608 - acc: 0.6153 Epoch 14/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 732us/step - loss: 1.7632 - acc: 0.6190 Epoch 15/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.7723 - acc: 0.6169 Epoch 16/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.7519 - acc: 0.6207 Epoch 17/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.7669 - acc: 0.6202 Epoch 18/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7826 - acc: 0.6129 Epoch 19/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.7531 - acc: 0.6224 Epoch 20/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7548 - acc: 0.6184 Epoch 21/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.7785 - acc: 0.6183 Epoch 22/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7557 - acc: 0.6250 Epoch 23/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7350 - acc: 0.6226 Epoch 24/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7487 - acc: 0.6214 Epoch 25/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.7612 - acc: 0.6203 Epoch 26/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.7690 - acc: 0.6175 Epoch 27/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.7132 - acc: 0.6239 Epoch 28/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.7421 - acc: 0.6204 Epoch 29/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.7433 - acc: 0.6153 Epoch 30/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.7256 - acc: 0.6233 Epoch 31/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.7408 - acc: 0.6241 Epoch 32/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 729us/step - loss: 1.7356 - acc: 0.6265 Epoch 33/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 721us/step - loss: 1.7421 - acc: 0.6241 Epoch 34/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.7141 - acc: 0.6228 Epoch 35/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.7294 - acc: 0.6254 Epoch 36/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.7531 - acc: 0.6207 Epoch 37/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7150 - acc: 0.6242 Epoch 38/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.7548 - acc: 0.6243 Epoch 39/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7255 - acc: 0.6282 Epoch 40/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.7565 - acc: 0.6235 Epoch 41/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.7334 - acc: 0.6272 Epoch 42/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.7371 - acc: 0.6249 Epoch 43/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7323 - acc: 0.6212 Epoch 44/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6968 - acc: 0.6333 Epoch 45/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.7272 - acc: 0.6270 Epoch 46/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.7004 - acc: 0.6273 Epoch 47/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.7023 - acc: 0.6270 Epoch 48/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 720us/step - loss: 1.6983 - acc: 0.6320 Epoch 49/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.7410 - acc: 0.6212 Epoch 50/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7091 - acc: 0.6297 Epoch 51/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.6921 - acc: 0.6281 Epoch 52/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.7248 - acc: 0.6274 Epoch 53/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.7235 - acc: 0.6231 Epoch 54/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.7144 - acc: 0.6255 Epoch 55/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.7173 - acc: 0.6305 Epoch 56/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.7122 - acc: 0.6265 Epoch 57/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6783 - acc: 0.6399 Epoch 58/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7130 - acc: 0.6306 Epoch 59/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6926 - acc: 0.6289 Epoch 60/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6749 - acc: 0.6277 Epoch 61/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.6924 - acc: 0.6282 Epoch 62/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.7137 - acc: 0.6191 Epoch 63/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6800 - acc: 0.6263 Epoch 64/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.6822 - acc: 0.6317 Epoch 65/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.6999 - acc: 0.6341 Epoch 66/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.7204 - acc: 0.6281 Epoch 67/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6914 - acc: 0.6317 Epoch 68/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6936 - acc: 0.6325 Epoch 69/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.6779 - acc: 0.6301 Epoch 70/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.6896 - acc: 0.6323 Epoch 71/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.7163 - acc: 0.6276 Epoch 72/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.7057 - acc: 0.6267 Epoch 73/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.6807 - acc: 0.6296 Epoch 74/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.6605 - acc: 0.6335 Epoch 75/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.6993 - acc: 0.6332 Epoch 76/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.6716 - acc: 0.6372 Epoch 77/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.6781 - acc: 0.6352 Epoch 78/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.6802 - acc: 0.6356 Epoch 79/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6881 - acc: 0.6309 Epoch 80/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6768 - acc: 0.6332 Epoch 81/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.6838 - acc: 0.6325 Epoch 82/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.6886 - acc: 0.6300 Epoch 83/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6777 - acc: 0.6312 Epoch 84/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 682us/step - loss: 1.6815 - acc: 0.6310 Epoch 85/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.6741 - acc: 0.6308 Epoch 86/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.6532 - acc: 0.6378 Epoch 87/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.6473 - acc: 0.6414 Epoch 88/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 680us/step - loss: 1.6376 - acc: 0.6359 Epoch 89/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6880 - acc: 0.6364 Epoch 90/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6590 - acc: 0.6348 Epoch 91/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6864 - acc: 0.6341 Epoch 92/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 710us/step - loss: 1.6570 - acc: 0.6363 Epoch 93/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6251 - acc: 0.6453 Epoch 94/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6601 - acc: 0.6345 Epoch 95/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6542 - acc: 0.6329 Epoch 96/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.6631 - acc: 0.6304 Epoch 97/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6685 - acc: 0.6340 Epoch 98/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6421 - acc: 0.6430 Epoch 99/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.6600 - acc: 0.6360 Epoch 100/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.6204 - acc: 0.6458 Epoch 101/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6432 - acc: 0.6402 Epoch 102/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.6326 - acc: 0.6413 Epoch 103/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6354 - acc: 0.6441 Epoch 104/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.6578 - acc: 0.6351 Epoch 105/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.6518 - acc: 0.6340 Epoch 106/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6022 - acc: 0.6457 Epoch 107/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.6395 - acc: 0.6384 Epoch 108/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6561 - acc: 0.6395 Epoch 109/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.6300 - acc: 0.6398 Epoch 110/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6563 - acc: 0.6336 Epoch 111/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6388 - acc: 0.6358 Epoch 112/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6443 - acc: 0.6339 Epoch 113/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.6287 - acc: 0.6383 Epoch 114/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.6060 - acc: 0.6445 Epoch 115/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.6282 - acc: 0.6398 Epoch 116/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.6222 - acc: 0.6431 Epoch 117/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6200 - acc: 0.6392 Epoch 118/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.6217 - acc: 0.6397 Epoch 119/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.6371 - acc: 0.6384 Epoch 120/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.6157 - acc: 0.6446 Epoch 121/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.6221 - acc: 0.6433 Epoch 122/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.6225 - acc: 0.6438 Epoch 123/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6121 - acc: 0.6500 Epoch 124/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.6274 - acc: 0.6422 Epoch 125/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 710us/step - loss: 1.6071 - acc: 0.6501 Epoch 126/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.6192 - acc: 0.6414 Epoch 127/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6079 - acc: 0.6477 Epoch 128/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.6130 - acc: 0.6422 Epoch 129/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.6166 - acc: 0.6391 Epoch 130/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.6059 - acc: 0.6410 Epoch 131/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5706 - acc: 0.6500 Epoch 132/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5939 - acc: 0.6470 Epoch 133/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5962 - acc: 0.6446 Epoch 134/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6074 - acc: 0.6413 Epoch 135/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.6051 - acc: 0.6450 Epoch 136/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.6217 - acc: 0.6398 Epoch 137/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.6047 - acc: 0.6426 Epoch 138/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.5852 - acc: 0.6526 Epoch 139/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6072 - acc: 0.6453 Epoch 140/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.5720 - acc: 0.6481 Epoch 141/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5969 - acc: 0.6488 Epoch 142/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.6121 - acc: 0.6458 Epoch 143/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.6213 - acc: 0.6454 Epoch 144/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.5950 - acc: 0.6488 Epoch 145/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.6270 - acc: 0.6438 Epoch 146/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5927 - acc: 0.6512 Epoch 147/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5788 - acc: 0.6450 Epoch 148/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.6007 - acc: 0.6429 Epoch 149/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.6002 - acc: 0.6454 Epoch 150/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5995 - acc: 0.6460 Epoch 151/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.5816 - acc: 0.6462 Epoch 152/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 713us/step - loss: 1.5891 - acc: 0.6481 Epoch 153/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 712us/step - loss: 1.5957 - acc: 0.6426 Epoch 154/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5752 - acc: 0.6472 Epoch 155/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5621 - acc: 0.6488 Epoch 156/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.5962 - acc: 0.6450 Epoch 157/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.6132 - acc: 0.6441 Epoch 158/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5597 - acc: 0.6504 Epoch 159/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5469 - acc: 0.6528 Epoch 160/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.5759 - acc: 0.6530 Epoch 161/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.5373 - acc: 0.6558 Epoch 162/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5782 - acc: 0.6453 Epoch 163/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5570 - acc: 0.6511 Epoch 164/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5878 - acc: 0.6457 Epoch 165/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.5627 - acc: 0.6489 Epoch 166/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5806 - acc: 0.6507 Epoch 167/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5517 - acc: 0.6543 Epoch 168/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5714 - acc: 0.6468 Epoch 169/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5517 - acc: 0.6509 Epoch 170/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.5763 - acc: 0.6458 Epoch 171/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5685 - acc: 0.6522 Epoch 172/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5354 - acc: 0.6542 Epoch 173/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5292 - acc: 0.6563 Epoch 174/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5594 - acc: 0.6558 Epoch 175/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.5730 - acc: 0.6508 Epoch 176/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.5808 - acc: 0.6500 Epoch 177/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5375 - acc: 0.6554 Epoch 178/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.5435 - acc: 0.6517 Epoch 179/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5789 - acc: 0.6524 Epoch 180/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5629 - acc: 0.6503 Epoch 181/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.5126 - acc: 0.6581 Epoch 182/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5521 - acc: 0.6570 Epoch 183/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5325 - acc: 0.6575 Epoch 184/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 718us/step - loss: 1.5524 - acc: 0.6493 Epoch 185/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.5575 - acc: 0.6543 Epoch 186/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5454 - acc: 0.6532 Epoch 187/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5578 - acc: 0.6562 Epoch 188/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5650 - acc: 0.6504 Epoch 189/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5497 - acc: 0.6562 Epoch 190/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5601 - acc: 0.6499 Epoch 191/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.5506 - acc: 0.6550 Epoch 192/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5613 - acc: 0.6516 Epoch 193/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.5379 - acc: 0.6551 Epoch 194/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.5355 - acc: 0.6560 Epoch 195/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.5269 - acc: 0.6617 Epoch 196/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5098 - acc: 0.6602 Epoch 197/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5299 - acc: 0.6508 Epoch 198/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.5077 - acc: 0.6574 Epoch 199/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5263 - acc: 0.6626 Epoch 200/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5368 - acc: 0.6578 Epoch 201/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.5418 - acc: 0.6556 Epoch 202/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5251 - acc: 0.6567 Epoch 203/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5260 - acc: 0.6556 Epoch 204/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5474 - acc: 0.6560 Epoch 205/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.5357 - acc: 0.6618 Epoch 206/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.5160 - acc: 0.6562 Epoch 207/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 711us/step - loss: 1.5142 - acc: 0.6644 Epoch 208/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5035 - acc: 0.6595 Epoch 209/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 710us/step - loss: 1.5114 - acc: 0.6641 Epoch 210/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5415 - acc: 0.6597 Epoch 211/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.5074 - acc: 0.6624 Epoch 212/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.5283 - acc: 0.6610 Epoch 213/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5020 - acc: 0.6632 Epoch 214/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.5020 - acc: 0.6583 Epoch 215/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.5130 - acc: 0.6597 Epoch 216/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5072 - acc: 0.6586 Epoch 217/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.5235 - acc: 0.6590 Epoch 218/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.5221 - acc: 0.6577 Epoch 219/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.5200 - acc: 0.6560 Epoch 220/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4875 - acc: 0.6683 Epoch 221/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.4966 - acc: 0.6636 Epoch 222/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.5211 - acc: 0.6575 Epoch 223/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.5093 - acc: 0.6626 Epoch 224/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.5114 - acc: 0.6597 Epoch 225/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.4865 - acc: 0.6622 Epoch 226/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.4735 - acc: 0.6724 Epoch 227/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4870 - acc: 0.6649 Epoch 228/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.4997 - acc: 0.6617 Epoch 229/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.4846 - acc: 0.6636 Epoch 230/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.4508 - acc: 0.6692 Epoch 231/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4789 - acc: 0.6660 Epoch 232/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4911 - acc: 0.6626 Epoch 233/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.4864 - acc: 0.6629 Epoch 234/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.4685 - acc: 0.6684 Epoch 235/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4862 - acc: 0.6645 Epoch 236/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.4622 - acc: 0.6679 Epoch 237/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4593 - acc: 0.6741 Epoch 238/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.4796 - acc: 0.6649 Epoch 239/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.4696 - acc: 0.6655 Epoch 240/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.4583 - acc: 0.6688 Epoch 241/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4534 - acc: 0.6669 Epoch 242/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.4607 - acc: 0.6668 Epoch 243/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.4659 - acc: 0.6667 Epoch 244/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4563 - acc: 0.6708 Epoch 245/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.4308 - acc: 0.6739 Epoch 246/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.4541 - acc: 0.6723 Epoch 247/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.4598 - acc: 0.6648 Epoch 248/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.4660 - acc: 0.6663 Epoch 249/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.4566 - acc: 0.6684 Epoch 250/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4773 - acc: 0.6663 Epoch 251/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.4540 - acc: 0.6735 Epoch 252/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.4572 - acc: 0.6671 Epoch 253/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.4682 - acc: 0.6715 Epoch 254/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.4651 - acc: 0.6668 Epoch 255/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4245 - acc: 0.6714 Epoch 256/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4361 - acc: 0.6720 Epoch 257/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4468 - acc: 0.6642 Epoch 258/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.4443 - acc: 0.6642 Epoch 259/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.4124 - acc: 0.6733 Epoch 260/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4438 - acc: 0.6695 Epoch 261/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4449 - acc: 0.6727 Epoch 262/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4382 - acc: 0.6708 Epoch 263/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.4358 - acc: 0.6728 Epoch 264/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.4418 - acc: 0.6680 Epoch 265/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.4288 - acc: 0.6751 Epoch 266/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4150 - acc: 0.6772 Epoch 267/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4503 - acc: 0.6728 Epoch 268/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.4488 - acc: 0.6699 Epoch 269/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.4041 - acc: 0.6820 Epoch 270/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 682us/step - loss: 1.4270 - acc: 0.6728 Epoch 271/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4420 - acc: 0.6681 Epoch 272/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.4424 - acc: 0.6672 Epoch 273/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.4339 - acc: 0.6751 Epoch 274/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4351 - acc: 0.6726 Epoch 275/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4228 - acc: 0.6737 Epoch 276/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4129 - acc: 0.6746 Epoch 277/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.4073 - acc: 0.6804 Epoch 278/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 680us/step - loss: 1.3934 - acc: 0.6797 Epoch 279/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 684us/step - loss: 1.4267 - acc: 0.6724 Epoch 280/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.4191 - acc: 0.6730 Epoch 281/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.4260 - acc: 0.6706 Epoch 282/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.4149 - acc: 0.6772 Epoch 283/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.4202 - acc: 0.6758 Epoch 284/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 681us/step - loss: 1.4007 - acc: 0.6754 Epoch 285/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 684us/step - loss: 1.4115 - acc: 0.6806 Epoch 286/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.3818 - acc: 0.6828 Epoch 287/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4155 - acc: 0.6726 Epoch 288/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3932 - acc: 0.6793 Epoch 289/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.4123 - acc: 0.6772 Epoch 290/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.4293 - acc: 0.6731 Epoch 291/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3944 - acc: 0.6776 Epoch 292/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.3794 - acc: 0.6840 Epoch 293/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.4171 - acc: 0.6720 Epoch 294/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 685us/step - loss: 1.3837 - acc: 0.6853 Epoch 295/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.3797 - acc: 0.6821 Epoch 296/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3813 - acc: 0.6769 Epoch 297/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.4033 - acc: 0.6794 Epoch 298/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3542 - acc: 0.6836 Epoch 299/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.4019 - acc: 0.6761 Epoch 300/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3885 - acc: 0.6820 Epoch 301/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 685us/step - loss: 1.4182 - acc: 0.6743 Epoch 302/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3818 - acc: 0.6844 Epoch 303/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.3647 - acc: 0.6872 Epoch 304/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 684us/step - loss: 1.4189 - acc: 0.6816 Epoch 305/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.3869 - acc: 0.6801 Epoch 306/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.3957 - acc: 0.6758 Epoch 307/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 683us/step - loss: 1.4074 - acc: 0.6816 Epoch 308/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3719 - acc: 0.6824 Epoch 309/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.3743 - acc: 0.6815 Epoch 310/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3946 - acc: 0.6773 Epoch 311/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.3786 - acc: 0.6817 Epoch 312/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3886 - acc: 0.6851 Epoch 313/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 686us/step - loss: 1.3788 - acc: 0.6789 Epoch 314/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.4075 - acc: 0.6772 Epoch 315/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.3959 - acc: 0.6833 Epoch 316/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3569 - acc: 0.6848 Epoch 317/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3843 - acc: 0.6742 Epoch 318/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3638 - acc: 0.6829 Epoch 319/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3527 - acc: 0.6852 Epoch 320/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.3381 - acc: 0.6855 Epoch 321/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3822 - acc: 0.6813 Epoch 322/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3590 - acc: 0.6860 Epoch 323/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3794 - acc: 0.6797 Epoch 324/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3963 - acc: 0.6805 Epoch 325/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3940 - acc: 0.6772 Epoch 326/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3518 - acc: 0.6831 Epoch 327/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3717 - acc: 0.6797 Epoch 328/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3742 - acc: 0.6817 Epoch 329/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3511 - acc: 0.6831 Epoch 330/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.3753 - acc: 0.6812 Epoch 331/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3397 - acc: 0.6858 Epoch 332/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.3489 - acc: 0.6839 Epoch 333/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 710us/step - loss: 1.3797 - acc: 0.6827 Epoch 334/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3846 - acc: 0.6835 Epoch 335/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.3666 - acc: 0.6801 Epoch 336/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3671 - acc: 0.6782 Epoch 337/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3554 - acc: 0.6849 Epoch 338/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3233 - acc: 0.6915 Epoch 339/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3504 - acc: 0.6887 Epoch 340/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3329 - acc: 0.6917 Epoch 341/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3699 - acc: 0.6824 Epoch 342/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3512 - acc: 0.6876 Epoch 343/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3667 - acc: 0.6782 Epoch 344/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 684us/step - loss: 1.3506 - acc: 0.6867 Epoch 345/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3305 - acc: 0.6944 Epoch 346/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3516 - acc: 0.6878 Epoch 347/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3437 - acc: 0.6937 Epoch 348/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.3314 - acc: 0.6902 Epoch 349/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3386 - acc: 0.6864 Epoch 350/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3417 - acc: 0.6860 Epoch 351/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3385 - acc: 0.6898 Epoch 352/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3471 - acc: 0.6871 Epoch 353/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.3245 - acc: 0.6903 Epoch 354/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3209 - acc: 0.6895 Epoch 355/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3308 - acc: 0.6902 Epoch 356/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3332 - acc: 0.6871 Epoch 357/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 688us/step - loss: 1.3429 - acc: 0.6876 Epoch 358/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.3695 - acc: 0.6841 Epoch 359/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3383 - acc: 0.6872 Epoch 360/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3314 - acc: 0.6894 Epoch 361/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.3603 - acc: 0.6851 Epoch 362/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 711us/step - loss: 1.3128 - acc: 0.6974 Epoch 363/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 685us/step - loss: 1.3141 - acc: 0.6945 Epoch 364/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3397 - acc: 0.6820 Epoch 365/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3430 - acc: 0.6848 Epoch 366/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3087 - acc: 0.6934 Epoch 367/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.3231 - acc: 0.6907 Epoch 368/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.3372 - acc: 0.6886 Epoch 369/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3192 - acc: 0.6906 Epoch 370/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.3255 - acc: 0.6909 Epoch 371/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3206 - acc: 0.6878 Epoch 372/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.3488 - acc: 0.6864 Epoch 373/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.3369 - acc: 0.6897 Epoch 374/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.3138 - acc: 0.6944 Epoch 375/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 691us/step - loss: 1.3229 - acc: 0.6954 Epoch 376/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3270 - acc: 0.6940 Epoch 377/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.3478 - acc: 0.6902 Epoch 378/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.3274 - acc: 0.6906 Epoch 379/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.3115 - acc: 0.6907 Epoch 380/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.2871 - acc: 0.7022 Epoch 381/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.3306 - acc: 0.6914 Epoch 382/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.3239 - acc: 0.6921 Epoch 383/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2977 - acc: 0.6980 Epoch 384/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 689us/step - loss: 1.2941 - acc: 0.6973 Epoch 385/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.3263 - acc: 0.6880 Epoch 386/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.3006 - acc: 0.6941 Epoch 387/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 690us/step - loss: 1.3050 - acc: 0.6902 Epoch 388/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.3088 - acc: 0.6968 Epoch 389/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.3332 - acc: 0.6913 Epoch 390/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 9s 1ms/step - loss: 1.3007 - acc: 0.6953 Epoch 391/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2988 - acc: 0.6926 Epoch 392/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2921 - acc: 0.6969 Epoch 393/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.3204 - acc: 0.6984 Epoch 394/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.2883 - acc: 0.7008 Epoch 395/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.3208 - acc: 0.6907 Epoch 396/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.3182 - acc: 0.6917 Epoch 397/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.3069 - acc: 0.6970 Epoch 398/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2881 - acc: 0.6970 Epoch 399/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 711us/step - loss: 1.3094 - acc: 0.6897 Epoch 400/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2911 - acc: 0.6987 Epoch 401/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.3207 - acc: 0.6949 Epoch 402/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.3105 - acc: 0.6970 Epoch 403/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.3080 - acc: 0.6929 Epoch 404/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.2903 - acc: 0.7022 Epoch 405/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.2969 - acc: 0.6962 Epoch 406/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.3276 - acc: 0.6866 Epoch 407/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.3065 - acc: 0.6960 Epoch 408/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 713us/step - loss: 1.3092 - acc: 0.6977 Epoch 409/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.3043 - acc: 0.6966 Epoch 410/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.3008 - acc: 0.6958 Epoch 411/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.3133 - acc: 0.6993 Epoch 412/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.2604 - acc: 0.7052 Epoch 413/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 710us/step - loss: 1.2666 - acc: 0.6996 Epoch 414/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.2934 - acc: 0.6989 Epoch 415/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2739 - acc: 0.7011 Epoch 416/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.2935 - acc: 0.7027 Epoch 417/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.2929 - acc: 0.6937 Epoch 418/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2946 - acc: 0.6931 Epoch 419/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 715us/step - loss: 1.3008 - acc: 0.6935 Epoch 420/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 723us/step - loss: 1.2761 - acc: 0.6996 Epoch 421/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.2955 - acc: 0.6940 Epoch 422/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2950 - acc: 0.6970 Epoch 423/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2897 - acc: 0.7004 Epoch 424/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.2662 - acc: 0.6969 Epoch 425/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2939 - acc: 0.6949 Epoch 426/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 709us/step - loss: 1.3072 - acc: 0.6961 Epoch 427/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 717us/step - loss: 1.2504 - acc: 0.7030 Epoch 428/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2787 - acc: 0.6958 Epoch 429/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2503 - acc: 0.7062 Epoch 430/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2551 - acc: 0.7054 Epoch 431/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2572 - acc: 0.7077 Epoch 432/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2682 - acc: 0.7016 Epoch 433/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 709us/step - loss: 1.2653 - acc: 0.7030 Epoch 434/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 709us/step - loss: 1.2704 - acc: 0.7035 Epoch 435/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2575 - acc: 0.7022 Epoch 436/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 707us/step - loss: 1.2622 - acc: 0.7026 Epoch 437/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2695 - acc: 0.6997 Epoch 438/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 718us/step - loss: 1.2513 - acc: 0.7079 Epoch 439/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2772 - acc: 0.6984 Epoch 440/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2489 - acc: 0.7011 Epoch 441/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2742 - acc: 0.7052 Epoch 442/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.3047 - acc: 0.6888 Epoch 443/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2768 - acc: 0.7024 Epoch 444/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.2774 - acc: 0.7022 Epoch 445/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2718 - acc: 0.7017 Epoch 446/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2601 - acc: 0.7017 Epoch 447/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2549 - acc: 0.7039 Epoch 448/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2602 - acc: 0.7030 Epoch 449/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2637 - acc: 0.7022 Epoch 450/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 718us/step - loss: 1.2636 - acc: 0.6997 Epoch 451/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 726us/step - loss: 1.2753 - acc: 0.6997 Epoch 452/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 721us/step - loss: 1.2847 - acc: 0.6991 Epoch 453/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.2522 - acc: 0.7055 Epoch 454/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2753 - acc: 0.7040 Epoch 455/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2751 - acc: 0.6956 Epoch 456/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2400 - acc: 0.7070 Epoch 457/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 708us/step - loss: 1.2237 - acc: 0.7077 Epoch 458/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2539 - acc: 0.7042 Epoch 459/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2794 - acc: 0.7031 Epoch 460/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2555 - acc: 0.7016 Epoch 461/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2572 - acc: 0.7044 Epoch 462/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 687us/step - loss: 1.2532 - acc: 0.7038 Epoch 463/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2507 - acc: 0.7087 Epoch 464/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2515 - acc: 0.7019 Epoch 465/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.2603 - acc: 0.7032 Epoch 466/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.2631 - acc: 0.7039 Epoch 467/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.2395 - acc: 0.7023 Epoch 468/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.2483 - acc: 0.7028 Epoch 469/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2460 - acc: 0.7089 Epoch 470/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2224 - acc: 0.7132 Epoch 471/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.2108 - acc: 0.7120 Epoch 472/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.2528 - acc: 0.6999 Epoch 473/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2594 - acc: 0.7039 Epoch 474/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 695us/step - loss: 1.2126 - acc: 0.7117 Epoch 475/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.2257 - acc: 0.7035 Epoch 476/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2698 - acc: 0.7032 Epoch 477/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 704us/step - loss: 1.2420 - acc: 0.7073 Epoch 478/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 709us/step - loss: 1.2602 - acc: 0.7003 Epoch 479/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 694us/step - loss: 1.2443 - acc: 0.7070 Epoch 480/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.2460 - acc: 0.7070 Epoch 481/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.2649 - acc: 0.7003 Epoch 482/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.2379 - acc: 0.7044 Epoch 483/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 693us/step - loss: 1.2348 - acc: 0.7094 Epoch 484/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 697us/step - loss: 1.2179 - acc: 0.7090 Epoch 485/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 692us/step - loss: 1.2395 - acc: 0.7042 Epoch 486/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 696us/step - loss: 1.2587 - acc: 0.7015 Epoch 487/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 698us/step - loss: 1.2271 - acc: 0.7093 Epoch 488/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.2326 - acc: 0.7070 Epoch 489/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 699us/step - loss: 1.2053 - acc: 0.7114 Epoch 490/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 701us/step - loss: 1.2454 - acc: 0.7054 Epoch 491/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.2400 - acc: 0.7013 Epoch 492/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.2124 - acc: 0.7140 Epoch 493/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2467 - acc: 0.7013 Epoch 494/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.1993 - acc: 0.7142 Epoch 495/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 700us/step - loss: 1.2290 - acc: 0.7105 Epoch 496/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2244 - acc: 0.7063 Epoch 497/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 703us/step - loss: 1.2197 - acc: 0.7129 Epoch 498/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 702us/step - loss: 1.2329 - acc: 0.7046 Epoch 499/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 705us/step - loss: 1.2468 - acc: 0.7059 Epoch 500/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 706us/step - loss: 1.2338 - acc: 0.7060
Save Model¶
In [0]:
# save the model to file
model.save('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/model1.h5')
In [0]:
print(model.evaluate(X_train, y_train, batch_size = 20))
print('\nModel Performance: Log Loss and Accuracy on validation data')
print(model.evaluate(X_valid, y_valid, batch_size = 20))
7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 628us/step [0.32740083948198345, 0.9470430038949494] Model Performance: Log Loss and Accuracy on validation data 1860/1860 [==============================] - 1s 598us/step [7.972473067622031, 0.3731182810439858]
If you have already trained the model and saved it, you can load a pretrained model¶
In [0]:
model = load_model('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/model1.h5')
Note: After loading the model run model.fit() to continue training form there, if required.¶
In [0]:
model.fit(X_train, y_train, batch_size=50, epochs=500)
Epoch 1/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 976us/step - loss: 1.2352 - acc: 0.7071 Epoch 2/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.2388 - acc: 0.7069 Epoch 3/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.2385 - acc: 0.7024 Epoch 4/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 902us/step - loss: 1.2172 - acc: 0.7073 Epoch 5/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.2714 - acc: 0.7024 Epoch 6/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 909us/step - loss: 1.2402 - acc: 0.7095 Epoch 7/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.2528 - acc: 0.7039 Epoch 8/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.2054 - acc: 0.7105 Epoch 9/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.2406 - acc: 0.7043 Epoch 10/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 893us/step - loss: 1.2139 - acc: 0.7095 Epoch 11/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.2178 - acc: 0.7112 Epoch 12/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.2354 - acc: 0.7031 Epoch 13/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.2574 - acc: 0.7055 Epoch 14/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.2430 - acc: 0.7103 Epoch 15/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.2039 - acc: 0.7125 Epoch 16/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.2432 - acc: 0.7036 Epoch 17/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.2603 - acc: 0.7016 Epoch 18/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.2304 - acc: 0.7078 Epoch 19/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.2044 - acc: 0.7125 Epoch 20/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.2272 - acc: 0.7103 Epoch 21/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.2215 - acc: 0.7099 Epoch 22/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 900us/step - loss: 1.2262 - acc: 0.7083 Epoch 23/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.2186 - acc: 0.7110 Epoch 24/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 900us/step - loss: 1.2128 - acc: 0.7142 Epoch 25/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 899us/step - loss: 1.2567 - acc: 0.7034 Epoch 26/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.2507 - acc: 0.7059 Epoch 27/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.2112 - acc: 0.7109 Epoch 28/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 898us/step - loss: 1.2258 - acc: 0.7114 Epoch 29/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.2212 - acc: 0.7160 Epoch 30/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.2259 - acc: 0.7091 Epoch 31/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.2153 - acc: 0.7098 Epoch 32/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 901us/step - loss: 1.2367 - acc: 0.7124 Epoch 33/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 912us/step - loss: 1.2276 - acc: 0.7102 Epoch 34/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 900us/step - loss: 1.2319 - acc: 0.7151 Epoch 35/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 892us/step - loss: 1.2308 - acc: 0.7075 Epoch 36/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.2113 - acc: 0.7142 Epoch 37/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 895us/step - loss: 1.1987 - acc: 0.7133 Epoch 38/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2239 - acc: 0.7062 Epoch 39/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 897us/step - loss: 1.2559 - acc: 0.6995 Epoch 40/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1938 - acc: 0.7126 Epoch 41/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.2059 - acc: 0.7105 Epoch 42/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1941 - acc: 0.7175 Epoch 43/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2201 - acc: 0.7133 Epoch 44/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1964 - acc: 0.7167 Epoch 45/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.2012 - acc: 0.7114 Epoch 46/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1914 - acc: 0.7089 Epoch 47/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.2137 - acc: 0.7098 Epoch 48/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1944 - acc: 0.7136 Epoch 49/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.2120 - acc: 0.7144 Epoch 50/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2003 - acc: 0.7126 Epoch 51/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1927 - acc: 0.7165 Epoch 52/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.2102 - acc: 0.7137 Epoch 53/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 902us/step - loss: 1.1992 - acc: 0.7199 Epoch 54/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2112 - acc: 0.7141 Epoch 55/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.2131 - acc: 0.7116 Epoch 56/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.2241 - acc: 0.7082 Epoch 57/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1918 - acc: 0.7148 Epoch 58/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1854 - acc: 0.7145 Epoch 59/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.2376 - acc: 0.7081 Epoch 60/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.1778 - acc: 0.7114 Epoch 61/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2088 - acc: 0.7094 Epoch 62/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.2094 - acc: 0.7077 Epoch 63/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1769 - acc: 0.7153 Epoch 64/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.2126 - acc: 0.7116 Epoch 65/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.2007 - acc: 0.7090 Epoch 66/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.2189 - acc: 0.7094 Epoch 67/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 892us/step - loss: 1.1963 - acc: 0.7165 Epoch 68/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1918 - acc: 0.7114 Epoch 69/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1830 - acc: 0.7181 Epoch 70/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.1964 - acc: 0.7117 Epoch 71/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 895us/step - loss: 1.2043 - acc: 0.7159 Epoch 72/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.2003 - acc: 0.7172 Epoch 73/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 874us/step - loss: 1.1474 - acc: 0.7206 Epoch 74/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.1755 - acc: 0.7210 Epoch 75/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.1929 - acc: 0.7117 Epoch 76/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1590 - acc: 0.7211 Epoch 77/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1703 - acc: 0.7258 Epoch 78/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1877 - acc: 0.7117 Epoch 79/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.2051 - acc: 0.7140 Epoch 80/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 907us/step - loss: 1.1760 - acc: 0.7133 Epoch 81/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1916 - acc: 0.7124 Epoch 82/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1728 - acc: 0.7168 Epoch 83/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1689 - acc: 0.7227 Epoch 84/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1865 - acc: 0.7148 Epoch 85/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1986 - acc: 0.7136 Epoch 86/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.1866 - acc: 0.7172 Epoch 87/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.2178 - acc: 0.7140 Epoch 88/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1863 - acc: 0.7157 Epoch 89/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 892us/step - loss: 1.2390 - acc: 0.7082 Epoch 90/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1717 - acc: 0.7172 Epoch 91/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.1745 - acc: 0.7191 Epoch 92/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1544 - acc: 0.7208 Epoch 93/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1777 - acc: 0.7177 Epoch 94/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1641 - acc: 0.7144 Epoch 95/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1735 - acc: 0.7223 Epoch 96/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1641 - acc: 0.7214 Epoch 97/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1859 - acc: 0.7226 Epoch 98/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1868 - acc: 0.7228 Epoch 99/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 902us/step - loss: 1.1776 - acc: 0.7140 Epoch 100/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.1846 - acc: 0.7168 Epoch 101/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1676 - acc: 0.7167 Epoch 102/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1564 - acc: 0.7219 Epoch 103/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1766 - acc: 0.7218 Epoch 104/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.2035 - acc: 0.7179 Epoch 105/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1425 - acc: 0.7228 Epoch 106/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.1764 - acc: 0.7167 Epoch 107/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1552 - acc: 0.7212 Epoch 108/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 893us/step - loss: 1.1483 - acc: 0.7220 Epoch 109/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1801 - acc: 0.7200 Epoch 110/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1466 - acc: 0.7292 Epoch 111/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1817 - acc: 0.7179 Epoch 112/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1542 - acc: 0.7233 Epoch 113/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1548 - acc: 0.7194 Epoch 114/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1686 - acc: 0.7196 Epoch 115/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1594 - acc: 0.7261 Epoch 116/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1628 - acc: 0.7171 Epoch 117/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1724 - acc: 0.7214 Epoch 118/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1901 - acc: 0.7203 Epoch 119/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.1588 - acc: 0.7243 Epoch 120/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.1561 - acc: 0.7224 Epoch 121/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1553 - acc: 0.7164 Epoch 122/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.1569 - acc: 0.7176 Epoch 123/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1381 - acc: 0.7210 Epoch 124/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1475 - acc: 0.7255 Epoch 125/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1440 - acc: 0.7202 Epoch 126/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.1355 - acc: 0.7233 Epoch 127/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 908us/step - loss: 1.1570 - acc: 0.7227 Epoch 128/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 897us/step - loss: 1.1448 - acc: 0.7241 Epoch 129/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1515 - acc: 0.7251 Epoch 130/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1501 - acc: 0.7194 Epoch 131/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1491 - acc: 0.7219 Epoch 132/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.1549 - acc: 0.7231 Epoch 133/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1512 - acc: 0.7222 Epoch 134/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.1407 - acc: 0.7220 Epoch 135/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.1706 - acc: 0.7200 Epoch 136/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1714 - acc: 0.7179 Epoch 137/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1712 - acc: 0.7220 Epoch 138/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1596 - acc: 0.7210 Epoch 139/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1301 - acc: 0.7285 Epoch 140/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.1497 - acc: 0.7296 Epoch 141/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1558 - acc: 0.7216 Epoch 142/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1374 - acc: 0.7262 Epoch 143/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1344 - acc: 0.7253 Epoch 144/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1312 - acc: 0.7243 Epoch 145/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.1521 - acc: 0.7245 Epoch 146/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1637 - acc: 0.7265 Epoch 147/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1395 - acc: 0.7235 Epoch 148/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1437 - acc: 0.7233 Epoch 149/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1627 - acc: 0.7200 Epoch 150/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.1395 - acc: 0.7251 Epoch 151/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1519 - acc: 0.7254 Epoch 152/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1427 - acc: 0.7204 Epoch 153/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1305 - acc: 0.7323 Epoch 154/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1370 - acc: 0.7231 Epoch 155/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1330 - acc: 0.7254 Epoch 156/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1552 - acc: 0.7233 Epoch 157/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1709 - acc: 0.7208 Epoch 158/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1443 - acc: 0.7222 Epoch 159/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1449 - acc: 0.7224 Epoch 160/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.1238 - acc: 0.7304 Epoch 161/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 903us/step - loss: 1.1306 - acc: 0.7267 Epoch 162/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1330 - acc: 0.7281 Epoch 163/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 901us/step - loss: 1.1359 - acc: 0.7280 Epoch 164/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1816 - acc: 0.7286 Epoch 165/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1467 - acc: 0.7215 Epoch 166/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.1305 - acc: 0.7359 Epoch 167/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1411 - acc: 0.7262 Epoch 168/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1409 - acc: 0.7233 Epoch 169/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1398 - acc: 0.7251 Epoch 170/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1323 - acc: 0.7337 Epoch 171/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1511 - acc: 0.7262 Epoch 172/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1155 - acc: 0.7332 Epoch 173/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1421 - acc: 0.7227 Epoch 174/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 902us/step - loss: 1.1212 - acc: 0.7327 Epoch 175/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.1397 - acc: 0.7278 Epoch 176/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.1279 - acc: 0.7272 Epoch 177/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1498 - acc: 0.7200 Epoch 178/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.1061 - acc: 0.7288 Epoch 179/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1427 - acc: 0.7265 Epoch 180/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1476 - acc: 0.7230 Epoch 181/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.1186 - acc: 0.7309 Epoch 182/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1296 - acc: 0.7297 Epoch 183/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1373 - acc: 0.7259 Epoch 184/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 897us/step - loss: 1.1242 - acc: 0.7315 Epoch 185/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 916us/step - loss: 1.1132 - acc: 0.7297 Epoch 186/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1137 - acc: 0.7300 Epoch 187/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 892us/step - loss: 1.1305 - acc: 0.7277 Epoch 188/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1236 - acc: 0.7285 Epoch 189/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.1438 - acc: 0.7259 Epoch 190/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.1407 - acc: 0.7266 Epoch 191/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1230 - acc: 0.7310 Epoch 192/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 901us/step - loss: 1.1278 - acc: 0.7325 Epoch 193/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1337 - acc: 0.7294 Epoch 194/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1107 - acc: 0.7313 Epoch 195/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1100 - acc: 0.7309 Epoch 196/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.1467 - acc: 0.7269 Epoch 197/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1426 - acc: 0.7312 Epoch 198/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1293 - acc: 0.7273 Epoch 199/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.1280 - acc: 0.7286 Epoch 200/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1198 - acc: 0.7323 Epoch 201/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1213 - acc: 0.7341 Epoch 202/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.1305 - acc: 0.7300 Epoch 203/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1085 - acc: 0.7272 Epoch 204/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.1124 - acc: 0.7331 Epoch 205/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1062 - acc: 0.7301 Epoch 206/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0840 - acc: 0.7363 Epoch 207/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.1074 - acc: 0.7313 Epoch 208/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1191 - acc: 0.7328 Epoch 209/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.1277 - acc: 0.7272 Epoch 210/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.1331 - acc: 0.7251 Epoch 211/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1046 - acc: 0.7294 Epoch 212/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1129 - acc: 0.7267 Epoch 213/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0916 - acc: 0.7379 Epoch 214/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.1138 - acc: 0.7329 Epoch 215/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0921 - acc: 0.7379 Epoch 216/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.1066 - acc: 0.7331 Epoch 217/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1176 - acc: 0.7262 Epoch 218/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1004 - acc: 0.7297 Epoch 219/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0943 - acc: 0.7380 Epoch 220/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1348 - acc: 0.7321 Epoch 221/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.1101 - acc: 0.7306 Epoch 222/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.1269 - acc: 0.7270 Epoch 223/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0970 - acc: 0.7339 Epoch 224/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.1100 - acc: 0.7308 Epoch 225/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0880 - acc: 0.7344 Epoch 226/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.1284 - acc: 0.7261 Epoch 227/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 897us/step - loss: 1.1333 - acc: 0.7231 Epoch 228/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1181 - acc: 0.7362 Epoch 229/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.1049 - acc: 0.7297 Epoch 230/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1068 - acc: 0.7300 Epoch 231/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.1488 - acc: 0.7220 Epoch 232/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.1081 - acc: 0.7300 Epoch 233/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1011 - acc: 0.7308 Epoch 234/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1068 - acc: 0.7327 Epoch 235/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.0760 - acc: 0.7374 Epoch 236/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 923us/step - loss: 1.0905 - acc: 0.7395 Epoch 237/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 908us/step - loss: 1.0997 - acc: 0.7394 Epoch 238/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 905us/step - loss: 1.1068 - acc: 0.7355 Epoch 239/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0838 - acc: 0.7376 Epoch 240/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1132 - acc: 0.7278 Epoch 241/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1037 - acc: 0.7320 Epoch 242/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.1010 - acc: 0.7296 Epoch 243/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0880 - acc: 0.7360 Epoch 244/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0947 - acc: 0.7372 Epoch 245/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.1075 - acc: 0.7332 Epoch 246/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0756 - acc: 0.7415 Epoch 247/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0798 - acc: 0.7414 Epoch 248/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.1044 - acc: 0.7290 Epoch 249/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1092 - acc: 0.7395 Epoch 250/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.0971 - acc: 0.7376 Epoch 251/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1074 - acc: 0.7315 Epoch 252/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.1085 - acc: 0.7302 Epoch 253/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0768 - acc: 0.7384 Epoch 254/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.0905 - acc: 0.7336 Epoch 255/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.1017 - acc: 0.7329 Epoch 256/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.0738 - acc: 0.7402 Epoch 257/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 889us/step - loss: 1.0638 - acc: 0.7437 Epoch 258/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.0666 - acc: 0.7423 Epoch 259/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0562 - acc: 0.7392 Epoch 260/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0767 - acc: 0.7403 Epoch 261/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0970 - acc: 0.7445 Epoch 262/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1082 - acc: 0.7337 Epoch 263/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0849 - acc: 0.7371 Epoch 264/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.0940 - acc: 0.7309 Epoch 265/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.1141 - acc: 0.7315 Epoch 266/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0904 - acc: 0.7402 Epoch 267/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0963 - acc: 0.7345 Epoch 268/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.0816 - acc: 0.7395 Epoch 269/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 895us/step - loss: 1.0709 - acc: 0.7417 Epoch 270/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.1194 - acc: 0.7296 Epoch 271/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 874us/step - loss: 1.0822 - acc: 0.7347 Epoch 272/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0946 - acc: 0.7407 Epoch 273/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.1091 - acc: 0.7362 Epoch 274/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0750 - acc: 0.7372 Epoch 275/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0842 - acc: 0.7355 Epoch 276/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0970 - acc: 0.7384 Epoch 277/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0697 - acc: 0.7384 Epoch 278/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0757 - acc: 0.7409 Epoch 279/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0855 - acc: 0.7343 Epoch 280/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0690 - acc: 0.7383 Epoch 281/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0778 - acc: 0.7364 Epoch 282/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0715 - acc: 0.7398 Epoch 283/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0689 - acc: 0.7394 Epoch 284/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0761 - acc: 0.7388 Epoch 285/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 895us/step - loss: 1.0955 - acc: 0.7331 Epoch 286/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 1.1043 - acc: 0.7329 Epoch 287/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0916 - acc: 0.7323 Epoch 288/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0821 - acc: 0.7429 Epoch 289/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0740 - acc: 0.7426 Epoch 290/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0844 - acc: 0.7397 Epoch 291/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0500 - acc: 0.7394 Epoch 292/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0781 - acc: 0.7387 Epoch 293/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.0763 - acc: 0.7399 Epoch 294/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0464 - acc: 0.7468 Epoch 295/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0873 - acc: 0.7405 Epoch 296/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0863 - acc: 0.7325 Epoch 297/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0869 - acc: 0.7372 Epoch 298/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.1015 - acc: 0.7298 Epoch 299/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 893us/step - loss: 1.0815 - acc: 0.7398 Epoch 300/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 885us/step - loss: 1.0773 - acc: 0.7358 Epoch 301/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 894us/step - loss: 1.0624 - acc: 0.7390 Epoch 302/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 890us/step - loss: 1.0720 - acc: 0.7431 Epoch 303/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0823 - acc: 0.7380 Epoch 304/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0798 - acc: 0.7383 Epoch 305/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0796 - acc: 0.7379 Epoch 306/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0513 - acc: 0.7411 Epoch 307/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0721 - acc: 0.7390 Epoch 308/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0696 - acc: 0.7399 Epoch 309/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0567 - acc: 0.7442 Epoch 310/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0464 - acc: 0.7403 Epoch 311/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0575 - acc: 0.7433 Epoch 312/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0713 - acc: 0.7405 Epoch 313/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0461 - acc: 0.7435 Epoch 314/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0417 - acc: 0.7473 Epoch 315/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0961 - acc: 0.7382 Epoch 316/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.0511 - acc: 0.7403 Epoch 317/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0619 - acc: 0.7456 Epoch 318/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0805 - acc: 0.7358 Epoch 319/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0760 - acc: 0.7430 Epoch 320/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0607 - acc: 0.7413 Epoch 321/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0631 - acc: 0.7397 Epoch 322/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0607 - acc: 0.7394 Epoch 323/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0769 - acc: 0.7336 Epoch 324/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0738 - acc: 0.7359 Epoch 325/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0571 - acc: 0.7421 Epoch 326/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0666 - acc: 0.7405 Epoch 327/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0746 - acc: 0.7423 Epoch 328/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0826 - acc: 0.7339 Epoch 329/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 862us/step - loss: 1.0590 - acc: 0.7423 Epoch 330/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0427 - acc: 0.7465 Epoch 331/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 887us/step - loss: 1.0808 - acc: 0.7363 Epoch 332/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0455 - acc: 0.7468 Epoch 333/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0576 - acc: 0.7410 Epoch 334/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0605 - acc: 0.7423 Epoch 335/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0800 - acc: 0.7422 Epoch 336/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0731 - acc: 0.7374 Epoch 337/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0432 - acc: 0.7349 Epoch 338/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0802 - acc: 0.7394 Epoch 339/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0576 - acc: 0.7382 Epoch 340/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0412 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 341/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0331 - acc: 0.7426 Epoch 342/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0500 - acc: 0.7437 Epoch 343/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0776 - acc: 0.7427 Epoch 344/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0528 - acc: 0.7417 Epoch 345/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0395 - acc: 0.7512 Epoch 346/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0622 - acc: 0.7419 Epoch 347/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0368 - acc: 0.7438 Epoch 348/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0429 - acc: 0.7512 Epoch 349/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0678 - acc: 0.7370 Epoch 350/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0450 - acc: 0.7425 Epoch 351/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0417 - acc: 0.7462 Epoch 352/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0226 - acc: 0.7540 Epoch 353/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0465 - acc: 0.7452 Epoch 354/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0400 - acc: 0.7438 Epoch 355/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0236 - acc: 0.7470 Epoch 356/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0363 - acc: 0.7495 Epoch 357/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0439 - acc: 0.7462 Epoch 358/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0409 - acc: 0.7441 Epoch 359/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0847 - acc: 0.7341 Epoch 360/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0429 - acc: 0.7489 Epoch 361/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0512 - acc: 0.7446 Epoch 362/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0386 - acc: 0.7473 Epoch 363/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 892us/step - loss: 1.0480 - acc: 0.7465 Epoch 364/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 910us/step - loss: 1.0639 - acc: 0.7386 Epoch 365/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0611 - acc: 0.7375 Epoch 366/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0548 - acc: 0.7417 Epoch 367/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0276 - acc: 0.7472 Epoch 368/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0425 - acc: 0.7491 Epoch 369/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0469 - acc: 0.7452 Epoch 370/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0584 - acc: 0.7469 Epoch 371/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0673 - acc: 0.7425 Epoch 372/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0347 - acc: 0.7433 Epoch 373/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0214 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 374/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0426 - acc: 0.7457 Epoch 375/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0425 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 376/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0153 - acc: 0.7535 Epoch 377/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0224 - acc: 0.7509 Epoch 378/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0285 - acc: 0.7522 Epoch 379/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0399 - acc: 0.7462 Epoch 380/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0279 - acc: 0.7454 Epoch 381/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0425 - acc: 0.7474 Epoch 382/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0498 - acc: 0.7452 Epoch 383/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0283 - acc: 0.7469 Epoch 384/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0451 - acc: 0.7461 Epoch 385/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0456 - acc: 0.7434 Epoch 386/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0268 - acc: 0.7495 Epoch 387/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0618 - acc: 0.7399 Epoch 388/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0596 - acc: 0.7387 Epoch 389/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0624 - acc: 0.7370 Epoch 390/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0404 - acc: 0.7495 Epoch 391/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0289 - acc: 0.7480 Epoch 392/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0091 - acc: 0.7497 Epoch 393/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0264 - acc: 0.7512 Epoch 394/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 878us/step - loss: 1.0498 - acc: 0.7466 Epoch 395/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 1.0426 - acc: 0.7480 Epoch 396/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 1.0503 - acc: 0.7461 Epoch 397/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0002 - acc: 0.7570 Epoch 398/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0283 - acc: 0.7464 Epoch 399/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0338 - acc: 0.7465 Epoch 400/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0437 - acc: 0.7495 Epoch 401/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0098 - acc: 0.7542 Epoch 402/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0464 - acc: 0.7425 Epoch 403/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0235 - acc: 0.7473 Epoch 404/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0464 - acc: 0.7484 Epoch 405/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0309 - acc: 0.7519 Epoch 406/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0381 - acc: 0.7450 Epoch 407/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0484 - acc: 0.7453 Epoch 408/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0376 - acc: 0.7470 Epoch 409/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0209 - acc: 0.7491 Epoch 410/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 0.9911 - acc: 0.7534 Epoch 411/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 897us/step - loss: 1.0346 - acc: 0.7493 Epoch 412/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 896us/step - loss: 1.0166 - acc: 0.7517 Epoch 413/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0324 - acc: 0.7512 Epoch 414/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0218 - acc: 0.7489 Epoch 415/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0023 - acc: 0.7544 Epoch 416/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0333 - acc: 0.7519 Epoch 417/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 886us/step - loss: 1.0275 - acc: 0.7495 Epoch 418/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0180 - acc: 0.7523 Epoch 419/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 884us/step - loss: 1.0148 - acc: 0.7542 Epoch 420/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 877us/step - loss: 1.0104 - acc: 0.7462 Epoch 421/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0296 - acc: 0.7519 Epoch 422/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 883us/step - loss: 1.0223 - acc: 0.7530 Epoch 423/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0230 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 424/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0216 - acc: 0.7437 Epoch 425/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 891us/step - loss: 1.0328 - acc: 0.7448 Epoch 426/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0246 - acc: 0.7496 Epoch 427/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0189 - acc: 0.7522 Epoch 428/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0335 - acc: 0.7505 Epoch 429/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0323 - acc: 0.7484 Epoch 430/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0017 - acc: 0.7483 Epoch 431/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0104 - acc: 0.7550 Epoch 432/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0279 - acc: 0.7513 Epoch 433/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0234 - acc: 0.7489 Epoch 434/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0379 - acc: 0.7452 Epoch 435/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0128 - acc: 0.7485 Epoch 436/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 0.9982 - acc: 0.7476 Epoch 437/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0224 - acc: 0.7483 Epoch 438/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 1.0088 - acc: 0.7517 Epoch 439/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0116 - acc: 0.7516 Epoch 440/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0201 - acc: 0.7491 Epoch 441/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 864us/step - loss: 1.0426 - acc: 0.7452 Epoch 442/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 888us/step - loss: 1.0136 - acc: 0.7519 Epoch 443/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0085 - acc: 0.7522 Epoch 444/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0474 - acc: 0.7409 Epoch 445/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 864us/step - loss: 1.0318 - acc: 0.7504 Epoch 446/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0278 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 447/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0227 - acc: 0.7483 Epoch 448/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 865us/step - loss: 1.0138 - acc: 0.7503 Epoch 449/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0340 - acc: 0.7457 Epoch 450/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0255 - acc: 0.7536 Epoch 451/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 860us/step - loss: 1.0372 - acc: 0.7497 Epoch 452/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0066 - acc: 0.7535 Epoch 453/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0025 - acc: 0.7522 Epoch 454/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0030 - acc: 0.7544 Epoch 455/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0164 - acc: 0.7550 Epoch 456/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0070 - acc: 0.7560 Epoch 457/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0157 - acc: 0.7481 Epoch 458/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 1.0051 - acc: 0.7481 Epoch 459/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0026 - acc: 0.7567 Epoch 460/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 0.9942 - acc: 0.7503 Epoch 461/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0122 - acc: 0.7487 Epoch 462/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 0.9899 - acc: 0.7543 Epoch 463/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 875us/step - loss: 1.0503 - acc: 0.7460 Epoch 464/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 0.9996 - acc: 0.7523 Epoch 465/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 857us/step - loss: 1.0073 - acc: 0.7501 Epoch 466/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0019 - acc: 0.7565 Epoch 467/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 865us/step - loss: 0.9897 - acc: 0.7542 Epoch 468/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 1.0208 - acc: 0.7544 Epoch 469/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0038 - acc: 0.7499 Epoch 470/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0081 - acc: 0.7499 Epoch 471/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 0.9953 - acc: 0.7540 Epoch 472/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 874us/step - loss: 1.0219 - acc: 0.7540 Epoch 473/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 882us/step - loss: 1.0071 - acc: 0.7534 Epoch 474/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 879us/step - loss: 1.0032 - acc: 0.7517 Epoch 475/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 0.9972 - acc: 0.7519 Epoch 476/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 0.9960 - acc: 0.7522 Epoch 477/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 0.9973 - acc: 0.7587 Epoch 478/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 0.9896 - acc: 0.7585 Epoch 479/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 880us/step - loss: 1.0162 - acc: 0.7500 Epoch 480/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 0.9935 - acc: 0.7573 Epoch 481/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 870us/step - loss: 0.9949 - acc: 0.7535 Epoch 482/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 1.0177 - acc: 0.7566 Epoch 483/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 872us/step - loss: 0.9900 - acc: 0.7579 Epoch 484/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 0.9919 - acc: 0.7560 Epoch 485/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 1.0243 - acc: 0.7496 Epoch 486/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 881us/step - loss: 1.0010 - acc: 0.7543 Epoch 487/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 863us/step - loss: 0.9986 - acc: 0.7540 Epoch 488/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 866us/step - loss: 0.9728 - acc: 0.7593 Epoch 489/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 0.9876 - acc: 0.7589 Epoch 490/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 864us/step - loss: 0.9898 - acc: 0.7563 Epoch 491/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 867us/step - loss: 1.0154 - acc: 0.7516 Epoch 492/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 1.0186 - acc: 0.7497 Epoch 493/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 876us/step - loss: 1.0095 - acc: 0.7472 Epoch 494/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 868us/step - loss: 0.9961 - acc: 0.7573 Epoch 495/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 0.9957 - acc: 0.7567 Epoch 496/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 0.9849 - acc: 0.7574 Epoch 497/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 873us/step - loss: 0.9981 - acc: 0.7517 Epoch 498/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 871us/step - loss: 1.0024 - acc: 0.7560 Epoch 499/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 6s 869us/step - loss: 0.9749 - acc: 0.7556 Epoch 500/500 7440/7440 [==============================] - 7s 874us/step - loss: 1.0087 - acc: 0.7543
Out[0]:
<keras.callbacks.History at 0x7f5f200d8978>
Evaluation¶
In [0]:
print(model.evaluate(X_train, y_train, batch_size = 20))
print('\nModel Performance: Log Loss and Accuracy on validation data')
print(model.evaluate(X_valid, y_valid, batch_size = 20))
7440/7440 [==============================] - 5s 636us/step [0.19900831058796656, 0.9658602089971624] Model Performance: Log Loss and Accuracy on validation data 1860/1860 [==============================] - 1s 591us/step [8.269627791579051, 0.3849462374884595]
Generate text¶
In [0]:
seed_length=20
new_words=3
diversity=1
n_gen=1
import random
# Choose a random sequence
seq = random.choice(sequences)
# print seq
# Choose a random starting point
seed_idx = random.randint(0, len(seq) - seed_length - 10)
# Ending index for seed
end_idx = seed_idx + seed_length
gen_list = []
for n in range(n_gen):
# Extract the seed sequence
seed = seq[seed_idx:end_idx]
original_sequence = [idx_word[i] for i in seed]
generated = seed[:] + ['#']
# Find the actual entire sequence
actual = generated[:] + seq[end_idx:end_idx + new_words]
# Keep adding new words
for i in range(new_words):
# Make a prediction from the seed
preds = model.predict(np.array(seed).reshape(1, -1))[0].astype(np.float64)
# Diversify
preds = np.log(preds) / diversity
exp_preds = np.exp(preds)
# Softmax
preds = exp_preds / sum(exp_preds)
# Choose the next word
probas = np.random.multinomial(1, preds, 1)[0]
next_idx = np.argmax(probas)
# New seed adds on old word
# seed = seed[1:] + [next_idx]
seed += [next_idx]
generated.append(next_idx)
# Showing generated and actual abstract
n = []
for i in generated:
n.append(idx_word.get(i, '< --- >'))
gen_list.append(n)
a = []
for i in actual:
a.append(idx_word.get(i, '< --- >'))
a = a[seed_length:]
gen_list = [gen[seed_length:seed_length + len(a)] for gen in gen_list]
print('Original Sequence: \n'+' '.join(original_sequence))
print("\n")
# print(gen_list)
print('Generated Sequence: \n'+' '.join(gen_list[0][1:]))
# print(a)
Original Sequence: religious subjects in the naive spirit of the early florentine painters representing people of our own day in the dress Generated Sequence: upon that de
/usr/local/lib/python3.6/dist-packages/ipykernel_launcher.py:36: RuntimeWarning: divide by zero encountered in log
In [0]:
model.save('/content/drive/My Drive/R9 External Lab/nlp/model2.h5')
In [0]:
model.predict(X_valid[0])
Out[0]:
array([[1.91919880e-09, 1.24216045e-03, 8.77218481e-05, ...,
1.91425609e-09, 1.91475991e-09, 1.91744975e-09],
[5.62641600e-11, 0.00000000e+00, 1.72193791e-06, ...,
5.62804733e-11, 5.66622027e-11, 5.54485242e-11],
[1.02199444e-07, 4.92592715e-02, 2.52474342e-02, ...,
1.02087228e-07, 1.02235319e-07, 1.02214258e-07],
...,
[9.21436882e-09, 2.92042523e-06, 6.12834015e-08, ...,
9.17672960e-09, 9.27817467e-09, 9.13945364e-09],
[2.75068118e-07, 3.93083954e-10, 3.23500721e-13, ...,
2.75133146e-07, 2.77166265e-07, 2.76431336e-07],
[3.41131638e-08, 2.29453973e-11, 6.84006736e-05, ...,
3.41188908e-08, 3.43282984e-08, 3.42790933e-08]], dtype=float32)